A beginning, at last.

After so many years of interminable middle, a fresh start was finally upon him.

He was birthed anew following the permanent closing of all twelve Knijleen camps. His had been atop the North Pinnacle of the mountain range, that ice-capped zenith of the prison system.

Seven years, two months and thirteen days—prisoners documented their length of stay with marks on the walls for

months and conical gouges along the underside of the forearm for years.

As he stood in the snow awaiting the funicular, he gathered up the many torments endured during his sentence and sealed them away in his mind’s darkest cell. His past was now consigned to what had once been his own fate: incarceration without hope of redemption.

Twice it had happened, in fact—his childhood locked away at the first slam of the prison gates, and his years within that prison banished as he departed it. Each compartment of his life unfamiliar with the other. Each relegated to the region of myth, or of taboo. And now, setting out on his third incarnation, he committed himself doubly to exiling these phantoms.

As he left the prison, he carried with him his starchy uniform, a mottled carry-all, five gouges in his left forearm and two in his right.

Aside from these, he was without limit or possession.

A new beginning. At last, a new beginning.

Who would he become?

#

            The monorail dumped him into the charred heart of the city, Level 3. Grid and latticework towered above, artificial daylight sputtered dimly. Stumbling between vibrations from below, he dragged his carry-all away from the Transport sector.

            A man at a kiosk shook something in his face. Another monorail screamed beside his ear. The distant boom-thud of departures tapped a rhythm on his chest. And despite his commitment to gaze only forward, he was struck again by the length of his absence and the recklessness with which the city had grown.

            The mists that rose from the swamps of Level 1 crowded the frenzy of pedestrian traffic, while rail schedules swooped and snapped and blurred.

            Amid the chaos, he purchased a brown pillow of dough, and was handed a coin emblazoned with young eyes and an outstretched hand.

            Unable to slow his walk for long enough to inspect the meal, he ducked beneath a doorframe and slid into a quiet booth.

            “Can’t eat that here!” a young man declared, oily strands of floppy hair obscuring his slitted eyes. “You gotta order something, you wanna eat in here.”

            Another note from the pocket of his carry-all and the young man returned with soup, then left him blessedly alone.

            The room was slightly below Level. Its narrow windows opened on cluttered ankles, ascending vapors. Within, crowds huddled in shadow. Conversations rippled in lazy currents—faces and gestures and languages he couldn’t place.

            Steam ran from the gloomy broth. White foam gathered about the perimeter.

            His hands cupped the bowl as his eyes rolled to the ceiling. Gazed through infinite particles to the void his life had become.

#

            He sought solace. He sought escape.

            An alley offered one, a figure within it the other.

            His foot caught between grates as she drew him away from the hordes, her hands rough and callused between his fingers. Level 2 gusted beneath her feet, fluttered her skirts, exposed her thighs.

            She shoved him against a stairwell, withdrew two notes from his breast pocket. Spilled a thick coin which bounced on the grating, guiltless eyes and outstretched hand. The face on the coin was crashing, flipping, watching them grope against the curb. Windows gaped and doorframes splintered as his spine pressed at the grating. Iron dug between his ribs and pierced what thin passion he had.

            She continued without grace until he stopped, pushed her away.
            She laughed at him from the cobbles and he laughed back at himself.         

            A great hollowness overcame him.

#

            Exhausted, he entered a Cavern for the second time in his life and, as with the first, an unnerving sense of now-ness descends upon him.

            Warm candlelight dances across the empty walls. Hushed murmurs form a soft carpet of sound. A large cross of ageless metal hangs at the chambers’s fore, weighing down its brace, canting at a precarious angle.

            Below the massive cross, the Aiden speaks to a supplicant. Her smooth skull and flawless figure send a chill up his spine.

            He gnaws at a knuckle. Reddens it as he stands waiting.

            An age passes and the bench beneath him deadens the base of his legs.

            “These are threatening times, my husband.”

            The Aiden approaches with weightless steps. Her robes whisper against the earthen floor.

            “Treacherous is the path. We must seek strength in the Circles, in our Angels.”  

            He keeps his eyes low and hands steady as she towers above him.

            Despite her show of grace, dread pours in through his chest. He has seen the blackened corpses. He knows the power in her form.

            “Have you arrived to consecrate yourself, my husband? Do you wish to speak to our Angel?”

