toward the morning sun

The citizens whisper his name like a prayer, and the more zealous swear oaths by it. They reach out to touch him, even just a brush of fingers across his coat, as he passes through the masses. Sometimes a touch is not enough, and they grab hold like they might pull him apart.And from his place behind him, always behind now and never before, the Torchbearer sees the way that Clancy flinches away from each grasping hand. But he’s the miracle walking in their midst. He’s their saint with dirty hands and a heavy heart.

We must destroy them or we will become them, and if we become them we must do better.