i.
He writes apologies
His sleeve is stained with ink
Or blood
It doesn't matter, both are sin
Ink that spells out sorries
Blood that reeks of –

ii.
– sweat.
It is the scent of war
The breeze that forces itself through winter weather
Freezing, numbing
Even the earth has not forgiven him
He snuggles himself into the blanket
Watching the snow clear off his window
It takes an –

iii.
– eternity, she whispers, her voice seductive
It is with promise, with temptation
Rarely have the two ever gone in hand
She will whisper forever,
And he who wants immortality
Fame, glory, will hesitate
Don't be afraid, she tells him, it will be yours –

iv.
– some day, he tells a sullen boy, I'm going to tell you about my dream
A gleam of shined metal by his side
A sword, gun, it doesn't matter
He wears the scars on his thumbs with pride
A badge of honor none will give him
He has named his weapon after a god
He will wield his weapon with the grace of a –

v.
– boy, she muses. Boy or man?
She laughs when he answers,
He is no boy
The queen is ruthless, absolutely ruthless
But in her brilliance, he will see beauty
A beauty that cannot be imagined, she is –

vi.
– a flower, the scent of a flower.
He was never good at identifying plants
My knight, she whispers
Do not be frightened
Do not be frightened

viii.
His letters go flying
The pen he had used, broken
There is ink everywhere,
It is still his sorries, everywhere
“Come,” his queen demands
“Come, my love.”