            He offsets his eyes respectfully. Shakes his head. Makes his request.

            “There is always a place for our lost lovers in the Caverns. Our Angel wishes to discard none, as these days have weakened the hearts of all.”

            The Aiden motions him toward a side door, then returns to her place beneath the cross. He risks a glance at her retreating, the landscape of her scarlet robe...

            Then the strange now-ness had lifted and he took leave of the sanctuary, briskly approaching two aides beyond the Cavern’s hold.

            They stood in hunched debate, their heads shaved in rough approximation of the Aiden.

            He interrupted without apology. Told the aides he needed rest.

            “You have spoken to an Aiden?” one of them asked, huffing in annoyance.

            “Take the lift down a half-level. Follow the signs,” the other said. “Choose any space you like and affix this to the door. It grants you two days blessing, then you must speak to Her again.”

            He pocketed the golden placard and lunged past them down the hall.

            “We require a donation,” the first called, pursuing, “unless you’ve been granted consecration...” Her pale eyebrows rose doubtfully as she looked him up and down.

            He shoved two bills in her palm with injuring ferocity.

            The aide recoiled and said nothing. Watched as the lift closed to consume him.

#

            He entered the tunnels of 2.5 and snaked his way down to the garden. It stood tranquil, sparsely habited beneath a synthetic pulse of light.

            Sand shifted underfoot as he wove between the tables, homing in on a hallway with a string of vacant room.

            His clothes came off with much coercion in the low and narrow space. It was devoid of embellishment or furniture, but for a washcloth and two pills. He used neither, latched the door, and lay back on the pallet.

            Soft noise from neighboring chambers prevented him from sleep. Someone coughed and someone laughed and he breathed deeply through his nostrils. Closed his eyes to ward off claustrophobia. Tucked his arms in from the walls.

            He lay motionless in the small and stoney membrane of his solitude. The many years of his imprisonment weighed heavily upon his chest. At last, anxiety blossomed and he mopped sweat with the washcloth. Fumbling with trembling hands, he swallowed both the pills.

            A haze settled upon him as pills dissolved in his scarred bowels. A shadow swept across the door—had he left it ajar?

            He forced himself to sitting and grappled with the latch. Then his stupor rose to claim him and he lay stricken on the pallet and the shape which may or may not have been a woman walked away.

#

            He awoke an indefinite period later, pained by a thick narcotic buzz, and exited his chamber to find a note outside the door. Its oblique, handwritten characters were indecipherable to his eye. He crumpled the note and walked the tunnels until his head again had cleared.

            Again, the central garden, and a hot meal from a vendor. He settled at an empty table where a fountain drained against the wall.

            He breathed deeply, and as he chewed, discovered something familiar at play within him. A faint metronome to shore up against, that same internal rhythm which had rocked him through the intolerable: that first unfriendly act of childhood, then that malignant one of prison.

            He ate in silence until the moans of consecration disturbed him then resealed the container and placed it in his carry-all.

            The meal lifted his spirits.

            The peace of the garden had restored him.

            He ventured up toward Level 3 to find out whom he would become.

            An aide cut him short outside the lift: “The Aiden requests your consecration.”

            He shouldered his way past her and aimed to bisect the Cavern, quick as lightening, as that strange sensation hits, that sense of now-ness once again...

            Movements echo as he crosses the rock-hewn sanctuary. A flitting of robes to his left. Weightless footfalls to his right.

            He heads straight for the exit, keeping his gaze hard and fixed before him, yet cannot help but notice as the rockface splits in a door.

            Swift as thought and just as silent, the Aiden moves to stand before him.

            “You are departing, my husband.”

            He stares at the ground and nods.

            “The paths grow gnarled, the Levels topple. Our Angel would favor your consecration greatly.”

            He makes a vague and throaty noise and is unable to look up.

            “Would you encounter our Angel before departing?”

            Another noise. He shakes his head.

            “Go safely then. Trust in the Circles, my husband.”

            The Aiden shifts to offer access and he travels in an undeviating path between her and the Cavern’s exit. At no point does he look back.

#

            “The top?” The fat man at the monorail said, shaking his head mournfully. “Noooo sir. Top five were privatized years ago.”

            The calm of the sanctuary had left him. The fog of the city choked it out.   And all at once he realized he had secured no destination.

            He purchased a ticket to Transport. Squeezed into a window seat and solidified his conviction that his new self was somewhere out there.

