War tore the world and Peace fled to hide.
Everything good in the kingdom had died.
As Fensham rode solemnly, his hopes were thus faded,
for the people of the kingdom were soulless and jaded.
They stared at his passing from roadsides o’ergrown,
with vacant eyes pleading what voices avoided:
‘Save us from The Evil King and take thee the throne.’
They tempted him greatly with a glory once toyed with.
He nudged his horse onward, escaping their gaze,
their despair and disillusionment and hope for past days.
As Fensham took all in that lay all around him,
he knew without doubt that the Angel had bound him
for many days longer than first he had thought.
For not in a few days could this terror be wrought.
Yet someone had set a guard ‘gainst his return.
Perhaps someone feared of the truth he might learn.
If so long in the forest had Fensham sojourned,
then judgement at the King’s hand might be adjourned.
All of the signs of the suffering and death
pointed Fensham to an influence with a dangerous breath.
Although the loss of his son set The Good King to lurch,
his power was usurped by the word of the Church.
So rather than set his steed straight for the Head,
Fensham pointed his mare to the Dark Soul instead.
Though so far in the distance it was only a spire,
he made for the Church of the Cleansing Fire.