We made travel upon a road.
Of coarse stones and leaves aplenty.
Shrubs framed the dire edges.
Unable to support much life.

We watched through a clouded mirror.
As Toblin's men marched through.
Torches in hand.
Held by the ages.
Our memories were there still.
Able to send waves of history.
Screaming, dying, crying back to us.

Matthew had hoisted me along.
Hooking his arm under mine.
Taking us both to an old cabin.
Long abandoned and disowned.

Men upon saddle.
Entered Sharin's tear, a little town less than mine.
But still more than nothing.
We eluded suspicion huddled beside ashen rubble.

A chimney's corpse concealed us well.
Both of us coughed and sneezed.
Choked and wheezed.
On the dust and ashes left in the wake.
Of Lord Toblin's last mistake.