If and when you find yourself sent down, know that you're not
the first; there's a thread of revulsion that runs from before you were born
to a knot in the darkness ahead, tied to the horns of the first
bastard. There's an entire history of those who chose to take the bull by the horns.

A few days in, it was the sound of him that first found them in the dark;
the walls would give up pebbles as the bull's hideous weight fled across them,
the stuttering tumble of stone on stone a measure of distance.
It came and went, but most often they were alone in the maze.

It was by following the track worn in the wall that they found him,
a shadow curled in the greater dark.
They would find him sleeping, flanks twitching in dreams,
and they would run, praying for life, eating spiders.

When my turn comes, I’ll lay with him there;
Bend my back against his chest and let him keep me.
I will reach through his matted hair to his horns,
stroke each one lovingly, and make the dispossessed once more a king.

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