It was Midnight Mass at the Church of St Meno. The congregation stood on a floor still crusted with the flagellant blood of Declaration Day. All in the ruins of the cathedral had been preserved, from the bullet-tracks of Custodian rifles to the dome that Dayne's car had crashed through; from the chapel flooded by Setem to the walls still white with aether residue. For this was now a place of legend, where demons and angels had fought and the Messiah and touched the brow of Thaddeus Dayne and through him blessed the people.
At a pulpit mounted on the broken pile of the Carmot droid, the preacher leant forth. His voice was a softly father's, lest it should disturb the vigil candles.
"Now gather forth, my children, and wrap yourselves in cloaks and fur. By candlelight recline and listen to the lullabies. For they are sounding, young ones, as they sound for all upon their voyage."
With one pale hand he gripped the lecturn and let his voice slip through the freezing night.
"We are homeward bound."
Lieutenant Carlsen entered the warehouse office, causing Yuri to frown and sit forward. "Sorry, Yuri," the soldier holstered his pistol as he spoke, "Your friends took off. Their getting their asses kicked in the south. The whole damn nation is on an Exodus."
Yuri's shoulders dropped, as if with this revelation another part of his soul had slipped away. Steiner and his friends had been the one shred of light in all of this, but now they had left like all the others. There was barely a handful of the Brotherhood that remained... a happy few.
"So what are your orders..." Carlsen mumbled, his eyes lifting as he chose the next word, "Dante?"
Yuri looked up, a little shocked at the name he had been addressed with. But it only lasted a second, before a greater terror gripped him. He saw the red dot splashing across his friend's chest. "Carlsen!!!"
It was too late. The wall of the office exploded in sprays of rock-dust and shrapnel. The first round took Carlsen in the chest and the second in the neck, carrying him through the doorway in a torrent of blood. Yuri lunged, as if to reach for the slaughtered man, then fell beneath the desk, twisting underneath it as bullets pounded the tabletop. The office seemed to collapse around him, dust and smoke choking his lungs, before another voice rang above the gunfire.
"Yuri!"
Anna was in the doorway, stepping over Carlsen's body with a rifle in each hand. She fired on full auto, demolishing the rest of the wall as she sought the distant snipers. Yuri didn't waste a second. Wriggling from under the table, he crawled beneath the path of Anna's fire and rolled up beside her. She dropped one of the rifles into his hands then pulled him from the office, giving him no time to glance at Carlsen's shattered form. In the main warehouse another two men dropped, like puppets with their strings cut, jerking in a dozen places as sniper fire picked them apart. There were yells from the rest of Carlsen's squad, punctuated by grenade detonations in the parking lot. There was no sign of Lars. Yuri and Anna snatched up a pair of helmets from the packing crates, slapping them on just in time before telltale thuds sounded on the warehouse roof.
The aether bombs triggered a second afterwards and the warehouse was flooded with white light and squealing noise. As the sensory filters in Yuri's helmet compensated, the world became a silent, dream-like place. He watched in slow-motion as a Mech ploughed through the wall, twin jets of flame shooting from its wrists to wash away the rest of Carlsen's squad. Through the breach behind it, Custodians were pouring in, most of them teenagers by their build, armed and armoured in their adolescent rage. And through the skylights near the rafters, an HK was circling like a vulture.
It must have been Deirdre or the Norfolkians. Someone had made a mistake and blown their cover.
But there was nothing else for Yuri to think about, except the coming steps. Anna was still firing and covering him as he ran. And ran he did, straight towards the east wall where he remembered an old window had been boarded over. It was plywood, inches thin and no match for a man on the edge of his destruction. Yuri threw himself into the wall of the warehouse and as the board gave way he spilled out into the light, rolling across the service road.
A set of tyres squealed to a halt inches from his face. Yuri threw off his helmet, wincing against the background noise of aether bombs and coming into a crouch. He levelled his rifle at the windshield of the vehicle. He was ready to decapitate the teenage Custodians within with a stream of fire. But the driver who leant out of the window and yelled at him was no Custodian and certainly not a teenager.
"Well, are you getting in or not?" shouted Lars. The police double-agent was behind the wheel of Carlsen's van, the grill dented and stained with the blood of some unmerciful collisions.
Yuri ran to the passenger side. "You were gonna leave without us?"
"Yep." Lars opened the door for Yuri and put the vehicle in gear.
