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To
the
Void There
was
nothing
he
could
do.
It
hit
him
hard,
that
fact.
Always
before,
he
had
done
something,
something
to
change
things,
whether
event
or
people,
or
heart.
Always
before,
he
had
been
the
sword
that
cleaved
the
way
to
change. Lews
Therin
Telamon
could
do
nothing
about
this
enemy.
This
blight
upon
him,
blight
upon
the
world.
A
shimmering,
sickening
layer
over
the
brilliant
fire
of
saidin.
An
oozing
feeling
that
seeped
into
the
mind,
like
oil
in
his
pores,
twisting
his
very
soul
to
some
sickening
parody
of
his
former
self.
It
was
both
horrifying,
and
amusing
at
once,
for
all
of
it's
tragic
overtones.
Pride
had
driven
him
to
this,
to
think
that
he
could
defeat
the
Dark
One
himself,
with
but
a
few
trusty,
but
mortal--human,
oh
so
human--
Companions
to
help
him.
Even
in
the
grimmest
hour
of
the
campaign,
that
had
always
been
so
sure--
so
sure!--that
they
would
win
in
the
end,
that
they
must!
They
had
never
lost
before,
not
once.
.
.
.
Before,
and
before,
but
now,
now.
.
.He
had
lost.
It
was
enough
to
make
one
weep.
The
blast
had
caught
them,
caught
the
Hundred
Companions
in
the
backlash.
They
had
been
knocked
to
their
knees
by
the
force
of
that
universal
strike,
screaming
in
horror,
but
most
had
survived.
They
had
mourned
for
their
dead,
yes,
but
still
they
had
left,
and
thought
that
the
sacrifice
of
a
few
was
enough
to
justify
the
salvation
of
humanity.
Foolish,
foolish
pride!
It
was
not
until
he
had
reached
for
saidin,
not
until
he
had
fell
to
his
knees
once
more,
heaving
the
contents
of
his
stomach
to
the
ground,
whilst
the
Power
raged
through
him
in
a
concentrate
of
a
hundred,
a
thousand,
times
the
strength
he
had
ever
known,
striking
at
him,
reaching
for
his
destruction,
did
he
realize
his
error,
realize
just
what
that
"victory"
had
cost.
And
now.
.
.
.
He
screamed.
Those
eyes,
all
of
those
eyes,
staring,
accusing
him,
accusing
him
of
the
truth
of
the
matter.
It
would
not
end.
He
was
mad.
He
was
damned.
In
the
depths
of
that
shattered,
lightening
blasted
castle,
the
Betrayer
of
Hope
stared
on
at
him,
gloating,
tempting,
and
Lews
Therin
screamed
for
the
cost
of
his
pride,
wailed
his
grief
to
the
world.
Saidin,
in
all
of
it's
stomach
churning,
mind
heaving,
spirit
rotting,
life
giving,
ecstatic
whole
was
all
he
had
left.
Shaking,
he
grasped
it.
Fire.
Fire.
Fire!
And
as
the
world
burst,
the
final
breath
that
left
his
body,
smashed
from
him
by
the
lightening
he
summoned,
expressed
itself
as
a
profound
sigh
of
relief. *
*
*
He
opened
his
eyes.
There
was
nothing
else
to
do
but
open
his
eyes.
It
was
almost
amusing.
Nothing
to
do
to
change
the
madness
that
had
overcome
him
in
life,
and
no
choice
now
but
to.
.
.open
his
eyes.
The
light
was
dull,
shimmering,
surreal,
a
reflection
of
the
place
in
which
he
had
died.
Killed
himself,
not
knowing
the
truth.
Hearing
it,
but
not
knowing
it.
The
Betrayer
of
Hope.
.
.his
old
enemy,
the
reflection
of
Darkness.
Every
time
he
lived,
that
one
had
been
a
traitor,
but
he
had
told
the
truth
of
the
battle.
And
now
Lews
Therin--or
rather,
the
being
that
had
been
Lews
Therin--remembered.
A
crushing
history
of
stalemate
against
the
Dark
One,
an
eternity
of
battle.
The
price
that
had
been
paid
over
time
immemorial
was
etched
in
blood
dried
so
hard
and
old
it
was
the
pitchest
black.
The
blood
of
mortals,
and
the
blood
of.
.
.souls.
Long,
strong
hands
came
up
to
cradle
his
own
face,
holding
back
sobs
of
grief
with
the
last
shred
of
will
that
remained
left
to
him.
Souls.
He
had
killed
her.
In
his
madness,
in
the
depths
of
his
own
desperation,
he
had
struck
out,
and
killed
her.
And
the
manner
in
which
he
had
done
so
promised
he
would
not
see
her
again.
Not
now,
not
ever.
