An Briton couple walks the misty fen... Is it Axl? Is it Beatrice? A shadow of a lost son... The breath of Querig settles in the grass. Old age in a dark warren, clay and turf-hollow, Memory dissolves in the vapor we follow. A buried giant sleeps beneath the limestone ridge, We cross the swollen river, but we fear the final bridge. Is this our true affection, or a fog-spun deceit? When the dragon's breath clears, will our bitterness meet? Axl, hold my hand, before the boatman decides, Which soul stays ashore, which across the water glides. How can a love endure if the past is a void? Are old wounds forgotten, or simply destroyed? The mist is our mercy, the mist is our curse! We heal through oblivion, or grow something worse. Query the dragon's breath, sever the dragon's head— When memory returns, will the living be dead? Sir Gawain's rusted mail clinks against the boulder, An ancient obligation growing colder on his shoulder. Wistan's Saxon sword seeks the blood of the beast, To break the silent pact, to unleash the bloody feast. The boatman waits in silence with his oars upon the tide, One passenger alone on the journey to the other side. Was it a rift between us, or a love that stood the strain? The mist begins to lift, and with the light comes pain. Unbury the giant! Unbury the grief! Was the haze a shield... Or a phantom thief? The island in the distance... Only one can step ashore! The breath of Querig fades away. The dragon falls. The fog dissolves. I see your face... I see the past. Axl... wait for me on the bank.
