What is it you want from me, O’Dark? Is it mine to own
—these wrathful bones?
—the lightless narrow that taints my throat with pitch?
So I am making manners.
So I am listening now.
So I am letting my two eyes tic within my open sockets.

O’Dark, do you even know?
Have you a plan?
Or are your coming hours just as mysterious as mine.
You contradict.
You choose poorly.
You choose rightly.
You are postulating your own thick. O’Dark,
this does not bode very well.

I haven’t got all the time in the world. You seem
to think I do. Perhaps I do.
O’Dark, if you know something, please tell me.
So far I do not comprehend.

O’Dark, if you have something to give,
please give it.
My fingers are knobbing.
My back is caving.
All I smell is the damp earth.
So far all you do is take from me.

But wait.

Just mayhap, that,
is how you give?

O’Dark, I do believe we may have just come to an understanding.