There
were
a
few
channelers,
just
a
few,
who
held
the
secret
close
to
their
hearts,
locked
it
up
in
a
box
so
tight
that
nothing
would
penetrate
it.
He
had
known
that
secret,
a
secret
so
vile
that
he
dared
not
use
it
even
upon
his
most
determined
and
depraved
enemies.
The
secret
to
destroying
the
very
soul
itself.
Not
even
balefire
truly
accomplished
this.
Balefire
would
destroy
the
memories
of
earthly
existence,
rip
the
pattern,
and
wind
time
into
a
jumble
of
confusion,
like
a
ball
of
string
after
a
playful
kitten
had
torn
it
from
it's
orderly
arrangement,
yes,
but
not
the
core
of
being
itself.
And
he,
without
even
knowing
it,
had.
.
.
.
Oh,
Ilyena!
he
wailed
in
his
heart.
Others,
others
had
been
spared.
He
grieved
for
them
as
well,
yes,
but
they--his
friends,
retainers,
family
and
children--had
been
spared
the
wrath
of
the
fiery
power
which
rendered
the
spirit
itself
non-existent.
There
was
no
coming
back
for
his
smiling,
energetic,
strong-willed,
golden-haired
love,
and
there
never
would
be.
In
a
moment,
he
made
his
choice.
He
would
not
leave
here.
He
would
not
rejoin
the
Pattern
in
the
earthly
world,
ever
again.
His
eyes
shut
as
his
nails
dug
into
the
skin
of
his
palm,
popping
through
the
flesh
with
a
sickly
sound,
blood
gushing
from
the
wounds
which
tore
wider
of
their
own
accord,
ripping
up
his
arm
with
a
sudden
swiftness.
Fascinated,
he
observed
the
blood
dripping,
oozing,
away
from
him.
The
blood
itself
meant
nothing
to
a
soul,
but
it
represented
what
did
matter.
The
essence
of
being.
And
he
was
letting
it
go. And
then
a
scream
sounded,
a
yell
of
something--words--but
he
did
not
hear
them.
A
hand
pulled
him
back
from
the
edge
of
the
cliff
he
was
teetering
upon
in
the
dawning
darkness.
He
fought,
struggled,
but
his
own
actions
guaranteed
he
would
not
win.
He
no
longer
had
the
strength.
*
*
*
".
.
.
shouldn't
wake
him.
He's
very
unstable
at
this
point
in
time.
You
know
what
happened,
don't
you?"
that
was
a
voice,
female.
"Oh,
you
mean
the
tainting
of
saidin,
and
the
Breaking
of
a
world?"
a
male
voice,
irritated,
snarled.
"Be
nice,"
snapped
the
female
voice,
half
irritated,
half
exasperated.
"I
see
no
reason,"
muttered
the
male
voice,
then
quickly
changing
the
subject
to
avoid
the
rebuking
of
the
female.
"When
will
he
wake?"
"Soon,
I
expect.
He
nearly
died,
you
know."
"I
know.
I
heard
all
about.
Nearly
two
suicides
in
one
day,
the
same
person.
Surely
he
would
have
set
a
record
in
that,
as
in
all
things
he
does."
"You
know
he
was
grief
stricken,"
the
female
voice,
not
so
mild
now,
snarled
outright.
"Ilyena
is
dead."
"So
are
we,"
said
the
male
voice,
amused.
"No.
I
mean
dead
for
good."
A
long
pause
ensued,
the
breaking
of
which
entailed
a
long
breath
being
let
out,
and
a
soft,
"Oh."
"Yes,
oh.
He
was
consumed
with
guilt,
with
grief."
"I
expect
so."
Another
silence
dropped,
during
which
it
slowly
dawned
upon
the
listener
that
they
were
talking
about
someone.
It
seemed
familiar,
the
voices
seemed
familiar,
and
name
Ilyena,
that
seemed
familiar
as
well.
Memories
wanted
to
stir,
but
he
did
not
want
them
to.
A
low
groan
broke
from
the
man
as
he
tried
to
suppress
them.
But
in
the
World
of
Dreams,
there
is
no
hiding
from
yourself,
and
as
the
memories
came
rushing
back,
he
had
to
bury
his
face
in
the
soft
material
he
lay
on,
suppressing
a
scream.
"Lews
Therin?"
the
female
voice
inquired
in
sudden
awareness
of
his
awakening.
He
never
wanted
to
hear
that
name
again.
"Are
you
awake?"
the
male
voice
questioned
roughly,
perhaps
wondering
what
he
had
overheard.
"I
am
awake,"
Lews
Therin
spoke
bitingly,
making
it
clear
that
he
*not*
appreciative
of
being
forced
to
wake,
or
having
the
ability
to
wake
at
all.
