A handsome man, kingly, with hair dark as sable. It is so soft, she whispered, his golden-haired bride. He would bury his face in her hair, breathing deeply of lemon, rosemary, jasmine.

The bright beacons of hope are long burned out, and now, with hair grey as ash, he watches. The black granite of the mountain reflects the red-gold of the flames, a world full of fire, and ash, and dust, as the city burns.

Forgive me, my lady. I could not keep our sons from harm. All would soon be ended, ash and smoke blown away on the wind.