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| - All had been arranged. He'd measured it all carefully. There would be no suffering, only sleep... sleep eternal. If dreams came, he prayed they would be gentle. What there would be none of is turning back, at least for them. He was last of all, and he prayed again to whatever beneficent being may be listening at this late hour for a swift ending on his part. But had he any faith left in prayer, he wouldn't have come this far, now would he? He sat gently on the corner of the bed and hung his head in his hands.
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| abstract
| - All had been arranged. He'd measured it all carefully. There would be no suffering, only sleep... sleep eternal. If dreams came, he prayed they would be gentle. What there would be none of is turning back, at least for them. He was last of all, and he prayed again to whatever beneficent being may be listening at this late hour for a swift ending on his part. But had he any faith left in prayer, he wouldn't have come this far, now would he? He inhaled, a slow filling of the lungs. The air was sweet. The sungrass he grew in the arboretum adjoined to the house made it so. He stepped outside into the late evening air, the chill of those northern climes cut through the trees of Eversong, his eyes, keen as many among his race spied the glow far to the south. Stratholme had fallen. The Scourge marched North now. He could almost feel the cry of the grass between his sandal-shod feet, wailing to him as the Dead Scar slithered towards Eversong like some great black serpent. The Farstriders would take up arms against the invaders of course. However futile, their very nature demanded it if nothing else. The High Ranger General had her nature, the Scourge had its purpose, and Malchiae had his sense. It was all that was left to him now. It had led him inexorably to this moment, hadn't it? The breeze brought desperate whispers with it in the small hours before so short and at the same time so long before the dawn. The forest was dying, like everything else here. Everything ends. Let the Scourge tend to the forest, he had other endings to tend to. It was cold, but he knew it to be unseasonably so. He drew the curtains at the outer arches to shut it out a little longer. Walking to the bedroom, he smiled at his wife and two lovely daughters, all snug in the bed in the wee hours of the morning. So placid. So peaceful... He went to them and adjusted the coverlet- his youngest daughter's hand had found it's way out from underneath, and touching her soft skin he decided it was too chilled for his liking. After tucking her hand beneath the blanket, he ran an idle finger through his wife's sepia locks as they lay on her cheek, glittering in hues of deep red against the candle light. He sat gently on the corner of the bed and hung his head in his hands.
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![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)