The
woman's
sigh
rang
clear
in
the
air,
as
she
muttered
lamentingly
"Stubborn."
That
was
her,
Lews
Therin
mused,
accusing
others
of
being
stubborn,
when
she
herself
had
perfected
it
into
an
art.
"I
wanted
to
die,
Birgitte,"
the
accusation
was
clear.
"You
were
grieving,
feeling
guilty,
enraged
at
the
world.
It
was
no
time
to
make
that
sort
of
decision!"
she
snapped.
"It
was
the
perfect
time.
It
was
the
only
time
I
can
see
clearly.
I
will
not
forget
this,"
Lews
Therin
said,
staring
into
the
golden
haired
archer's
eyes,
turning
a
promise
to
a
threat.
"No,
I
expect
you
will
not.
Maybe
you'll
never
thank
me,
Lews
Therin,
but
I
could
never
forgive
myself
if
I
simply
let
you
die,"
she
said
softly,
shaking
her
head
at
her
old
friend,
knowing
that
he
had
closed
his
ears
to
her
words.
*
*
*
The
edge
of
the
Void
was
complete.
Red
and
silver
and
purple
and
orange
and
blue
and
all
colours
imaginable
absorbed
into
nothingness.
Lews
Therin
sighed
as
he
stared
over
into
the
vastness.
This
was
the
grave
of
all
dead
souls,
where
their
burnt
out
embers
smoldered
on
the
tears
of
all
beings
who
lamented
their
passing.
He
wanted
to
be
one
with
them.
Perhaps
in
that,
the
true
death,
he
would
finally
know
peace.
To
sink
into
that
darkness
and
be
enclosed
in
it's
oblivion.
But
*they*
knew
now.
Old
friends
and
allies,
tied
to
the
World
of
Dreams
who
had
been
told
of
his
attempt
to
achieve
the
final
death.
They
watched
him,
always
and
ever,
and
should
he
attempt
to
throw
himself
into
the
black
velvet
void,
they
would
stop
him.
He
hated
them
more
with
every
moment
he
was
forced
to
endure,
hated
that
they
prolonged
his
suffering.
And
a
prolongment
was
all
it
was,
Lews
Therin
mused
darkly.
One
day,
they
would
move
too
slowly.
And
then,
he
would
die.
*
*
*
"You
are
being
unreasonable,"
the
man,
called
Fery,
growled
irritably.
Lews
Therin
laughed
bitingly.
"I
have
no
obligation
to
be
reasonable,
old
friend,"
he
said,
hard
words
edged
with
a
near-sneer.
"The
Wheel
weaves
as
the
Wheel
wills,
and
there
is
no
resisting
it
for
long.
You
cannot
stay
in
the
Dream
World
forever."
"We
shall
see,"
Lews
Therin
replied
with
infuriating
calm.
"Why
do
you
insist
upon
continuing
with
this
farce?"
Fery
demanded.
"It
is
no
farce.
I
will
not
live,
when
she
cannot."
"Ilyena
again.
You
will
have
to
stop
grieving
someday."
The
other
man
shook
his
head,
leaning
back
against
the
marble
pillar
in
the
room
the
two
men
stood
in.
"I
will
grieve
forever.
I
know
this."
*
*
*
"He
insists
upon
being
stubborn.
He
refuses
to
see
reason,"
Fery
said
to
Birgitte.
"That
is
hardly
unexpected.
Perhaps
we
should
simply
let
him
be,"
she
mused,
"But
if
we
do,
I'm
almost
certain
that
he
will
take
drastic
action."
"No
kidding,"
Fery
muttered.
"We
must
find
a
way
to
snap
him
out
of
this,"
she
said.
"Do
you
know
how
long
it
has
been
in
the
living
world?"
"Which
one?"
"You
know
which
one.
It
has
been
more
than
two
thousand
years.
There
are
prophecies,
of
his
birth.
They
say
that
the
Dragon
will
save
the
world
in
the
hour
of
it's
most
dire
need."
Fery
directed
a
bald
stare
at
the
woman.
"Are
you
serious?"
"Completely.
He
was
a
hero.
He's
accomplished
so
much.
But
I
understand
your
incredulousness.
The
world
remembers
the
Breaking
more
than
it
remembers
anything.
A
toddler
on
her
mother's
knee
hears
tales
of
the
Dragon's
folly,
the
Dragon's
evil.
And
to
hear
of
that
would
only
push
him
deeper
into
the
mire,
so
to
speak.
But
perhaps.
.
.
."
she
trailed
off
for
a
moment,
descending
into
thought.
When
she
looked
up
once
more
at
her
companion,
she
sighed.
"The
only
way
is
to
use
his
own
despair
against
him.
"
|