He had never before felt so small, so meaningless, so defeated: adrift in a sea of tar and utterly without purpose, tugged this way and that by an unseen, whimsical current. With dark eyes and a dark heart Rory listened and watched, caught in a war he had never wanted any part of. On the one hand, the loyalty he had been raised with, to the Old Gods. On the other hand... the Voice was here, the Voice was now, the Voice.. made it so easy to think this was somehow about them too.
He was a moth fumbling in the dark, looking for the nearest flame to lick the life out of him.
.. Searching for those who might be powerful enough to free us...
The words were bitter to hear, as bitter as the mixture of people there at the end of everything. Of the Naturals gathered, only two were not Ascended; she had got what she wished for, hadn't she? She had found those who were not them, not the Naturals who slaved on beneath the memory of loyalty to Gods who did not reach out to them anymore. She had found those who did not care enough about everything the Naturals cared for. She had found the ambitious, the unafraid, the stubborn, those willing to risk their lives for something they believed in, even when the whole world told them not to.
There was a beauty in it he could appreciate, if not for the sting to his heart, the poison in his mind. She had found her saviors, but he had only been damned.
Then she stepped aside, revealing the bright and glowing sphere once more, asking it to be removed. Asking to be freed, inciting them with the promise of freedom—
—when fanaticism was all she needed. "No-" Rory began, his hoarse voice weak, only a mumble as his hand raised to—do what? Stop 108? Stop a room full of Ascended and freedom-hungering Outlanders?
Hardly.
Then 108's hand was in the Core's chest and the world ended.
It was not loud enough. There should've been a choir of thunder, a rumble like the earth splitting open, like a mountain falling, but the dying of everything he had known was nearly silent. The walls came down in a rain of black dust, the safety he had clung to removed as the world, so deadly and so near, spilled out all around him.
In the patchwork cover of clouds and stars he saw the glow of the barrier. The shimmer of it as it began to fall.
The silver light bathing the world beyond.
Oh, he saw it from his vantage, there at the top of everything: the glittering, dark band of a wide river cutting through a forest so dense and so majestic that he could never even have dreamed of it. A world, so lush and so thriving, that even in the monochromatic dark he could see how vibrant it was.
The dust he had been raised on and fed his entire life coated the inside of his mouth.
Slowly, Rory sank to his knees, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wide and frightened and sad.
It had happened.
It was finally over.
And all he felt was hollow.
He was a moth fumbling in the dark, looking for the nearest flame to lick the life out of him.
.. Searching for those who might be powerful enough to free us...
The words were bitter to hear, as bitter as the mixture of people there at the end of everything. Of the Naturals gathered, only two were not Ascended; she had got what she wished for, hadn't she? She had found those who were not them, not the Naturals who slaved on beneath the memory of loyalty to Gods who did not reach out to them anymore. She had found those who did not care enough about everything the Naturals cared for. She had found the ambitious, the unafraid, the stubborn, those willing to risk their lives for something they believed in, even when the whole world told them not to.
There was a beauty in it he could appreciate, if not for the sting to his heart, the poison in his mind. She had found her saviors, but he had only been damned.
Then she stepped aside, revealing the bright and glowing sphere once more, asking it to be removed. Asking to be freed, inciting them with the promise of freedom—
—when fanaticism was all she needed. "No-" Rory began, his hoarse voice weak, only a mumble as his hand raised to—do what? Stop 108? Stop a room full of Ascended and freedom-hungering Outlanders?
Hardly.
Then 108's hand was in the Core's chest and the world ended.
It was not loud enough. There should've been a choir of thunder, a rumble like the earth splitting open, like a mountain falling, but the dying of everything he had known was nearly silent. The walls came down in a rain of black dust, the safety he had clung to removed as the world, so deadly and so near, spilled out all around him.
In the patchwork cover of clouds and stars he saw the glow of the barrier. The shimmer of it as it began to fall.
The silver light bathing the world beyond.
Oh, he saw it from his vantage, there at the top of everything: the glittering, dark band of a wide river cutting through a forest so dense and so majestic that he could never even have dreamed of it. A world, so lush and so thriving, that even in the monochromatic dark he could see how vibrant it was.
The dust he had been raised on and fed his entire life coated the inside of his mouth.
Slowly, Rory sank to his knees, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wide and frightened and sad.
It had happened.
It was finally over.
And all he felt was hollow.
