Unofficial codex entry: A Templar’s poem to a Mage
Found near some debris in Kinloch Hold’s library this poem seems to have never reached its recipient.
The reader can imagine a young Templar writing it during his night shift, unsure of the words
forming, sitting on the cold stairs of the Hold below a window. The cold biting his entire body.
The only sounds are the scratches on the vellum. If the reader tries hard enough can almost see the
Templar’s poor attempts at warming up his hands, moonlight lingering on his golden curls…
Say, one day, I come by your door and knock, at dawn.
While darkness withdraws from Kinloch Hold.
Heavy-lidded and languid your body greets mine.
The sleep dust on your eyes coveted by the library’s most ancient books.
Maker, how beautiful you will be my love!
Will you greet me back, I wonder?
Say, one day, you take these coward hands of mine
to steady yourself within. And I shatter.
Because everything you hold, you hold it like a weapon.
A weapon not meant to maim, but to consume.
And consumed me you have. In body and in spirit.
Poorer than the poor the Maker becomes minus a Templar.
Will you regret the sacrifice, I wonder?
Say, one day, as your presence is announced in the corridor I guard,
you glance at me. Not once, but twice. With enkindled eyes.
There is nothing but the skin that hums.
And no eyes in this world were meant to be looked at like yours.
No eyes. No lips. No wrists.
Will you open them for me, I wonder?
Say, one day, I find you with nothing but my heart.
The steel imprisonment I now wear, gone.
The steel worn to protect me from you.
Not from your magic, but from your warmth.
Gone is the knight that became a pawn. It’s still a game.
Not meant to be played by either. We’re just pieces after all.
Will you abandon the game for me, I wonder?
Say, one day, there is only the echo of the ferry at the bridge.
Most tantalising sound ever heard by ears born to cherish
only the sound of your voice.
The ferry has room for just the two.
Suppose we reach the opposite bank.
Suppose we realise that it was never just a mirage.
Suppose for the first time we feel free. Suppose.
Say, we travel far and wide. And we call it adventure.
There is a forest and a house and an apple tree. And we call it world.
Templars after us lose our scent. And we call it provision.
Brothers and sisters in oath, but not in drive.
Not in the way you hold my jaw, my heart, my soul, my everything.
And yet, I claw at the very fiery sword on my breastplate and my nails break.
Say, one day, we are in a land where all edges are blunt.
And no blacksmith can this bluntness amend.
Where we would be alone, but we would have hope.
Where I’m just a man and you are, well, you.
Not the Maker’s sin but his utter perfection.
Where we can touch and smell and taste. All in one breath.
Would you love me back then Amell, I wonder...