forsythia

still damp with tears

this soil

I know what you crave, Pathfinder.

You come to me for it, and I find that amusing. Of all the beings in the world, why would you come to me looking for peace? Have you not heard the stories?

Do you not know who I am?

I whisper in the ears of men, and they battle with extraordinary hearts. I wither the courage of men, and they flee screaming. Look for me in the guise of one of my many avatars. I am easy enough to find after the battle.

Cúchulainn himself insulted, thrice wounded, then thrice healed me. I rewarded him with his glorious last stand. Only alighting on his shoulder as a crow convinced his enemies he was dead.

I have no peace to grant you, Pathfinder. I will not sooth your warrior-poet’s heart. You can suppress my whispers for only so long before you sally forth. Reap a river of blood for me, Pathfinder. Stand heartbroken among the feasting crows after.

This is the gift of the Morrigan.

this sunlight

brightening your face

won’t last long

already

whatever kindness you had

fades into shadow