Winter is here for the moment, all black sludge and rotting leaves in the yard.
Mud and torn away grass. Stillness as wiser animals sleep until the sun returns.
I’m heading to the First Martyr, the one who saved me, so long ago.
Cold and almost barren mountains, just tall grass and none of the deep forests.
Flecks of snow, not like the blizzards you’d believe. Sunlight brittle as sugar glass.
The journey here has worn me down, disarmed my defenses.
The first whisper of what would become the war was the Judas Kiss on her cheek.
But words scrawled and still remain, the memory of her keepers, allow her to speak.
I was a changed man even as I fell away. I am still her conversion.
I sit by the memorial, that brittle sunlight that shatters as it touches my skin,
and the harsh wind that makes me a ghost who is not there, but in a dream.
The war is almost here. I must peacefully resist.