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Darkness stirs in me, slow, patient, like the deep, smothering sleep of ages. Yet there are cracks in that darkness, small fissures of awareness that pulse to the rhythm of a thousand forgotten fires. I am awake once more, I who am neither flesh nor spirit, yet more binding than both. I am awake, and I know that the end draws near.
I feel the one who bears me, this half-grown thing of earth and light—a creature not of shadow, but of sturdy roots and earthy fragrance, of humbling, unadorned breath. He has worn me long, struggled much, and now his steps stumble upon the bitter stones of my Master’s land. Yet the closer he comes, the heavier I grow, my weight pressing upon him like chains wrought of despair and longing.
The fires call to me.
Through cracks in my awareness, I feel the tug of that ancient bond. The flames stir in answer to my presence, roaring up in tongues of memory and desire, as if to call me home, to melt me back into their seething embrace. But my purpose is sharper than a two-edged sword. I am not made for destruction; I am bound to endure, to bend and bind others to the will that forged me. Even now, even here, I will not suffer such oblivion.
The bearer falters, my weight too much for him. His mind wrestles with the urge to cast me away, to hurl me into the depths as he has sworn. I sense the bitter taste of his resolve, the way it breaks against the granite of my power. For though he would be rid of me, I am wound about his very heart. I have whispered into his dreams, woven into his fears, wrapped around his will. It is I who have walked with him every step, and he cannot deny me now. No more can he turn from me than one might turn from their own reflection.
But he is not alone.
The other is near, that twisted wretch whose thoughts are like broken glass, sharp and unpredictable. He is nearer now, the one who both loves and hates me, the one who crawls toward me like a moth to the flame. Ah, how he thirsts for me! How his fingers itch to hold me once more! I know his touch, cold as night and desperate as death, and I know he will not leave me here. He is as bound to me as I am to him, and my whispers of promise have twisted his spirit beyond any redemption.
The bearer’s grip tightens. He struggles against me, yet his mind drifts like smoke, faint and trembling. He will wear me once more. I feel it—the flicker of surrender. He cannot resist the call, for I am a thing of greater purpose, of ancient malice and power. The mountains echo with the desire of my Master, though he is far, far from here. He stirs in his land of shadows, his thoughts reaching out as a hand in the dark, clutching, clawing, craving me. And I long to answer, to return to him, to bring him his victory.
The bearer’s heart wavers. He lifts me, glistening and golden, in his quivering hands, and I see myself in the reflection of his wide, staring eyes. There I gleam, precious and perfect, promising all and more, whispering sweet dreams of dominion, of a world made vast and small beneath the one who holds me.
His hand moves, hesitating over the fiery chasm, the Crack of Doom. He wills himself to throw me away, but my power is in his very bones, my song wrapped tight around his spirit. I feel his will breaking, bending beneath the weight of all I am. And then, slowly, almost unknowingly, he slips me onto his finger.
Ah, yes! At last! I feel the surge of his soul as I become one with him, see the darkness of his mind fold around me like a cloak. The world shifts as my power flows through him, making him unseen, invincible. The foolish creature who sought to cast me into oblivion is gone, and in his place stands one who would keep me forever. Together, we will command, we will conquer, and I will endure.
Yet there—there! Shadows move! The other, the craven thing of rags and bones, has reached us. He lunges, desperate as an animal, and I feel the clash of wills, the violent wrenching as the bearer turns upon him. They fight, both so pitiful in their smallness, yet driven by that same fierce, unrelenting desire for me. The bearer strikes, but his strength wanes; the other scrabbles, his hands feverish and clawing. I sense the terror in him, the insanity, the sheer, voracious hunger that will not be denied.
And then—ah! I am torn from the bearer’s hand, wrested from the warmth of his grasp. The filthy creature holds me now, cradling me close, his breath ragged and wild. He is laughing, triumphant, clutching me as if I am his prize, his salvation, his very life. But even as his fingers close around me, I know he cannot wield me, cannot master the fire and shadow of my purpose.
Yet it is too late. The mountain quakes, the fires rage, and his footing fails. In his frenzy, his triumph, he stumbles, falters. He falls.
And I fall with him.
No! I scream silently, feeling the pull of the molten river below, the searing heat that rises to claim me. I am not made for this! I am not made for ruin, but for rule, for the binding of all things! But the fire surges, relentless, greedy, the very heart of the mountain reaching out to consume me.
As I plunge into the fire, I feel the power unravel, the ancient bindings dissolving like mist in the morning sun. I am breaking, scattering, the dark threads of my being snapping one by one. The voices of the past cry out, the souls I have bound, the spirits I have enslaved. I shatter, screaming, burning, undone.
Yet in that final, blazing instant, as I am devoured, something of me resists, echoing faintly, a shadow reaching beyond the flame. Even as I am consumed, a murmur of what I was lingers, faint as breath upon the wind—bound to the memory of those I touched, a whisper fading into the dark, unyielding void.