Dolce trips on the threshold, and falls hard to the ground.

A thousand thousand channels surge to bursting. A thousand thousand channels spill not a drop beyond their carved banks. The void has a name, and it is emptiness. The heavens open upon a Synnefo. Gift of the Empress. Prize in flesh and heart. Ears to hear. Eyes to see. Wool to touch. Softness to clutch. Faithful, ever faithful, to serve. To vanish. Never be seen. Never be minded. Never miss.

His hand breaks the soil and makes of it an anchor. He pushes. He heaves. The mud clings to his knees, the storm beats at his back, every breath drives command into his lungs, and still he rises. Knee. Hooves. Step. Step. Stepping. Stumbling. Running. After heroes, princesses, knights, and wife, eyes locked on the flickering future before them.

He offers neither prayer nor apology. All he has is a burning coal pressed deep, deep in his heart.

[i]No. You. Don’t.[/i]

[i]Not again.[/i]

[i]Not [b]ever[/b] again.[/i]

So comes Dolce of Beri, to the end of his journey.