Redoubt

The sky was golden. A maudlin red tinges the periphery. On the plains below Timothy stood, surveying the charred ruins of his heart. Stone strewn about haphazardly give testament to the total utter destruction.

“You tried to hold it off as best as you could”, the satyr croons, playing at sympathy convincingly.

“It’s all right”, Timothy murmurs with a sad happy smile. “Hopeless romantics could never hope to build a redoubt against it. Glass light and crystal can never weather, nor do books words and music make for unshakable foundations”

Timothy stalked through the wreckage, working his way to the polestar of his heart. He pauses once to pick through shattered glass and stone, exhuming a tome from its grave. Hands cut and bleeding, he opens the book. On its pages, handwritten, a thousand words for love. In all languages, in all forms. To the last page he turns and writes the thousand oneth.

In the center, he finds her.