Unremarkable, Thero emerges, no more impressed by the land than this sun by him. The entanglement of the two,though, now, desperate, in tow to the latest defeat of the summoned prince, does grant him mediocre praise from the gathered villagers. We sad and meager few! We have no demands on him! We are but the saddest of the lot! Look at my garden, it is nothing but rag-weeds. I cannot eat those. No! Of course, in the absence of usual clarity, Thero stumbles in pose and offers false praise and even ironic and misunderstood solace to the wimpered and unusually vocal horde:
Be still and Die!
The vantage point from here, beyond the hill, even after the collapsed sun has been murdered and brought out of its pearly estate--brought to bear its own blood hands on the mark of our prince--you will still suffer, plagued by the merest recognition of sallow ineptitude, tragic uncertaintly, but more desperate, more lifelike, is the irrelevence of even if, even if my own hand were to murder that star and take the necks of each of the oppressors still you would have the greatest saddness, the only sadness that is ever your lot--so Die and be still!