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Lord Huma, deliver us all. And deliver especially you, my
brother, for last night my nurse and I spoke briefly, spoke
quietly of the world remaining after Sturm, after Breca,
after Heros, after the passage of my eyes. And with the gift
of the sighted for prophecy, she ran down the lists of light,
describing the world made possible at the cost of despair, at
the cost of the smell of the corpse fires lingering under the
herbs and the metal and the fragrance of flowers and clean
bedding, at the cost of the sun diminished to warmth only.
And within those lists lie the armies of the Dragon
Highlord driven away, as Mother says, ONCE AGAIN
FROM OUR LAND AND FROM THOSE THINGS WE ARE
HONOR BOUND TO DEFEND BY THE MEASURE AND
THE CODE, of Takhisis back into the void and somewhere
unraveling in a dark I can only dream through my darkness,
in a story that remains unimaginable because I cannot see
its ending. Of the freedom to do what we want, of the
wronged and nestling country made right as we raise our
children in prosperity and peace, as we commit the young
men not to the study of swords but to a study of lore and of
history, a study finally of themselves.
She finds comfort in this
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