"Hey Anna!" Yuri shouted as he grabbed the handle. "Move your ass!"
The girl climbed out of the breach behind him, emptying the rest of her magazine into the warehouse. "You taking me somewhere nice?"
"Let's go!"
"No need to sh--"
There was a sharp sound, like bone cracking, and then something hot and wet washed against Yuri's face. For a moment he thought he had been caught by a flamethrower, but then he blinked the liquid from his eyes and saw Anna falling in the breach. Between them was an avenue of blood, stretching from her body to his boot, up his fatigues, onto his hands and face. His heart seemed to stop as he realised what was covering him. "Anna!"
Lars gripped his shoulder.
"ANNA!!"
He was pulled backwards into the vehicle and the engine roared. The scene of Anna, lying bullet-ridden in the breach, vanished like a memory swept aside. He felt the vehicle accelerate, the back window shatter under gunfire, Lars cursing as he wrenched the wheel. Yuri slid down into the footwell, broken glass sticking to his blood-smeared skin, and only the sounds of his own screams in his ears.
"And as we near the pleasant pastures and seek the faces we have known... As we walk the well-worn paths and breathe again the flowered scents... As we share a drink and smile back along the path that we have trodden... we must remember, that it was darkness from whence we came. And in those tangled entrails of the forest, truly we were tested."
Thousands of miles away, in the middle of a great expanse of water, Jerek stood upon the viewing platform of a Merkabah Tank. The command vehicle a foot above the water, hovering like a bird of prey.
But there was nothing left for this bird to take. In the water, stretching for miles in all directions, the remains of Norfolk floated like a nightmare painting. Shreds of wood, half-pieces of furniture, flags and bodies. You could hardly see the water between them. The heavier things like munitions and girders had sunken, leaving only this surface detritus, shifting with the tide like infected skin.
And the man responsible for this now sat behind Jerek. Setem was perched on the turret, a few feet from the viewing platform, his head in his hands, his body hunched. Like a biblical plague he had summoned the waters and overturned the toys of Norfolk, flooding bunkers and capsizing vessels. When the bombardments and aerial assaults had failed, the Nephilim had called upon their sorceror, and Setem had played his part. As the smaller vessels went under, the 00 had picked apart the larger flagships, each wave of his hands seizing bloodstreams of distant gunners, helmsmen and officers. A hundred targetted assassinations, the ships hollowed out from the inside and their fuel-lines ruptured. The symphony was ended with Nephilim strikes and then all was given over to the merciless deep.
"Describe it to me," Setem's voice was ghostly as it sounded above the ocean choked with the dead. "Tell me what victory feels like."
Jerek remained facing forward. Even now his own shame hung upon the horizon - the base at Oceana still burning in great plumes that lifted to the heavens. Years of intelligence had allowed him to orchestrate the perfect annihilation. In a HK far above, he had directed the fires, like a child with a yellow crayon despoiling a map. The trails of flame had leapt from one checkpoint to the next, exploding armouries, torching hardware, encircling and engulfing troops. Being so far above there was nothing to feel. It was like torching an ant's nest. With the outer perimeter burning, Jerek had directed paths of fire into the deepest bunkers, incinerating all resistance.
When Jerek made no answer, Setem spoke again, his head still hanging in his hands. "If I'm water and you're fire, then tell me how to feel the opposite of what I feel. Persuade me that this is not abomination."
Two other patches on the horizon recalled the fates of Little Creek and Yorktown. The first had suffered the Driden Guns, a geothermal technology developed in the last five years and tested now to devastating effect. The seismic shock had torn the crusts apart and brought the mantle into violent eruption. The ground had split beneath Little Creek and all had fallen into fire and darkness. The smoke could still be seen, escaping gases bearing up the souls of the dead.
And greater than all of these was the aftermath of Yorktown. Here a Pyrrhic victory was painted by nuclear mushroom clouds, where the Norfolkians had offered one last defiant armageddon. A whole Nephilim battlegroup had been lost as the 400 year nuclear stockpile gave a parting gesture to the world. And as with Little Creek, all that would be left was a crater gouged from the earth and a poisoned land that would outlast its creators.
The four bases had fallen, and each had carried a piece of Jerek's soul into hell.
