The moon walks east of midnight, The sun walks west of noon. And though I love you, sweetheart, I will not sing your tune. - Tanith Lee

Your beauty leaves me breathless," said Pereban.
"Yet you find the breath to say so.

The thought had taken hold: Only the best must survive, not a hierarchy of riff-raff. Gods, who had such power of life or death as he, must choose carefully. And one day he would have to choose: Shall I immortalize this one, or this? But not yet.

There is, too, a sort of relief in admitting defeat. Struggling to drag a mountain from my path, acknowledging at last the mountain would remain, lying down beneath the mountain, thankful for the shade of it.