In Memory of Sir Patrick Stewart - A Demon's Wrong (Patreon)

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And there, within a wood yet newly sprung, where every bough bore witness to Primordial majesty, the young scion of Astaroth gave tongue to his grievances against his mother. He held her words bereft of sense, her judgments strangers unto reason, and her right to govern him – him – but a design for lesser sons, possessing neither just cause nor merit before his prodigious might. Thus did he weigh her heart upon the scales of his understanding, and, finding naught that pleased him, pronounced its matter small.

And all the while, Tiamat – the Birthing Sea – grimaced till her visage had become deadly. And when fell a lone bolt through the sky, illuminating her scaled self at mountainous height, young Ajuka fell silent in awe of her swift displeasure.

A little thing? Thou dar'st to call it small?
Thy mother's heart, whose flesh gave form to thee?
Whose blood sustained the life thou claim'st as thine?
Hold thy tongue, knave! And learn what thou hast scorned!

Thou know'st what laws attend my every step;
I, All-Mother, the primal soul of life.
I wore no crown when first I heard that cry;
I had no throne beneath that breaking joy.

Here lay a life that knew not yet my name,
Yet turned to me as though I were its world.
I feared to breathe lest breath should stir its sleep,
And feared the hush when sleep grew overlong.

Thou know’st not how such joy can border grief,
How bliss can drown the heart that holds it fast;
I laughed until my laughter broke in sobs,
Then shook to think how much I stood to lose.

And this thou call’st a little thing? To wake
Before the cry, to know the changed footfall,
To hear beneath a laugh some hidden hurt,
And wish thy flesh could bear the wound instead?

I gave them milk! And rest! And years of strength!
I learned their wants before they learned their words.
Their triumphs filled the hollows of my breast;
Their smallest grief could rob my day of light!

But motherhood demands more cruel gifts:
To teach the feet that bear thy child away,
To loose the hand thou wouldst forever hold,
And watch the road where thou mayst never tread.

I knew that road... and still I barred its end.
I called them mine, and taught that love was law.
I was their shelter, yet became their storm;
My heart held more than wisdom would allow.

They named me Chaos, Mother of the Deep;
They raised their weapons where their heads had lain.
I heard my children name my death their peace,
And knew their voices through their cries for blood.

Think’st thou I speak to claim myself unstained?
I failed them. Let no lesser tongue deny
The ruin wrought beneath my boundless love,
Nor all the wrath that love could not restrain.

Yet mark me well: my failure was not proof
That what I bore was light, or cheaply held.
My grief survives the flesh that hath long died;
I hear their childhood in the falling rain.

And still, when thunder sounds, I turn my head,
As though some child might call me through the dark.
For one brief breath, I have them all again;
Then memory returns them to their graves.

Fool! Scorn’st thou love thou hast not wit to weigh?
Mistake not thine own blindness for her lack!
Go, make thy case; oppose her if thou must,
But weigh her heart with more than sullen pride!

For comes a day when she is past life's reach,
When neither cause nor reason brings her home;
Then spite shall stain each memory thou keep’st,
And thou shalt learn what love hath spared: regret!

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A/N: Fare thee well, Sir Patrick. We shall only ever know you now as a memory, yet may that memory live long. I will never forget when I saw you and Sir Ian perform Waiting for Godot; you inspired in me a love for theater.