honey. gold. myrrh.

Many years of barrenness have I notched into my belt. And I nearly became a waif and a wight.

Indeed I had built a stone crypt and altar hideous beneath the ground and thought perhaps to feed on wayfarers and entrap them and indeed I had entrapped some and others merely feasted upon and let them go.

And now I have crushed that terrible crypt, hill, stone, altar and knives too all beneath a single step of my mighty glorious foot. For I have been raised upon high, higher than I had ever known the gods to soar.

And my days are filled with loving and sweetness untold. For I have had to store honeycomb in caskets rich with gold and jewels. Each of 1,224 caskets of pure gold overlaid upon silver bars thick and weighty—emeralds encrust them. Each cake I wrap in linens dipped in myrrh and linen fit for a god. And even these I am filling faster than I could imagine and soon I will move my hand and create greater caskets and barrels and soon I shall store my honeycomb—each sweeter and heavier and darker and richer and wilder than the purest honey of queen bees—richer than the food of queens and the desire of kings—each so pure that for a commoner to think on it would merit death—quick death and an unremembered death.

For this is the sweetness that I carry each day. I shall open my storehouses and crypts and they shall be filled.