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And the mortar and stones of the northern wall shook
and flaked, and Laurana seized the orb (though never again
would I see her as I turned northwards, lifting the flange of
the lance to my shoulder, its butt secure beneath my arm
that was stronger now, having something to do at last after
all the cold and the waiting and the loss of Breca and of
Heros, it seemed, who was not among us and somehow
forgiven by his absence and the meaning of his absence)
and a great sweetness fell upon me, whether from the orb
itself, as the legends say, or from that moment of repose in
the mind when, pushed past all endurance, you can say AT
LEAST THERE IS NO MORE OF THIS, NOTHING LEFT
BUT A BRIEF PAIN AND THEN PEACE SURPASSING.
We proffered the lances: the Solamnic salute, the prayer
that our lives henceforth be worthy of the taking of lives,
and again I offered the prayer with the others, thinking of
Heros, of Breca, that through all the silliness of the prayer
their wounds somehow were made cleaner.
And there was confusion, a shrapnel of walls, for a
moment those dull reptilian eyes glowing a red that was
lifeless in its ancient light, and I thought of Breca's eyes and
what the poet says of foxfire, and there was heat
unsurpassed like the Cataclysm had come again, then
complete and abiding dark
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