Sometimes, if I close my eyes tight to block out the world, I can feel my heart beating to a secret rhythm. A warlike rhythm.
The clashing of swords, yes, and the whir of arrows over vast distances. Those are the songs of my heart, and of my blood.
Memories long past; they are not mine, but the feel of these raging hearts are familiar.
I understand justice and vengeance and desire, and I understand pain and loss and suffering. And I want to understand excellence.
When the world is still, quiet, I can feel the heat of Your Presence. Inside, throughout, so deeply saturating. Burning away the pain beneath the pain.
Destroying. Releasing. Purging. Purifying. To be vicious, to be soothing. You play me as deftly as You play Your lyre, and You make me better with each masterful stroke.
And if I am quiet beside You, if I am still, sometimes I can feel the Waiting Ones. Never far, always near.
But waiting doesn’t mean They are quiet, and waiting doesn’t mean They are still. They are a swarm, the Waiting Ones. An agitated swarm.
And they carry a warning. A warning not to assume too much, for they will treat all wrong with due consequence.
They are not squeamish, the Waiting Ones, and fear was absolved from them in times long past. Times when they lived, and also died. I am theirs, and they are mine.
It is my duty to purge and to purify, to destroy and to release. As You have done for me, Destroyer, so do I, for the Waiting Ones.
And I play them as deftly as I play my own instrument, and they are made kinder by each loving stroke.