Doubt swarmed them, passing between their solidarity,
Rick didn't like the tone of things just beyond the next hill.
He'd grown acute to the scent of omens,
Told his horse to stop, kicking it to obey.
His brothers noticed his song's melody shift from behind.
A tune in his head kept his hands and feet empowered,
However they shook and fidgeted,
Anticipation brought anxiety over his heart,
Choking and bringing cold to its chambers.
Dungeon birth was his reality, a past best forgotten,
Never did he run or play unrestrained, bars were his friends,
He learnt to count them as people he could trust.
A flash of silver, its strength mythical,
Those hands cool and warm, eyes set on things yet unseen,
Rescued him from a dead woman's arms, those of his mother.
Inscriptions carved into his hands, written along his legs,
Cast onto both feet, glowed painfully, reminding him to stay present.
She needs me...