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This pestilence cooked away pretense and showed people’s souls, as surely as it eventually showed their bones.
A knight with a face somewhere between a man’s and a lion’s had entered the square from the direction of the river. His armor was bloody, as was the axe he carried head down in his left hand. He was riding a grayish horse with human mouths where its eyes should be and hands instead of hooves.
Love is always harder. Love means weathering blows for another’s sake and not counting them. Love is loss of self, loss of other, and faith in the death of loss.
