Hadst thou the wicked skill
By pictures made and mard to kill
How many ways mightist thou performe thy will?
-John Donne
–†–
It was cold and hard here. Lonely... not a soul, not even a little mouse.
If only he was... just... a... little... bit... stronger!
But that was impossible now. His strength had slowly ebbed away over the millennia, flowing away to the center.
Balance had to be maintained.
He never was very strong, and now he was comparable only to a lower-class spirit, demon, or ghost.
He was one of those, called upon selectively. Never strong enough to physically protect. Never well enough known to be strong enough.
He was a fool, a fall back, a weakling.
A nothing.
Nothing at all...
Just like his new home.
He might as well be fond of it.
