Work Text:
My heroic journey was one to be made alone,
But the Gods have delivered me a wayward
Wildcard, who’s smirk pierces through
My skull and rings a sizzling tone
His unkempt scarf tangos around
And stresses his tetchy, wrinkled face
He sets the coals under me on fire
With one quip, in that stupid, nasally
Voice of his. He smells of burnt trees
In a wildfire, and I hold my nose.
He repeats himself over and over
Like I don’t hear him over the mountain
Winds; I do, I just don't want to.
He’s decent with a sword, but scowls
At commands; the Moons and I groan
As he hacks and slashes up a firestorm
Despite it all, I’m not sure if it’s my head
Or heart that aches for the ash-covered warrior,
And though his hair starless, burnt to ash,
I still believe in him to shine as a flare of hope.