The warmth found in your hands
As they held fast to my arm -
A precious moment as I wished
To keep you held away from harm.

The teacup in your hands
As we sat in silent reverie -
A bond forged of prior strife,
Again holding my once-enemy.

The cloth bunched in your hands,
As you tire of another's speech.
The tearoom an impromptu stage,
A play testing patience's reach.

The match held in your hands,
Threatening to ignite the beam
That held the last of the bridge,
And send us plummeting to the stream.

The blood pooled in your hands,
Final sign of the moment's end.
My body falls, the bridge is ash -
By your will, to the Halls I descend.

The tears fell in your hands,
As the pyre in my eyes fell cold.
My final words were laced with grief,
But to faint hope they forever hold.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Scarlatan, in the year 733 AF.