Tragedy is always personal. Gravity had pulled so strongly here that enlightenment had folded in upon itself. A soul of duality was seeking singularity. What that was, he wasn't sure, but he was ready. Whatever it was that he was, had ripped. He was a wound of self. Gavin McGuiness embodyment of blind raging justice had swung his axe at evil and ripped the fabric of chaos. Justice, the kind you silently cheer for, had loosed the equilibrium between great evils.

After all, evil is not a philosophy, nor a creed, nor any intellectual or spiritual conceptulization. It is simply the propensity to grow without regard. Good is simply that which contains. Balance of power. Who upsets balance unleashes evil. Growth, regardless of its veneer, no matter how sweetened and rewarding - flow without a spigot, power without a restraint - growth without regard, is cancer - evil. Nothing should exist without the people's hand on the plug. That is the only argument. But who was in control now? Did this justice do any good? A criminal organization blindsided by an attack lashes out at everyone on their possibility list. He was invisible. Imagine the back room discussion, "One of our operatives has been decapitated. Sounds like the work of a foreign poet?" No. They could not have had any idea. The subject of doctored photos? Shannon? Put her on the maybe list.

Now this one lying twisted, was he the head of the snake? Or, maybe it is a hydra? Really, what were the options? He didn't have a portfolio of graduated responses. Was he God's warrior, or his own?

Head bowed, eyes closed, standing motionless, a hatchet hanging inanimate in a wavering clutch. His mental silence connected to spirituality. A slow deep guttural throat cried out as he faced that same heaven he rebuked so many times in accusing tones of an ancient tongue copped of relic lines, his Scathlan Obsessional, as it came to be known.

"Mary bain-tiarna an domhain, thréig-tú Katherine. Would you so your Son again?"

Mary, queen of the universe, you abandoned Katherine. Would you knowingly thus again sacrifice Jesus? His was an axe to grind with heaven and it was now all the heavier.

He only knew how to swing an axe. Not many subtle solutions fit that talent. Yet, he despirately needed divine absolution to attain the holy sphere. Katherine was there. Certainly. How could he, with his permeating anger, reach out to heaven let alone to her within it? His murky eyes darkened further, "I'll never make the cut." Staring at his soiled instrument, "Such unsavory blood to lay to noble metal."

His shoulders drooped further. Dead silent. Brow folded, engrossed in his own deep mentality, trying very hard, "I hear you! God, I hear you. You speak between the words of others. You are the pauses of just reflection. But," he stiffened, "damn the silence! Just, or otherwise, tell me! Am I your sword? Or, merely, my own? If I drop these arms, do I betray you or do I honor you? Have I lost her again? Is heaven clouds without passion? Is life nothing but remorse? God, is she - waiting - for me? ... Does she choke of my poison?"

A man to some, a dread to others, was weeping, his first tears - ever - since the break out. Tears unattainable by dehydration, then by rage, only now in reflection, in seething prayer and gnarled humility genuflected at the lifeless fallen human headless form before him as if it were an altar. He wept, he prayed, and kneeled in an ever emanating tarn of blood, issue of a withered shrine. Tell me dear reader, before what alter do you bend? And whose massive protecting hand strokes your hair?