"I can't," Jerek answered, gripping the railing of the tank and staring into the bloody ocean. In time they would learn that a third of the bodies floating here were civilians and Semilian prisoners, dressed and adorned to look like combatants. There would be no liberations, no photographs, no spoils of war. The Nephilim army would return home with nothing but handfuls of ash and the tattered word of victory.
Setem lifted his head and looked at Jerek's back, shimmering tears running from his eyes. And then he whispered. "Dayne would... wouldn't he?"
"So speak no more of measuring, for tasks we have weathered and monsters we have fought. Thus naming friends and foes we had walked the spiral and upon a crucible been burned away. What remains, my children: what remains is this. We smile and we bear our candles and pause to tell our stories. Great tales. Sad tales. Of loves discovered and rages spent. Now shall the old soldiers and weeping mothers say... that naught remains but the telling."
"Stop it!" Chestel shouted, pushing against the outstretched arm of the soldier. Smith was holding her back and leering as his comrades encircled the crawling forms of Ada and Altair. Their jeers were punctuated by the sickening sounds of boots on flesh. Altair had it worst - one man had stomped on his broken leg while the other was kicking him in the face. Ada meanwhile had covered up as best she could, leaving her shoulders and back exposed to the slamming butts of rifles.
Five minutes ago the call had come in. The Norfolkians were pulling back to the Gulf and a general evacuation had been ordered. And three minutes ago one of the old quartermasters had put a name to Altair's face. The uncovered 00 and his sympathiser had barely gotten off the helicopter when they were mobbed.
"Leave them alone!" Chestel tried to bite Smith's arm, but only received a backhand for her troubles. She landed in the mud, curling up lest the men should turn their fury on her. Another few minutes passed, though it felt like a lifetime, as Altair was beaten unconscious. Then the men grew tired, their adrenaline spent and their testosterone appeased. And yet it was not just exhaustion that stayed them in the end. For all their bravado and all their atheism, there was yet not one among them who had the courage to put the bullet in a 00s head. They would beat this divine warrior together, but no one man would pull the trigger alone.
Let he who is without sin...
Leaving Ada and Altair in the mud, they reclaimed their gear and set off, joining the rest of the soldiers who were moving in slow file from the camp. Smith shouldered his own rifle and looked back at Chestel, no apology in his eyes.
"We're heading for the coast. The subs are picking up the Northern forces. It's time to go, Chestel."
The girl was lying on her side, not looking at him. "I'm staying."
Behind Smith, the last troops were setting fire to the camp, destroying what equipment they could before moving out. "It's because of those fucking dogs, isn't it? I told you - we can't take them. Orders are to leave non-essential equipment."
Chestel shifted on the ground, crawling over to Ada and cradling her head. She lay with her and Altair as the fires burned around them. "It's not just the dogs." Through the smoke her eyes, wet with tears and smoke, glared at Smith.
But the soldier simply shook his head and turned, leaving the camp with the rest of the convoy.
"But for all who travel, this truth remains. The home is not yet won, till gift-bearing we are brought to the last of all battles. A final foe, whose arena is not in the mountains climbed or the forests passed, nor in the oceans sailed or the deserts crossed. It is the monster and the madness that was there all along, from which you fled when first this quest began. For at the start you faltered, and in this refusal was born your final antagonist. And though then you were wanting, now you are apt, and in second conflict you join your circles."
Darkness had swallowed him whole... taking every inch... pouring down his throat, slipping behind his eyes, coating his lungs. Heinrich had been in the canteen when it happened - a few percussion beats of thunder, then pops in the outer chambers, then the world upturned around him. He had read about this weapon, but had never dreamt he would one day be a victim of its unsettling power. The Magdar Cannon had been fired from over a hundred miles away, from a quick-build rig set up by a Nephilim battlegroup. Intelligence had known about it for some time and had sent commando units to sabotage it, but none had succeeded. They had underestimated the range, and the ship Heinrich was on had suffered for that error. It was amongst the rearguard of the convoy heading south for the Gulf, but it would no longer be joining its sister ships in sanctuary. The three magnetized charges had pierced the hull at supersonic velocity, the inverse forces crumpling each compartment they passed through. It was like a magnet thrown into a bed of nails - everything was reshaped, corridors crushed, walls severed or fused. Along the trajectory of the Magdar projectile, material was alternately charged, both postive and negative, till the twin forces of attraction of repulsion cracked the ship in a hundred places. The encroaching water had done the rest.