            Beyond the hard edge of the city.

            Waiting to be found.

#

“Welcome,” the monorail’s forged voice repeated. “Arriving at terminal twenty-three.”

He stood in the large station and stared at indecipherable languages, reviewing his illiteracy until an agent offer help.

“If you don’t know where you’re headed, you can buy a Distance Pass.”

But Distance Passes were items of luxury, meant for the traveling elite. He soon found the cost of travel to even the nearest outpost greatly exceeded his means.

“You can go Labor for a discount. Or Cargo, if you like.”

He considered his predicament from the shade of an outdoor eatery, fending off the waiter with blunt menacing looks. He took his time, drinking the water, considering his lack of options.

A poorly marked and disused path traced the circumference of the terminal. A lengthy staircase at its vertex led him up to a control tower. High above the rusted structure, a sunburst flag snapped and rippled. It’s coarsely mended fabric proclaimed the city as Unified.

He gazed out over the Transport as a hot wind rolled from the desert. A river scarred the empty plain but offered him no set path.

Back in Transport, increasingly desperate at his lack of funds and poor trajectory, he bounded into the lavatory and found a short man in the far stall. He leapt on the man him without warning and his arms tingled with distant impulses as one rooted through the stranger’s pockets, the other covered his nose and mouth.

He found a wallet, several large bills. A keychain. A pack of sticks. Stuffed them in his carry-all and pressed hard on the short man’s throat.

He stood, prepared for a counter, but the short man wasn’t screaming. The stranger’s hands were not attacking, but softly touching his swollen throat. Eyes shut in concentration. His breath was labored, wheezing.

Measured steps took him through Transport. A swift gait cut him through a the crowd.

“Shuttle to Outpost-1 is in three hours,” a soldier told him.

He continued without pause, striding toward the shield gate.

“Hey! You can’t just walk—you’ll never make it!”

But Unified code allowed free access. He crossed through the shield gate unhindered.

“Screwjob..” the soldier muttered from behind the blueish field.

He fingered a stick into his mouth. Lit it as he struck off toward the river.

# 

The wasteland covered him with a new and dusty skin. He stopped twice to clean himself and to study the flat terrain.

He felt comfortable here in the desert. Its vast expanse offered no point of reference. He kicked off his boots and stretched out beside his carry-all. There was no scale by which to judge him, and the clarity of pink dusk settled.

He studied the stranger’s wallet.

Was this his old self or his new?

Having no answer, wanting no answer, and with no light by which to see it, he dismissed the question as pointless and swung his gaze up to the stars.

#

He walked until his ankles throbbed. White heat gave way to lavender chill. The patchwork sunburst of Outpost-1 rose steadily into view.

A shuttle arrived as he approached the complex. He snuck through the shield gate with its departing passengers. They were corralled into a holding cell by a small group of soldiers whose senior officer croaked out a blast of clipped decrees:

“Have to detain you till transfers come. Word of an impending attack. Sit tight.”

The blast door was swung shut and shouts filtered through the seams. Sharp cracks of gunfire and panicked wailing, but few inside seemed to take care.

“Those Rovers best let Unified be,” someone offered, “or they’ll get more’n they can handle...”

He squatted against the door. Fished the wallet from his carry-all.

“I heard the number of active Aiden’s all the way up to two thousand...”

A handful of crumpled business cards fluttered softly to the ground. A hefty stack of bills, and he set at once to counting.

“You hear Rovers hit Outpost-3? Two Unified lost both their arms...”

He slipped the wad into his pocket, scrapped the photos without inspection. Became aware of others watching him. Wary looks from suspicious eyes.

He stuffed the gutted wallet back into the carry-all and tumbled back into the dust as the blast door was swung wide.

“Aright,” the commander said. Sweat caked the dirt hard on his brow. “Things are mostly settled. Soon your transfers will arrive.”

#

The boarding terminal faced the desert. A broad monochrome map covered its walls.

He studied it, trying to locate Outpost-1.

“Where ya’ headed?”

An old man with a long mustache stood beside him.

“That’s us there,” the old man said, tapping a white spot on the map. “Comin from Didias, I assume. And Ozryth, the bay city, round this ways. You’re either heading to Ozryth or you’re going straight to Tallis. Used to pilot these Transports myself, that’s how come I know some things.”

