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. Michael
even ceased to ask Mishakal's forgiveness when he bashed a
head. Eventually, after many months of weary travel, they
reached their destination.
*****
"The Great City of Xak Tsaroth, whose beauty surrounds
you . . ." Michael whispered the inscription on the fallen
obelisk, traced it with his hand on the broken stone. His
voice died before he could finish reading. He lowered his
head, ashamed to be seen weeping.
Nikol patted his shoulder. Her hand was roughened,
its skin tough and calloused, cracked and bleeding from
the cold, scarred from battle. But its touch was gentle.
"I don't know why I'm crying," Michael said
harshly, wiping his hands over his cheeks before his
tears froze on his skin. "We've seen so many horrible
sights - brutal death, terrible suffering. This" - he
gestured at the fallen obelisk - "this is nothing but a
hunk of stone. Yet, I remember ..."
His head sank into hands, hurting sobs wrenched
him. He thought he'd prepared himself. He'd thought
he was strong enough to return, but the devastation was
too much, too appalling.
From this point, long ago, one could have seen the
city of Xak Tsaroth, heard its life in the throbbing,
pulsing cries of its vendors and hawkers, the shrill
laughter of its children, the rush and bustle of its
streets. The silence was the most horrible part of his
homecoming. The silence and the emptiness. They told
him Xak Tsaroth was gone, sunk into the ground on
which it had been built
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