But now the vessel was being raised. Heinrich felt the water drain around him, leaving him amidst the piles of soldiers who had been in the canteen. Most had drowned but others were stirring, their murmurs uncertain, their movements half-asleep. Heinrich tried to move but found another body slumped across his own, pinning him to the ground. And it was not long before the crack of gunshots cut his senses. The Nephilim were onboard. Somehow they had raised the ship, perhaps with their hover technology, and now they were picking their way through the drowned cabins. In his reeling mind, Heinrich knew why they were here. They wanted prisoners - a few token Norfolkians to parade on their news channels, bloated with false confessions, demonized before the people.
His mechanical hand whirred as he tried to will it back into life... as he tried to reach for a pistol, a grenade - anything to release him from such a fate. But even now there were footfalls moving through the canteen, and he could see combat boots picking their way between the corpses. Some of the soldiers were dragged up - the females particularly and the younger pirates - clearly the ones whose minds could be easily shattered.
"That's enough," spoke a voice. "Kill the rest."
Heinrich closed his eyes, awaiting the release. He just hoped they would use bullets instead of flame. But what came was not the swift crack of a rifle, but an electonic whine - three notes sounding in melody.
"What's wrong with that cyborg?" spoke the same voice from before.
A younger voice, one closer to Heinrich, answered, "It's not completing the order, Sir. It says there's a Semilian in here."
"Probably a defector. Put in the override and carry on."
There was another melody then a low whirring. The young voice spoke again. "It's refusing the override, Sir. It says the Semilian is a Level 5."
"A dignitary?" asked the older voice. There was a pause and then the boots returned, the Nephilim squad spreading out through the canteen. There were more mechanical sounds - scanners being switched on, flashlights and thermal imagers coming to life. Eventually Heinrich felt a foot slip beneath his ribs and with one swift kick he was rolled onto his back.
Through half-closed eyes he saw the Cyborg staring down at him, emitting another tune as its bionic eye focussed on his. There were two Nephilim soldiers either side of it, looking perplexed. The younger one was checking a PDA. "He's fully registered, Sir. Inner Party, co-signed by Reza Deane, Level 5 citizenship."
"Fuck," spat the older one, clearly a lieutenant or major. He scratched his stubbled jaw as he pondered his next move, and Heinrich just had time to hear it before he drifted out of consciousness. "Okay, let's get him home."
"So I ask you, children, what is home? What truly may we call it? How should it be framed? Is it our anchor to the earth? Surely not, for we are anchored by our faith and our courage and our thirsting hearts. For he without a home may yet be a martyr or a hero or a father or a son. We are not, as smoke, prone to dissipate should the fire give out. And we are not as water from a mountain spring, for by the light of Project Genesis we see how a man might issue from word and thought alone, forsaking the soil he was reared on."
Zion stumbled in the alleyway, toppling against the wall of his house as his legs gave way beneath Sahar's weight.
"Ow! Watch it, you jerk!"
"Gimme a break," Zion muttered, his voice slurring as he tried to get back up, "It was just a mosquito or someth.. oh" He slumped with his back against the wall, looking down at the black dart lodged in his chest. "Well, that can't be go.." His eyes fluttered closed and he fell onto his side.
"Hey, wake up! You're not done carrying me yet!" Sahar's arm was bleeding again and she felt weak as he shook Zion's side, trying to rouse him. A black liquid was pumping from the chamber of the dart and entering his bloodstream. She couldn't tell where the shot had come from. Behind them, the High Priest's honour guard were battling the drones, firing over the hood of the armoured car as the machines spilled from the ruins of Coldstone Labs. It wouldn't be long before one side triumphed and came after her.
Sahar was about to reach for the dart lodged in Zion's chest when, but she was frozen by the squealing of tyres. A sleek hover car, polished black, swooped around the side of Zion's house and dazzled her with its headlights. Head spinning, she she started trying to pick Zion up, even as she heard the doors of the hover car slide open. A second later the headlight beams were eclipsed by two shapes, calmly standing and watching her. It was a dark haired man and a blonde woman. The woman wore a red military jacket and there was smoke pouring from the cigar clamped between her teeth. And the man, who stood with clasped hands, wore the finest business suit with tie, shimmering cufflinks and polished shoes.
"Hello, Genesis," said David Talbot, his clean-shaven face creasing into a smile.
