I speak to you, and sometimes you reply;
I nod and smile, and sometimes you may see,
and sometimes too vouchsafe to answer me,
but, just as likely, simply pass me by.
As if I were some creature standing nigh,
cowed by your sword, or else a stone or tree
or other part of Valorn's scenery,
my presence goes unnoticed by your eye.

But I am not the things you take me for:
not patient as a tree, nor hard as stone,
nor like a creature do I flee in fear.
I have a voice, if you have ears to hear,
I have a heart, but it is not my own,
but yours to have, as sister, friend -- and more.

This poem was started at the beginning of the week. Before it was finished, I made some remarkable discoveries, which are reflected indirectly in the final verse.

ETHUCAN

Up from the swamp, the shaking earth,
rose the Gateway. Gladly we welcomed
the new arrivals, the noble company
who followed the steps of the shining Empress.

She came to the King in Caer Laleldan,
to Branishor's temple, bright-towered city.
Strong were her guards, in gleaming armor,
with swords of steel, swift, sharp-bladed.
Few were their words, but well-spoken
to those who would learn the lore of Ethucan.

They told of the Empress, Ethucan’s ruler,
beloved lady, last of her line,
her royal kin killed in one night
at the hand of enchanters, hated therefore.
Clearly they recalled the crying of women
on that night of fire and fierce lightning,
of babies in cradles bleeding and broken.

Gently spoke our King, the gods' chosen,
Deek the beloved liege of Valorn,
of good enchanters, guardians, protectors,
who make the land safe by might of magic.

The Holy Empress heard the King's words,
his kind speech, his soft persuasion;
Of Deek the Enchanter the Ethucan lady
felt no fear, fled not his presence.

And Valorn's people, the valiant adventurers,
raised in salute the sweet nectar,
the fragrant wines of far-off Ethucan;
travellers brought back tales of the cities
and beautiful gifts, bright with promise.

But in one marc, one dark moment,
pride and vainglory vanquished the promise:
confronted with fear, the Empress fled,
ended the concord, closed the Gateway,
spoke warlike words of warning to Valorn.

Now closed is the Gateway, cold stone unanswering.
Often I wonder, will it awaken?
I have heard word, whispers of hope,
glowing afar, a gem in the dark,
like Branishor's beacon, bright in the Wastelands,
like a floating scroll found by the ocean.