From battle won he flees on weary feet,
the drifting snow, the quiet crystalline
a contrast to the drenched battlefield.
What once was mayhem now a silent grave,
a chaos vanished in the winter light.
Where once she stood, now there an empty space,
a bloody trace the only lasting mark.
His mind recalls in cherish’d memory
her golden strands and chestnut eyes abright,
but memory unbidden shows the blade:
The silver thorn that tore across her form
and cast her to the arms of snowfall soft,
the seeping crimson blooming like a rose.
He could not reach her, could not take the sword
that meant for her he gladly would accept.
Now for his failure to protect her life,
he hates himself, his love for her, and she,
that she had ever lived to cause this pain.
The grief is howling through his hollow soul
much like the wind amidst the icy pines.
So, casting fate upon the mountain cold,
the fractured boy in black now shuns the world.
Abandoning the things he once held dear,
forsaking as by death he is forsaken.