"My, how you've grown," added Miss Cordelia.
Sahar suddenly realised the silence around her. Looking back down the alleyway, she saw that the drones had stopped. They simply stood now, like statues, motionless as their comrades lay smoking on the floor. Behind the armoured car, the surviving honour guard were poised nervously, Tobias and Dr Sherriden emerging from cover to ponder what had happened.
Talbot shouted over to them. "Sorry you got caught up in this, Your Eminence. We were just flushing her out."
In one swift movement, her eyes never moving, Cordelia drew a pistol and fired. Sahar jerked back against the wall, letting go of Zion as a sharp pain cut through her neck. Her hands came up, feeling heavier than they had ever been, and she clutched weakly at the dart in her neck. And as her legs gave out she kept her gaze on the Novacorps agents, their every posture evoking memories and nightmares. "No..." She hit the ground.
"SAHAR!" she heard Sherriden's yell and her footsteps as she came rushing over. A hand touched her shoulder - a soft hand, a mother's touch... something dwelling only in ancestral memory.
"What the hell are you doing, Talbot?!" demanded the voice of the High Priest, his footsteps joining with those of the honour guard.
"A simple misunderstanding, Your Eminence. We had no idea you'd be in the combat zone. We received an Eximus reading at the labs and we had to act quickly."
"You should've told me, god dammit!"
"There wasn't time I'm afraid. But at least we were successful. The Messiah has been restored to us. Consider it our gift to you."
As Sahar's consciousness faded, she didn't hear anything further from the High Priest. But the rushing sound and commotion that followed was unmistakable. Dr Sherriden had seized Talbot by his suit and was shouting desperately into his face.
"TELL ME HE DOESN'T KNOW! TELL ME DAYNE DOESN'T KNOW YET!"
Sahar felt herself lifted towards the hover car, and the last thing she heard before she passed out was Dr Sherridan's anguished sob. There was no escaping it. Dayne knew and thereby the Church and all of Semile would know and be waiting for her. The Messiah's time in the wilderness had ended, and now she would be delivered into the hands of her demons.
"No... no my children... home is this and only this... a stage. A stage on which we demonstrate what we have learnt on our journeys. All else is but a meagre display, for home is the arena that is always calling. For there we were placed, beneath the canopy of stars, and we must make a showing of ourselves."
Jerek's eyes turned from the armageddon curtain and watched as the hatch nearest Setem opened. Nephilim crewmen started to file out, many in their best naval dress uniforms, others in robes or civilian fatigues. The Merkabah tank that Jerek had taken to survey the aftermath had only housed a skeleton crew - twelve soldiers, most of them veterans or young zealots. The captain was a pale man, quiet and silver haired, gaunt from fasting. He wore a white robe as he proceeded to the viewing platform, standing between Jerek and the perching Setem. And then he was handed a scroll.
A victory ceremony? Jerek had never heard of such practices. He watched as the man unfurled the scroll and began reading in a quiet, austere voice.
"General Aldere, General Setem, I am tasked under Executive Order 97217 to present the thanks of the Semilian Nation. Through your valiance you have brought us victory against the savages and for this you have the blessing of the Messiah and her right hand, the High Priest Tobias."
Jerek's eyes lowered as the captain read on.
"By your deeds you have won a place in the hearts of future generations, and in the centuries to come they shall revere your names as rightly we do this day. Let it be known, to all here gathered, that your sins are expunged and your souls, though once tarnished, are now wiped clean and prepared for heaven, as are the souls of we, your escorts, who like rejoicing martyrs are happy to die by your side."
Jerek's eyes lifted, a realisation dawning as he watched the captain fold the scroll away and snap to attention, the rest of the crew doing likewise.
"The Messiah has been returned to us," spoke the captain's trembling voice as he lifted his hand to salute. "And her angels must return to Heaven."
Setem was the first to hear the low whine, building from the depths of the tank, gaining speed and pitch with every heartbeat. He shot to his feet, his hands lifting, "NO!"
The Merkabah was torn to a million shards by the molecular detonation. The fission bomb had been linked to the hover-drive, powered to critical mass and then ignited. For a mile around the water and floating bodies were slammed away and the spinning debris of the tank ignited like a thousand fireflies. The explosion could be seen from the shore, where the rest of the Nephilim Army watched, offering up a moment of silence before continuing on their journey home.
