Falling. She was falling.

The ground was rushing up to greet her, growing larger and larger as if it were to swallow her. Like some great, gaping maw, she saw the ground surging forward, closer and closer to her tired figure. Her vision blurred, her thoughts ragged and fleeting even as the wind seemed to strip away the dark god’s protection, leaving her bare and defenseless. Below her, the frozen river glittered beautifully, ice and light shimmering in some grand sculpture carved by inhuman hands. Closer and closer, that work of art approached her, until finally she struck it with blistering speed.

Ice and frost scraped and shredded at her, a sudden sharp pain in her very being. Atal’s presence around her was struggling to shield her spirit, yet it was simply too weak. She could feel that ice burying into her thoughts, scraping away layers of memories with a doctor’s blade. Like a wedge driven through her heart, it sent a spear through her mind, a jagged cut through her psyche that made her tremble and flicker. Never before had she ever felt so weak; never before had she ever felt so helpless. She fought, not to remain conscious, but simply to remain—to keep herself together amidst this storm that threatened to pull her very fabric apart.

Black sparks darted across her field of vision, the dark god struggling to keep its much-needed servant alive. She could hear the voices in the back of her mind as well, incessant in their pleading. Fight, they told her. Stand, they pleaded. Yet she could feel herself becoming lost in that sea of voices, swallowed up by that surging tide. Stand up, they bid her, and she glanced down blearily at the ice that swallowed her.

Stand up, they commanded, and she tiredly rose with legs that she did not possess, wearily stood on frigid ice that could not hold her. She fought feel the heartbeat of her child, fluttering and ephemeral. Her child was dying, and she was helpless to prevent it. Those flames that danced in front of her eyes were beautiful. Why were they so beautiful, as they burned away her hopes? Why were they so beautiful, as they burned away dreams that she had long ago forgotten? So beautiful, she whispered to herself as she staggered to her feet, black sparks dancing around her.

She hated that fire, as it burned her child. She could see that shadowy form amidst the crackling orange, could see it writhe and scream with a sound only she could hear. She hated that fire, that pillar of brilliant flame that had surged through her sole desire, in spite of all that she had sacrificed. She hated that fire; she hated herself. She had failed, she knew, and she hated all of it.

Anger and anguish swelled inside of her, a building tide of emotion that threw aside all other thoughts, growing until it seemed to swallow her heart and essence. It fed upon itself, a growing wave that surged through her heart and threatened to spill out of her. The spasming heartbeat of her child, the ever-distant voices of a thousand tongues, they were gone now. All she felt was that raw despondency, that utter hatred that boiled and spewed forth in a single, desperate scream. Black sparks crackled in the air, the dark god’s strength surging out of her, augmenting her wail with unholy power as it rippled across the frozen land.

She watched as ice claimed the demons, settled on their frames and turned them into stone. She watched as ice was beaten back by the blaze, as her skal’mo was turned to ash underneath those devouring flames. She watched as Atal lingered in the air, slowly consuming the frost-covered fools and making them break upon the ground. She watched with a bitter emptiness, with a hollowness to her heart. She could not care, even as it all shattered like glass before her eyes.

What was this all for? The thought came to her suddenly, yet she could not brush it aside. She could not remember any longer, why she fought. She could not remember any longer, who this pain in her heart was for. She could not remember anything—no faces lingered in her memory, no people in her heart. She could not even recall her own name. What was it, then, that kept her alive? Or was she already dead, without any ties to life that she could claim?

—A young girl, climbing a row of hedges that bordered some garden. Long had she been told not to cross, long had she dreamed of what lay on the other side. Long had her curiosity eaten away at her, and at long last, she had given into temptation. The needled leaves bit at her like insects, like barbs that tried to deter her. Yet these were nothing; mother’s words drew more blood than leaves. Higher and higher still, she clutched to the metal fence, peering through the leaves that surrounded her to gaze blearily at the garden. Her arms were burning as she reached the top, as she sat astride that long-forbidden fence, and she gazed down at that beautiful garden underneath her. Those pink roses, the trickling water, its beauty was not lost on a mere child. And yet, as she reached out with a hand guided by temptation, her balance was stolen away by fate. So did the child fall, plummeting towards paved stones and hard earth. So did the bushes ease her descent, rough as they scraped her skin. So did she roll across the ground, coughing and screaming all the while before finding herself at the feet of a young boy—

A sudden laughter claimed her, a strange smile stretching across her face as she threw her head back. A martyr, she had promised to be, yet she could not remember her own cause. A hero, was she? A strange hero she must have been, without anyone dear in her heart. Nay, she was nothing—that was the bitter truth of it. What kind of hero would die with such emptiness in his heart? What kind of hero would not be weighed down by shackles of sins and chains of crimes, by burdens and grief, by loss and regret? Such were inescapable weights—weights that came with life. And yet she felt none of them in her own heart.

