Like the lark — I faced alone, Tamriel and beyond, looking everywhere
for the one who shared half of me, through dark nights on Reaper’s March
to bright icy morns in The Rift, and often, my heart would not rise from
shadow, from doubt, from near despair, until in my heart dwelt Oblivion’s reign.
At break of day — sometimes a glimmer of hope, a word, a hand and
then the deep betrayal of promise when the rumor faded and again
I wandered alone through Malabal Tor’s last cave to Eastmarch’s
dark forest, and always, my promise, I remembered, unspoken, alone.
Like the lark — I might glimpse, sometimes, a mother and her son, a father
with a daughter, two sisters, running through the way, and then, my
heart might turn a stone, remembering once on a day, when the voice of
my own, only lower, softer, lighter, quicker, would call out my name.
At break of day — Loneliness weighs more, when carried in a crowd, the
hushed whispers of rumor, the raucous laughter, so loud. Others hide their
sorrows, others bury stony hearts. How do I keep eyes soft, pulse still,
standing always a ways apart?
Like to the lark at break of day arising — your eyes gaze back, Ally. And
your voice, telling me, It is all right, sweet heart.