"If this is the cradle, then this was the cure," Ripred says with weariness in his voice, says Ripred. He says it, and then it is a fact, it is.
"Then there is no hope at all."
This is the thought that is present in all minds, killer and flier, gnawer and crawler, for if it is fact that this be the cradle, then the cure be lost forever, and with it the warmbloods.
There is no hope at all, for time has been maimed and left bleeding to its death, has time. Gone is the starshade, gone is the cure.
Was it meant to be this way, was it? Temp shakes his antenna. His legs feel numb, like they have been removed by the cutters, feel his legs. Has the princess eaten enough leaves? Will she be safe, will she? Will any of them be safe? He will be, knows Temp, for Temp is not a warmblood. Some would say that it ought not to matter for Temp, but those know not the crawlers. They know not Temp. What takes the time of a friend takes the time of Temp. Lost time of some does not mean that others rejoice.
The cure is lost, for the cutters have ravaged the cradle, have the cutters. And be the cradle destroyed, so be the cure. Yet how can this be it? How, after all their labors, be this the truth, be it?
Turn and turn and turn again
You see the what but not the when
Remedy and wrong entwine
And so they form a single vine
Only confusion, Temp feels, only confusion. Turn and turn and turn again, says Sandwich. Be confused and see not, says Sandwich. Something is wrong, says Sandwich, this be not the truth.
Temp lifts his head.
If this is the cradle, then this was the cure.
Unless…
"Not the cradle," Temp says, "unless this be, not the cradle."