The old man made a chewing sound then sucked his teeth and nodded proudly. He waited patiently for compliments and when none came he took to scowling. “You did say you was coming from Didias...?” the old man asked, surveying the stranger.

He shifted his carry-all to expose his forearms. The conically gauged roadmap to his past.

“Further,” he said. “Much further.”

#

An explosion rocked the outpost and the old man’s eyes went fearful.

A soldier limped into the terminal, cradling a damaged arm.

Another projectile slammed the complex, and two more soldiers leapt for cover.

A child began to weep. But the group as a whole seemed unconcerned.

He left them milling about as he slipped back into the hallway, continuing around the bunker to peer out onto the dirt.

Oil smoke rose beyond a rise. There were no other signs of disruption.

“Awful strange,” the old man said, having followed in his path.

Then that strange impulse again cascading through his center and he seized the old man’s collar and dragged him out onto the concourse.

They took cover behind a hangar as a craft shot overhead. A Rover ship, declared the helmet-shaped insignia on its stringer. They sprinted for an idling shuttle as the craft paused beyond the rise. He thrust the old man in the driver’s side as the Rover opened fire. Taking up the chair beside him, he pulled the shuttle through the gate as the ground beneath them danced to violent ordnance like drums.

Adrenaline and fear coursed through him, but his new self was one of vision. They exited the outpost and launched headlong into the desert. He chose a heading at random and extended a decisive finger.

A trajectory. A path. A course to follow, at last.

#

The road was a vague imprint of dirt on dirt, and they held true to the heading until they could no longer see it.

“Where’re we going?” the old man asked. The doubt was audible in his voice. “I was travelin to see my daughter. I got a family, see. I got kids.”

They pressed on through the darkness then parked the shuttle down an embankment.

“Aright, captain. I’m free to go?” The old man offered a rakish smile. It was a plain attempt at levity to ease him from his vigilance. He shook his head and thumbed the dome light. Spent the night hunched against the window, watching the old man and the moon.

Watching the way each rose and fell.

 #

It was midday and the station had crept up on them. By the time he saw that it was active, the gun tower was trailing close.

A Unified soldier waved them to stop and consulted their rear-facing. After scanning the shuttle’s manifest, he sauntered up to the window.

“What’s your name?” he asked the old man.

“Willy Korbitz.”

The soldier nodded, glanced at his papers, “Korbitz... Korbitz... Coming from Didias?”

The old man nodded, yes.

“I notice you’re not in uniform. Where’d you say that you were headed?”

The old man hesitated only an instant, but enough to cause suspicion. The soldier backed off and touched his holster.

“I’ll to ask you please to wait right here—”

But the sentence was interrupted by a man hunched in the back seat who leapt over the driver and flung out through the window.

The soldier tried to draw his weapon, but was slow to the attack. He had wrenched the soldier’s arm and was choking him through his suit.

The gun tower opened up and sparks erupted all around them.

He flipped the soldier onto his back and then dropped to the ground beneath. He could barely hear the screaming amid the chaos of tiny impacts. The soldier acted as his cover. The bullets never reached his back.

The shuttle came under fire and it slammed into a wall. Then reversed to lurch again and it flattened a barricade.

Slithering toward the shuttle as the bullets raked the freeboard, he managed to board it and calm the old man enough to get back on the road.

Before long, two trucks could be seen in their rear-facings, giving chase, but they were weaponized, insulated, and not constructed for great speed. The shuttle should outrun them, provided the damage taken was not extreme.

Which, despite the tower’s shelling and the crumpled barricade, it was not.

 #

The plan was not working. Things were not as they should be. His new self would not be blood-stained, confined to a shuttle with an old pilot.

He cleaned his arms of carnage as the old man began to beg.

“You got to let me go now,” he said, breathing shallow. “You just got to.”

He angled the old man back and put the controls in his hands. Told him to reroute and take them to the outer forest. He remembered it as a tumorous splotch on the map at Outpost-1.

They continued on in silence until the forest loomed before them. He set up camp beside the shuttle and chewed on dry packets of meat.

As the fullness of night descended, he pulled the hatch on the mechanics. Flipped the power to the routing cables. Shorted the filters and master cells. He packed the unspent heat canisters as noises flowed from the forest’s curtains.

Purrs and flutters of uncertain hazard.

Snaps and snarls wholly unknown.

