To the Void
Part Five
by Selinthia Avenchesca

Fery glanced down in contempt at the man who sprawled bonelessly across his tooled boots.

"Death," the shrill words rose from Lews Therin's throat, wailing in the air like a banshee's call. "Mad, mad! The Creator. We worshipped the Creator in life. Supposed to be the embodiment of good. Nothing more than a vengeful school teacher," a shrill giggle occupied the last few words.

"Oh stand up," Fery snarled, yanking the tall form of the Dragon to his feet. "So you see why I dislike you. You see why you are loathsome, and you hate yourself you it. Very well. Wailing over it changes nothing, and makes you look particularly pathetic in the process of changing nothing!"

Lews Therin eyes, though, were wild, uncaring, and full of grief and rage.

"Mine, mine, they were all mine. Every life, every death, every soul! They're gone. Children, and loves, and friends, and all gone. He carried out on his promise, my brother did, and the Creator carried out on his punishment. Oh he did, he did. A school teacher. Vengeful pitiful school teacher, and I no longer care!" he screamed the words in Fery's face. "Do you understand, historian!? Do you understand the depth of that horror, of that nothingness, of that desire for destruction and death. I never wanted them to die. Never! But I had no choice. I did not want them to die, in my heart! But in my mind, there was hunger. Hunger. Eternal hunger for destruction. To see blessed emptiness in their eyes. To see all awareness fade. To see that hunger filled within me, to feel my own rage. I need it, I must have it. I must! Oh fool, fool, fool! I am not the Dragon! I am the Kinslayer that Elan Morin named me! So apt! Every life, every life! Let me die! Let me kill!" the crackling desperation in the Dragon's eyes overwhelmed even the apparent fearlessness of Fery's nature, and he backed away four steps from the insane fury before him.

"You are mad in truth, Kinslayer, if you so wish the name. You are mad even without it."

"No," Lews Therin moaned. "I don't want it. But I must. It's the truth."

Hands were there then, pushing, pulling at him, prodding him along to somewhere, but he no longer cared. Nothing. Nothing mattered. All was lost. All had been lost from the very beginning. Voices babbled angrily in the distance. He ignored them, and slumped bonelessly in the arms of those that held him up.

* * *

"If we do this, he will never forgive us. You know this," Birgitte said. Fery had kept Lews Therin distracted whilst she and Artur and several others had appeared to take him away, and though his hysteria and fury had frightened them all, they had been able to sneak up on him in that state, which they might otherwise not have been able to do.

"Sometimes such things are necessary. He may not forgive us, but at least there will be someone still there who will not forgive. And at least the world will not die. He owes us that much, and we owe him that much," Gaidal Cain said to Birgitte.

"He speaks truth, Birgitte. You know it," Artur Hawkwing's deep voice rang out.

"I know. But I cannot help but wonder if there is another way," she answered.

"I there is, we have not the time to find it. The woman is on the Mountain. The Void took a thousand years in their time. We cannot wait."

"When next we see him, it will be the Horn that calls us, and he will not remember us," Birgitte said. "I look forward to that. Because when he does remember, he will hate us."

"I know," Artur said, "That is the price we must pay."

* * *

The Dragon stood on the edge of the door. He came to his senses in a moment. He remembered this door, as he now remembered all things he had ever known.

"You mean to force me," he said, voice unnaturally still, suddenly so very, very sane.

"If you will go, we will let you," Birgitte said carefully.

"In other words, you mean to force me. But I go for another reason, old friend. Another reason entirely. You lied when you said that you would let me go to the true death. You know you lied. You would never allow that, even if the "Prophecies" did not exist. I go, then, to find oblivion. To live a life in which I remember--nothing. Wouldn't that be wonderful. A clean slate, until I die. That's the greatest thing about mortal life. You don't have to remember. To find some few spare moments of sanity and peace in the rush of the multiverse, on the Wheel of Time. I know this. Memories I do not want," and he stared at the door as he said, "It's very like the Void. You don't really know what you will find, do you?" and he stepped through. An echo trailed behind him, "And I will hate you when I come back. You were right about that, at least. Perhaps more, but that is true," and the voice was light, and dark, and all things between, containing the essence of madness.

* * *

And as a child, newborn and bluing in the snow lay on the mound of stone called Dragonmount, the spirit of Lews Therin Telamon, the Dragon, the Kinslayer, reached out into that soulless husk, rushed in himself, and brought the boy to life. Crying in the snow. Remembering nothing.

* * *

"He has his reasons. He wants to forget," Fery said, "But I am the historian of the Wheel. I have insights outside of time itself. He will not forget for all of this life. He will remember, and damn himself for it again.

And damn him for that as well. Damn him for being right. Who wants to know? Who wants to remember," and the Historian of the Wheel laughed as the Heroes of the Horn watched grimly, feeling the need to weep for what they had done, and yet, not finding the tears.

What must be done, must be done.

End