The Second Armour
August 20th 2010 18:08
They want him strong. So he is.
He was born that way. With an armour.
As much a defense against the evil world
as a bristling symbol of aggression.
They always want the strongest one.
The one with the finest, thickest armour.
And so they get him.
As if the armour were not enough
he cocoons himself in a shell.
Marooned by various hues of wards;
Anger, ignorance, impatience, unconcern.
They flit about, cavorting, enticing and enchanting.
No shell, nor ward nor armour.
For they are born strong enough.
He sees them and opens his shell
and casts his wards open.
They are always fast. No armour.
So he too discards it and follows them.
Magic is made amidst a bonfire,
into which armour and shell and strength are fed,
Newfound lightness lifts him and his spirit.
But remember they always wanted him strong.
The one with the finest, thickest armour.
He cannot be light, yet strong.
Cannot make magic while still being encumbered
by shell, armour, wards and strength.
So he learns; Magic always takes its toll.
So what if he gets hurt in the process....
Thus begins regeneration.
Every prick and scratch, every cut and stab
adds layers of callus over time.
Out of scabs and scars is born
the second armour.
Stronger than any armour he was born with,
for this one was learnt; tempered by violence and honed by hurt.
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