Some of us cry when the Sun comes out. Some of us do
something about it. Roland was the first to act, and the
first to die. He climbed up to the roof, and crouched, ready
for dawn. When you, the Great Coward, shot your first
splinters of light over Mulberry Hill, Roland attacked. We
woke to a terrible sound, as if the Egg of the World were
cracking. Through the barn window, we could see Roland's
proud silhouette, fighting your first, weak beams as if he
were a reincarnation of Razor the Firstborn pecking the eyes
out of the Eternal Farmer. We closed our eyes, held each
other, and prayed.

The light finally came, clean and unbearable. Roland lay
motionless, a pile of feathers shot through with your golden
rays. He glowed, glowed like eggshells, reflecting back the
light with defiance. How low, how foul, despicable Sun! You
reign in terror all day, but since your melee with Roland
you shiver in the shadows all night. You stretch dawn out as
long as you can, first making sure that the Martyr isn't on
the rooftop, and only then rise, your head bowed, tiptoeing.
You are right to fear us, for we lay our eggs in the
darkness...

Roland shall return, and day shall be no more.