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agonized years. It was the pathetic, sick attempts of the followers to give a man long since dead the attributes of life. |
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I looked up into Kelto's seared and useless eye sockets. Tears of frustration streamed down his anguished face. |
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"Tell me," he pleaded, "what does he look like?" Consummate agony had invaded his voice. |
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Then I realized, once again, every plot has one final twist, one final bit of bitter irony. |
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"You are a true believer, too, aren't you?" |
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Kelto sagged wearily to his knees in the debris. Racking sobs engulfed his frail body. The admission was barely audible. "I tried not to be," he quaked, "but as I walked in these very woods, plotting my revenge, the hatred began to dissipate. It was subtle at first, only a question, but then I realized why the beasts did not attack me. They somehow realized that I was an emerging vehicle of Sate, that without me and others like me there would be no release from their curse of atonement." His trembling voice trailed off. "You must tell me, what does he look like? How magnificent he must be. Imagine . . . in my arms, I shelter the Ancient of Ancients." |
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Those were the last words he uttered. |
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There was one last tortured breath, and then there was silence. |
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The cluttered tangle of decaying human |
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