#

He kicked the old man with his heel and told him they were quitting the shuttle. The shock registered only briefly before a blank despair replaced it.

They slipped between great swaths of foliage to where the radiance filtered dimly. As they continued, the canopy tightened until only shafts of mist remained.

As they journeyed for several hours along an uphill slope, he found himself waiting impatiently, tempted to leave the old man behind. Yet each time the old man huffed and stumbled to crest a hill, a strange sense of camaraderie surged in him, drawing him to the old man. And when at last the old man failed, he fed him water from a river. But the old man gruffly refused him. Only sat in the current, softly crying.

#

They camped along the riverbank and the old man refused his food.           

As the canopy darkened, he left the old man to take stock of their surroundings. The gloom progressed to pitch. He found no landmarks by which to travel. While returning to their camp, he stumbled on a fallen bulb. Its material was grey and cold, the glassy hemisphere of a helmet. He ran his fingers along the back plate, found an earpiece still attached.

Donning the injured instrument he felt it swelling to embrace him. Flipped a switch on the underplate and the earpiece sounded twice.

He felt suddenly electric—surely this was a sign. That he was gaining ground and closing on the contrails of his future.

He spent the night wearing the helmet and woke to faint clicks in the earpiece.

He flipped the switches off and and, jostled the plates, but to no avail.

#

He could not locate the old man. At first he found it comical. He searched the roots and fisted branches, doubled back to trace his steps. Gazed up at the high ridge but he could find no track or movement.

He lingered for a time, angered by the disobedience, then hurled a rock down at the river and put the old man from his mind.

The jungle tripped him and upset him, dropping dew and rotten fruit. His hard boots beat the ground with unnecessary command. With this newfound menace he gained a boiling forward frenzy. His phantoms rallied with their habits of uncertainty and loss.

He hiked from the ravine and followed the ridge to its conclusion, then dove back into the overgrowth without considering his aim.

While negotiating the grade, he heard a steady distant growl. Smoke stained the jungle’s mists and heavy crunching pierced its stillness. Deep vibrations showed themselves as the churning of machines.

An oversized conveyance lumbered into view. Arcs of sharpened metal swung from the hull to clear a path. Men atop the vehicle worked to steer its many segments.

Their helmets, much like his own, marked them as Rovers.

His earpiece hummed excitedly with chatter as they drew near. Rose to its peak as the convoy crossed him him. Then dimmed as they departed.

#

He spent the day tracking the convoy’s footprint and by evening had followed the Rovers to their camp.

Soldiers huddled around a bonfire in plain underclothes, their faces tough and their hair cropped short. Firelight glinted against the slumbering machines and cast its soft light on a pile of discarded gear.

He circumnavigated the camp until within range of the heap, then reached out from the darkness, removed a chest-plate from the top.

Clicks and beeps rang in his earpiece as the chest-plate whirred to life, and his helmet’s optics activated, illuminating the forest.

He retreated on hands and knees a safe distance from the camp.

“Whoa there,” said the Rover, bouncing sideways to avoid him. The man was trundling from the forest, both arms weighed down by fallen fruit. He had stripped his helmet for the task and his dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. The two stood motionless for a time, surveying one another in a standoff, until the Rover’s throaty chortle declared it as resolved. 

“You sure gave me a jump,” the soldier said, dropping a melon. “Whacha doin anyhow? Looks as if lost half your suit.”

His arms were snapping, tingling as the Rover jabbered on. The impulses, once exiled, were coming home to roost.

“Not a Rover, are you? Can’t be Unified, I assume. Not unless they’re minting spies now.” The large man laughed at the suggestion. That phlegmy grunt again. “C’mon, let’s get to camp. You go ahead an drop this—”

The Rover reached for his helmet, the Rover’s hand nearing the threshold, and had scarcely grazed the faceplate when it was twisted and snapped backward.

He attacked the man with glee. Threw his darkened cell doors wide. Left all restraint behind him and slammed the Rover to the ground. Scarred forearms flailed and pelted. The helmet smashed the Rover’s face with a mad repeating motion that carried far beyond its function.
           The act at last complete, he tried to ease his heaving breath.

He withdrew to the jungle and his earpiece chattered happily.

#

He retreated to a cave and cleared a small circle of earth. Gathered nearby twigs and broke them on the heat canister’s mouth. Took the wad of bills from in his pocket and fed it to the  blueish blaze. Then the wallet. The pack of sticks. The letter left for him in the Cavern. The small flames rendered its handwritten mysteries forever beyond his grasp.

