You turn, your body weaving its way around itself just like the fire you serve, the fire you claim you can see into, you can read it like everyone else would read a book. You want me to join you but you know that I won’t. You want me to come and take you right here on the beach with this army as our audience, to consummate this spell you’re weaving, you know I won’t. You want me to forget the wife standing not three feet away from me and the child I left asleep in the keep. You know I won’t. Still you dance and call your God for me, call him to fight in a war that isn’t even yours to fight. And you pray, naked in the sand, red hair as bright as flame and skin as white as the moon above, using your body to worship Him, speaking the holy words that flow so easy from you, so easily that they might be lies. The fire burns out, extinguished back into nothing as violently as it rose up from nothing. “Make me one with the darkness.” you ask of Him and you call back to me that He has done as you bid.