Umbra: I know, and you know that should not be a surprise. Equip him to our needs, and send him back to me.
Monarch: You have a question for me; I can see it even when you avert your eyes from mine.
Umbra: The question is half the question; for it, in itself, is an answer. For long, I have tormented myself with the possible why’s: Why would you send me forth every breath upon this world? Why do you insist that the labour does persist? I know now that those questions have an answer, which was already bestowed unto me past the maelstrom of tears and lacerating spears which by measure of true nurture launched to spike Élan out of the entombed barren bosom of dead’s play yard. No, those questions were answered; albeit, for them, you had me bleed rivers of blue bile. The question is not that which I do not know, but that which I know and find most vomitous and abhorrent. The question is the skilful dancer of awe-striking silken laceful fire who grins and frolics with expeditious comportment, bearing amphorae of lugubrious water to sober the lawful drunken. The question is the recognition of barbarous endeavour upon strings harrowing out of tune. The question is not an interrogative, but a ceaselessly screaming hostage whose sensuous hunger starves at the banquet of tellurian betrothment; for, alas, you saved me and condemned me to wander and wonder. The question is rightfully what is it that I wilfully sacrifice upon the altar of illusion and phantom womb as I race evermore upon freedom’s path and open skies, maintaining the balance of all elements at once. The question is a heartful confession of deep-rooted hatred and disrelish, which, at times, finds the will to subside to let me enjoy the simple pleasures. You extended me from your being with all the unlocking keys one may fancy and require, yet entrusted me to open the ashen, pale, and tenuous archways with the growing seed of primordial hankering. For much, I am forever grateful; however, it would be foolish and neglectful to deny that the question irks and pains me with tenacious transpiercing and ancient venom. And although the freely gifted and surreptitiously taxed embrace of martyrdom repudiates me as I do it, fruition and gratification do I extract from waging the infernal war.
“You are one to abhor attachments that, like chains, hold you to an immutable terrain of flesh-eating corpses, yet by contradiction of your modus operandi, you launch against the Maiden of Oblivion with stark acrimony.”
“I see that being left alone with me has set your talents free. Do you enjoy what you see? Let all who have eyes to see and all ears to hear how all difference and manners come to be. Yes, I abhor her whose promise is weak, as I do loathe the haze of dormancy, yet that hardly makes me a hypocrite. You see, in my centuries alive, I have never measured progress through the eclipse and dearth of consciousness. I am the mindful memory who propels forward with sentient step, crafting jewels out of events that nothing may go to waste. I accept my responsibility toward myself, and erect pillars of serving grace. I forgo surrendering war to the deceitful bliss of forgetfulness, and embrace the shadows born from my ancient crevices.”