—They lay underneath the stars, alone despite inevitable prying eyes. Yet she could not care less for the thoughts of others, not when her own thoughts were so filled with joy. Her hand tapped out a hopeful rhythm, her arm intertwined with his own as she heard nothing but the whistling of the wind, heard nothing but the softness of his breath. She could still hear his question in his mind, his soft words firm yet filled with a gentle hope. She could still hear her own response, panicked and nervous and filled with excitement. She could still feel the weight of that promise on her heart as they lay there, measuring their future amongst the stars—

Strange, that her own choices had led her here, at the end of a road that had faded behind her. Strange, that she could feel neither regret nor pride at the end of her life, for she could not recall it at all. All of her anguish, all of her hate, it had left her not moments ago, and yet already she had forgotten what it was for. The demons that were shattering into dust in front of her, she could not remember if she ought to be cheering or mourning.

The dark god had left her, and his protection was gone; she was being pulled apart by the wind. Surely, now, she was doomed. Surely, now, this foolish life of hers could be dragged on no longer. Yet, what was there left for her to lose? What was there left to be saved? Madness was sweet in its honeyed poison, and she felt no remorse as the last vestiges of her sanity departed. All she felt was a biting curiosity at what came next, a nervousness that ate away at her like a viper. Was it some hell that greeted her, a prison underneath shale and stone? Was she to end up like the Mother, like that poor beast, shackled beneath the earth? How would that feel, to her? Would it even feel any different?

How would it feel, to have those writhing stitches driven through her lips? How would it feel, to be shackled in that darkness, with only her children for company? Was that not a good mother’s dream? Was she not to be filled with love, with anticipation, at that very notion? Rippling laughter claimed her, tearing through those stitches with blood and mirth.

—A girl, despite her looks, stood as one of many in a long line, her features hardened yet her eyes betraying nervous excitement. Close-cropped hair and faint scars did little to hide womanly features; surely this could not work. Nervousness led to fidgeting fingers, hesitant legs that trembled as the line closed. At last she stood before the soldier, that tired Second Shield that gave her a cursory glance before nodding, half-stifling a yawn. Nervousness was swiftly swallowed by elation as the girl strode forward, all too eager to join another waiting soldier—

There was a twinkling, a flickering light in the sky that seemed to dance across her vision. That single spark was swiftly joined by others of its kind, a small rain of stars that streaked across the distant heavens. And then, like her, they began to fall. Like her, those stars fell down to greet the ground, fell down to frozen earth.

Was she any different from those stars, from those fleeting flames that burned without cause but simple intent? Was she any different from those falling stars? Or was she merely another one of them? Were they more of her children, were they her brothers and sisters? Were they the dead, that she had long forgotten? Were they the lost, for whom she could not grieve?

—A swift kiss, and a promise to return. Words, nothing more than fleeting words, yet were they truly so easily discarded? Were mere words so easily forgotten? Was hope so easily squandered, and promises so easily shattered?—

Those stars greeted her with open arms, drew her into their embrace lovingly. Their warmth seemed to suffuse her, spreading through her chest, through a heart that had long since forgotten to beat. They claimed her as their own, claimed her as kin with a love that burned away at her lingering madness. And at last, as the flames claimed her, the thought finally arrived that she was dying.

A foolish notion, truly, that it came to her just now. Yet she had always been dying, ever since she had sacrificed herself for a cause she could no longer remember. She had always been dying, ever since her skal’mo had first risen out of the earth as if to challenge the heavens. Yet it was only now, in her final moments, that clarity and lucidity had been granted to her. She felt no pain as the flames crackled around her. She felt no disappointment as she burned, a lone figure in the center of a roaring blaze. She felt no loss as she crumbled, as the ever-frayed, ever-tattered ribbons of her mind and soul were turned to ash. She felt nothing, truly, as she was burnt away.

And yet she could hear the voices, in her last moments. Not the voices of loved ones that she had forgotten, that much she knew. Not the voices of heaven, come to claim another departed. They were the voices of the dead man, of the servant to the dark god, that whispered through her charred and scorched thoughts. A thousand tongues, a thousand ages, a thousand lost souls whispered to her then.

Damn you! You have doomed us! Damn you, fool! They raged, they ranted, they fumed with the passion of those that still clung to life. So curious, that it was the dead that fought for life. So curious, that she—thet dying—felt no weight at all. The incredulity filled her with mirth, filled her with laughter as she considered the ridiculous notion. Perhaps, she thought, I truly am a fool.

Only a fool could laugh as he died.