"Tell that to the people who are fighting for you right now and see if they agree." The words are so soft. Gentle, the way the river that cuts the land is gentle. "...There are none so wretched that they can't bloom again, Darcy. Your garden has been torn and poisoned but it is not dead. When I say that all you have to do is tend it, I know it sounds simple. But this is simple too."

Erin steps back and draws her blade; she holds it out, flat, resting on the palms of her hands. "Three simple machines; two wedges and a rod. An ape could make it, and they did. But who mined the ore that became this blade? Who made the tools for the miners? Who grew their food, and who made the tools for the farmers?"

Her voice picks up, settling into a cadence that is almost like a prayer. "When the food was grown, and the miners clothed, and the tools made, who taught the smith, who does not make his own food? Who cut the wood for his charcoal, and who burnt it? Who planted the trees that gave him that wood? Who purchased the blade, and how many bought and sold it before it reached my hand? Who first learned to use it, and how did they pass their knowledge on? Who taught my teacher, and who fed the lineage of swordsmen? Tended their wounds? Taught them their prayers? Ten thousand ten thousands of human lives touched these three simple machines before I ever purchased it. It's a simple weapon. It is the world entire."