The woman walking beside me murmurs to herself. Mercy, mercy, mercy, she
says quietly, mercy, mercy, mercy. There is a certain rhythm to it. Mercy,
mercy, mercy, she beseeches the emptiness. I do not know her. Perhaps she
has lost someone too. Mercy, mercy, mercy, she repeats. I can not bring
myself to ask. I do not want to hear of any more death and suffering.
Mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy. I do not know who she asks. The Valar, who we have forsaken, us, who march beside her without asking, the ice itself? Mercy, mercy, mercy, she says still. Her voice is becoming hoarse. It is either faith or foolishness that makes her repeat it, over and over again. Or perhaps they are the same. I would not know.
Yet I do know that it is in vain. There is no mercy. Not here.
Mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy. I do not know who she asks. The Valar, who we have forsaken, us, who march beside her without asking, the ice itself? Mercy, mercy, mercy, she says still. Her voice is becoming hoarse. It is either faith or foolishness that makes her repeat it, over and over again. Or perhaps they are the same. I would not know.
Yet I do know that it is in vain. There is no mercy. Not here.