He watched the fire rage and sputter against the damp and then slept soundly. His hands twitched at his beltline, having nothing left to burn.

#

He donned the helmet and left the carry-all. Chose a direction near at random. Let his legs move off without him, with his mind a seething blank.

He traveled in this manner until a shape caught his attention: something stalled halfway up the cliff face. Another wanderer, perhaps.

He climbed the layered crags and pulled himself onto the ledge. Surveyed the shape before him and bit his lip until it bled.

The old man had clearly fallen and was displayed at unnatural angles. Legs bent backward. Skull displaced. Mustache smeared onto the jags of rock.

As he viewed the ruined body, a rising tide reddened his features. He ground his jaw and for a moment feared his own body may implode. Then attacked the cliff behind him, ascending in a fever.

He sat atop the summit and he nursed his bloodied hands..

He had failed. Somehow, he’d failed. Though could not discern the nature of his failure. He hadn’t the capacity, but had enough to be aware.

Convict. Transgressor. Criminal.

He shut his eyes and heard his breathing, allowed his mind its brief escape over the forest and desert plains, beyond the scourge of civilization, through Outpost-1 and across Didias, to its resting place on the North Pinnacle of the sharpened Knijleen range.

#

Eventually, he stumbled forward, trudging listlessly and without thought. His fingers dripped life on the runners as he entered a narrow draw.

It fed into a grassy valley strangled by opposing forces. Shots rang out from the forest, ricocheted till indistinct.

He pressed on mindlessly and by that grim internal metronome. A small Rover contingent moved in formation across the grass. They disappeared into the treeline as explosions rocked the valley. Another barrage. A bullet sailed past him, a gentle breeze marking its path.

He stood motionless in the clearing and felt removed, as an observer. He watched without emotion as a Rover took the bullet in the chest.

A familiar churning echoed, announcing the great conveyance, its arcs of polished metal interlaced and raised for war. It lumbered into the clearing, slowed to a halt to prime its weapons, as a massive detonation seemed to erupt on all sides at once.

His vantage shrunk ad lifted as he was flung high in the air. His shirt tore from his skin and the helmet left his neck. 

He landed hard. Sharp stabs of pain sang from deep in both his shoulders. Tried to raise to standing, but had spun beyond control.

A chorus of shouting filled the air. A numbness coursed up through his spine. There was warm mud on his neck. Retreating footfalls at his back.

And that heavy sense of now-ness lowers gracefully upon him. Trees whip against their roots as a Circle soars into view.

The Aidens’ mouths move swift and silent. Their cloaks soar high above the violence.

The Rovers dive for cover as the Circle reaches a fever pitch. The smooth crescendo of incantations shatters with the frontmost Aiden—she vents an inhuman shriek and thrusts her arms into the air.

A ripple between her and the thicket, and the area bursts with fire.

Rovers are sailing airborne. The conflagration heaves and expands.

The Aiden shrieks again and the jungle gives way to an inferno.

Sweat and pain and deathly heat fill what remains of his awareness.

The Circle crosses above the clearing and he glimpses the center Angel—her eyes are softly closed with dream, and her lips move as in slumber.

Another explosion flattens him. When consciousness returns, hands caress him gently. He feels a wetness on his chest.

He is raised carefully to sitting.

“Oh, my husband...” the voice flows, soft and compassionate and mournful, as she views his injured face.

He tries to turn in her arms to face her but feels he is constantly falling.

The Aiden holds him steady. Her voice whispers again.

“...that innocents should suffer so in this war, and one of such pure intention. It is far too cruel a price, that you should undergo such pain.”

He nods distantly. Her hands play lightly on his cheeks.

“Pain is abrupt, enlightenment sudden. Would you consecrate yourself, my husband?”

There were no true rebirths. He sees this now, the past returned. As it did, it always did. To feed on the living. Swallow them whole.

There were no true rebirths. But the promise of one assures him.

He nods his consent, the Aiden leans closed and she puts her mouth to his.

That fiery scream again, but in reverse, a monstrous sucking, and his phantoms are expelled in a great mass from his throat.

His jaw goes slack. His eyelids open.

“The Circles embrace you. Be still, my husband.”

The promise of a new beginning. It was all he'd ever asked.