The graveyard shift.
The embers' vigil.
Aching eyes and leaden limbs.
Yet master of my domain.
For, frail as I am,
None can challenge me.
I am alone with the gods.
Not alone.
We are here.
We are always here.
The Weary Warriors.
The Silent Sentinels.
The Amaranthine Arbiters.
The Forgotten Few.
We stand here with you.
What do we stand against?
Against Njord;
His fury and wrath
Grinding down our defences?
Against Boreas;
His icy fingers
Seeking out every tiny weakness?
Against Hades himself;
And his eternal endeavours
Of insidious intent?
No.
We are the bastion
Of something much worse.
Against anger.
Against hatred.
Against fear.
Against violence.
Against the perverse.
Against that which no god can conjure.
Against that which is never truly defeated.
Against the Hollow Men.
In short, against ourselves.
No.
I am nothing like you.
You are exactly like me.
I choose not to be.
There is no choice.
If I'm like you, why doesn't this happen to me?
Why doesn't what happen?
Apollo draws back his bow.
With agonizing slowness
I watch its limbs bend.
Suddenly, all too suddenly,
He lets fly.
His shafts soar straight and true.
With a thunderous whisper
The barbs pierce His heart.
He's gone.
But when Apollo's quiver is empty once more
He'll be back again.
Maybe He was right.
Life is full of hard times and good times. Lift your chin up, Ladies and Gentlemen.
