I wish the people had not learned we could kill a God, and nor would I wish the imparted lesson to be that there is any heroism in the slaying of one's own kin. Neither the death nor the deed should be honored.
I confess, this event has labored my thoughts. I loved this condemned man, I loved my king--blood or not.
He had several hounds, each of whom he nursed and gave names with his surnames. When one grew ill, he would care for it, sleep with it, in solidarity. When one died, he stayed with the late hounds siblings, mother and father. Innately, my Lord Faust knew of loss and loneliness; "There is a hole in man," he told me, "And I alone cannot fill it." I fear this thought festered in my Lord Faust heart, for he never found love and never sired heirs.
Herewith, I make no claim to replace my Lord, though some in attendance have expressed this wish privately. I resend it, all of it, for there is a hole in man, and I alone cannot fill it. Perhaps my betters will find a way, but I will find my own.
We all should seek this, to become complete through our own efforts, true heroic deeds, where we find ourselves not in one another, but ourselves through just deeds. We can begin by burying a goodly king, a misguided man, the first, and, I pray, the last Godking.
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