A figure in white unknown by man stared at the desert landscape from within her palace, a glittering structure upon an altar of sacrifice, a temple built of the desert and its bleakest tower of crystallized sand, a towering spire that pierced the heavens from below and abolished the sky.

In truth, all thoughts were left unsaid and unspoken. A world seeped in more cruel and more cruelty left with only a beferft hope of careful desires, at the door, where they smiled at her, ravenous. So sure of themselves, and their knowing. Which to the hero, didn't mean much.

But it was the touch of a hand against the breast and the feelings of a man who had been given so much. So very much. Fingers caressed the lid of the box with all of the second hand secrets of the world contained therein. Both rhyme and reason, collected upon the winds of time and falsely imprisoned behind the slammed doors and the halls they led to outside. What could this be?

A sham, it was all an excuse, an attempt to define where the rain would fall and the wind would blow. Later still other questions would be considered. And then left... Where they fell, like the drops of blood and the lambs in the snow taken by winter and the howling wolves.

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 When faced against the feelings of mutual touch and heartless gone. It was all a mystery and no one could ever point out the reaons for the world being so cruel, but because it was then no promise could be kept.

A ballroom, littered with the remains of a thousand broken promises and a sense it would never be so. And if you held on tight then you might find that what you found wasn't so much. And once again, the memories lasted for years..

All for naught, they disappeared. Some kind of horror let the hero look into its depths the soul of its eyes. Where it kept the hunger that despaired and longed for.

Words, that never belonged. They were the tresspassers and if at all they would tell the secrets of that long long time ago when love songs were sung and the dances were lovely and everlasting.

He thought she was an angel, some kind of beautiful, something to pause. And submission, when allowed wasn't the meaning he'd thought it was. It all remained, some kind of stranger.

He thought inside, and was quite correct. He thought together, surely they were beautiful. And some stranger might knock at the door outside, the hallways, alone and abandoned, would be the ticket to the ride. Instead...

Slower than thought would allow the door opened, wide and some other stranger lurked inside. He knew he wasn't beautiful, but he hoped it was enough to open the source of all his sleeping gripes. Or was it?

The hand trembled, with sorrow, and other things, quickly replaced on the hilt with the resolve of a very tall woman untouched in all the lands. Both pain and terror thus divide.

And the child forgot his own name. But he watched and shielded those who knew his commands.