The story has moved apace and this poem needed to be written.

The Prize

It need not be you, came a voice to my mind
I shuddered, thinking to leave the prize behind
But slowly my now ready gun
Traced the ground for I was done

The prize had lost none of its luster
But ambition I could no longer muster
I still see the light of that powerful mark
Shining through mists of clouding dark

It’s not in angers easy shot
Or just toward the passion hot
So I step forward, help his second chance
And thus begin this subtle dance

The best man here will win the prize
The glory will shine there in his eyes
But I know not whether this angry fool
Will ever we marksmen rule

Where is the Champion? Loving and bold?
Worthy of the prize I’ll never hold?
And what can I do? This marksmen turned priest
Should I point out the poison that lurks in their feast?

The glory it shines out from such a dark prize
Only for a moment does it come to his eyes
For fickle are the whims of fate
Can’t win in a moment and then it’s too late

This is not how the story ends
I know that we are still good friends
I’m still a marksmen but I can now see
That the prize need not go to him or to me

Let come the Marksman, with true seeing sight
Let compassion be his might
Quick let him claim the glorious prize
And never force me to avert my eyes