"In the days to come, my children, there will be resurrection and elixir. For the Messiah is among us now and her Ministry has begun. In time we shall behold the final battle and the worthy shall drink deeply of Her waters. But for now, this night, let us welcome all things home. Come pilgrims and prodigal sons. Come friends and adventurers. Come the sick and the weary. And tread with us the homeward path, by candlelight and warm embrace. And as all rivers flow into one, let us meet and exchange our stories - all that we have missed while we were apart."
Thaddeus Dayne lowered his golden PDA, placing it on the table with the words 'Executive Order 97217' flashing scarlet. Through the window behind him, fireworks were lifting into the sky, followed by the cheers of the people that sailed up between the high rises. The great screen on the Tower of Solon was already showing doctored footage - a live video of the Messiah walking in from the desert, smiling and waving as a Nephilim honour guard escorted her. The very city seemed to shake with elation.
"It's done."
On the other side of the desk, a single tear broke from Rhiannon's eye. She had been here when the news arrived of Novacorps' capture of the Messiah. And she had watched as Dayne slowly enacted the Executive Order that would slaughter Jerek and Setem. With a few flourishes of the keypad he had brought an end to the war and cast away the lives of his generals. Beyond Semile the land was thick with blood and ash, bones and firestorms - all that the High Priest had permitted when he granted Dayne the power to wage this war.
"Save your tears," he whispered as he glanced at Rhiannon's face. "Next Sunday is the Ghosting Feast... six hundred and sixty six years since the Old World was destroyed. You can cry then, in front of the people, as the Messiah is presented."
Her voice cut through his, frail yet righteous, a woman's grief dispelling all things. "You could have made... such a beautiful... beautiful world. You could have done so much... with this power you have."
"So could you," the Minister retorted, his gaze meeting hers. There was no denial in his eyes. He understood exactly what she meant and it pained him to comprehend it so. And yet something greater held him in check. "You could have raged like the other 00s, gathered rebellions and roused the people. But instead you hid yourself away, and now you weep... you weep while human hearts forget what it is to grieve."
One of his metal hands reached past the PDA, creeping towards her own. "It is not the power we have Rhiannon, but the place we are given. You and I are no different - we are just... cancers to be cut away."
She pulled away from him, her breath catching in her throat as she asked him slowly. "Tell me, you son of a bitch, was there ever a time that you didn't have an answer for everything?"
The question seemed to shake him and he looked down momentarily, his body sinking a little as a memory struck. But it was only slight - barely noticeable. Dayne met her gaze again, sadness in his smile. "That time has passed."
The doors opened and a pair of Custodians marched in, taking up position either side of Rhiannon's chair. Dayne turned away and stood to watch the fireworks over the skyline. "You will return to your cell. Spend the next days in prayer and fasting and in listening to the joy that echoes from the streets."
Hands came onto Rhiannon's arms and for a moment she considered resisting, daring them to shoot her or throwing herself through a window - anything to avoid that cell again. But perhaps Dayne was right and they were not so different, for she felt her body go limp as they lifted her. She was being fed into a machine that she could not fight and could not measure. With despair in her bones she was escorted away, and Dayne was left alone.
He watched HKs criss-cross the sky with coloured smoke, their flightpaths looping triumphantly. The first of the Nephilim battlegroups were returning home and surely it would be a night of celebration.
But not for him. The Minister turned and crossed his penthouse office, opening the connecting doors to his bedroom.
And there, on one side of his bed, pierced with wires and dispensing needles, Eros slumbered beneath the golden covers. He chestnut hair was splayed across the pillows, a little of the colour returning her cheeks as the heart monitor chimed its lullaby. As he came to the foot of the bed her lids fluttered open, barely enough strength in her body to keep them up.
"Dayne...?"
He watched her lips move, her hand twitch to reach for him, her chest rise and fall with quickening breaths. She was beautiful and lost, like the city itself, and he remembered her taste, the smell of her hair, the sweetness of her skin.
His hand flexed and a blade extended from his palm, opening out in the crimson light. Closing his fingers around the knife, he stepped towards her and his other hand slammed the bedroom door shut.
"So gather forth, my children, and wrap yourselves in cloaks and fur. By candlelight recline and listen to the lullabies. For they are sounding, young ones, as they sound for all upon their voyage. We are homeward bound... for the last of all battles."
The preacher lowered his head, and all the candles were extinguished.
