We sit round a low-burning fire at night, deep in the quagmires of Acheron, and I slowly look at my beautiful companions, all of them nonpareil numina. They watch me kindly, reassuringly, with eyes supernal. They smile now, ever so slightly, and tell me without speaking that our existence is not without meaning, and that our best efforts are not without hope.

Beds made of bulrush
And all the kingfishers call
As ospreys fly low
Around the cypress and ash
As sun paints horizon far

I lay weary head in the lap of one of my guardians dear, and feel one strong and gentle hand caress my face, while the other covers my beating heart. And I close my eyes. In the belly of hell, I am safe. I sleep in peace.