Chapter Text
When cloaked and bathed in darkness, sight robbed by the pitch black claws of evening, it is only natural to rely on other senses to guide us through paths once illuminated. Touch and sound become man’s primary tools of navigation once sight is lost.
Night bathes a knight in darkness, but it makes no difference to him. Blind and it's not the helmet’s doing, nor the night’s, nor the shadows of the woods his stede hurdles him through. The frantic pedal of hooves along the uneven forest floor echoes like thunder in his ears. A sound just barely distinguishable from the thunder of the storm that rages, vengeful and merciless, above him. Rain cascading down like liquid hellfire. The most impure of baptisms. A drowning.
A voice echoes in the knight’s ear. The speaker not even we could see. It makes no difference to the knight. His ears flooded with the thundering of hooves, the thundering of a relentless storm, and the relentless rumble of John’s voice, deep, insistent, and close, urging the knight to turn the horse this way and that. Weaving through the trees like a delicate thread through a tapestry, they raced. Desperate for shelter, desperate for peace. For warmth, for sanctuary. But beyond that, a deeper hunger.
All knights must have a noble quest to embark upon. It is what knights do. Embark upon a quest. Some to save a princess, some to save a kingdom. Others, to save themselves. Here, amongst these dark and deep woods, our knight is doing just that. Now his quest is not in search of some tall tower wherein a princess may lie, or a relic that may save a kingdom. It’s not even in search of some cavern in which he shall find some beast to slay so that it no longer threatens lands once green burned to charcoal and blackened again. No. Our knight embarks on this beaten path on a quest for knowledge. Curiosity a hunger of its own design.
The disembodied voice that shouts at our knight to go faster, to duck in avoidance of tree branches reaching like claws when illuminated by strikes of lightning, first made itself heard when he opened that book all those fateful months ago. Losing his sight but gaining a new voice in his head beyond just his consciousness, all in a matter of seconds. That very book now nestled in the knight’s saddlebag. Burning a hole through the rain-slick leather and the knight's armor. The book somehow held the creature amongst its pages, but not a single answer as to where it came from, beyond the sparse lore the voice had shared with him. Not only did the book not contain any knowledge as to where the creature that had stolen the knights eyes had come from, but it contained not a fragment of knowledge as to how a man should find repossession of stolen eyes.
The knight knew of alchemy. Knew of the separation of metals and earth. He knew how to separate blood from cloth, separate sword from sheath, and tooth from gum. But nowhere in his years, his studies, or his journeys had he gained a knowing of how to separate a monster from a man.
It is this curiosity, this desperation to be solitary once more, to gain autonomy and will of his own, that spurs the knight forwards through the rain and the looming shadows of these vengeful woods. The horse they ride upon gallops faster and faster through the trees, weaving through their slender trunks with a manic speed towards a sanctuary, a lone monastery with a rumored grand library. Grander than the knight had ever seen before. Although not that that would matter much anymore. It would be less the views of the staggering stacks and shelves that siren-song-beckoned the knight into their mazes, but rather the knowledge he might find buried within. Perhaps, oh perhaps there might exist a text to contradict the ailments of the book he opened so long ago. Its words reversing the curse laid upon him.
Faster and forever faster they hurdle through the shadows. Armor glinting like wolves' teeth when illuminated by the lightning strikes above. The thundering storm and pounding of hooves, pounding of a frantic pulse hammer inside the knight's head. A deafening roar louder than darkness, louder than a grieving wail, louder than bones crushed beneath an unseeable force, louder and louder only a blaring crescendo until it all comes to a screeching halt at the rise of the creature’s voice.
“Arthur!”
The knight falters then, the crescendo dying down before the voice rears its head again.
“Arthur, slow down!”
His gloved hands, already clinging desperately to the reins, tug them closer, urging the horse to slow its gallop into a slow trek forwards.
“We’re here.”
Arthur feels his fear as a claw wrapped around his throat, nails digging into scarred skin as the realization that they’ve made it sinks in. Rain pounds down upon his shoulders, heavier now without the coverage of the woods. Still armored but never feeling so exposed as he does now. With a voice hoarse from lack of use, Arthur croaks over the deafening cascade of rainfall a single question, one repeated time and time again.
“John, describe it to me.”
It is an odd sensation, to say the least, to hear a voice, without a body holding lungs that would yearn for air to inhale as if it needs to breathe, but John did just that before describing the scene before them.
“The structure sits at the edge of the clearing. Stone walls rise high around its borders. Not an impenetrable fortress, but it aims to be. Beyond the stone walls, the structure stands. Towers staggering upwards towards the stormclouds above. The lightning illuminates them in a light that makes it feel almost sinister, intimidating in its grandness. It’s no castle, but it stands like one. We’re still too far to make them out in great detail, but there appear to be great stone archways, some leading to buildings, others serving as parts of tunnels. It all looks so– hauntingly beautiful, Arthur.”
With every syllable of John’s voice, Arthur could feel the claw around his throat loosen bit by bit. Breath coming easier, though still heaved through the gaps in his helmet. It was a ritual of sorts, Arthur’s demand to know, John’s compliance in answering, in describing. An act that had nearly become second nature to the voice. Albeit still a sinister one, Arthur could find a small piece of comfort in the interaction’s familiarity. He could imagine it. In comparison to the castles and churches he’d seen in the past. The staggering structure illuminated by lighting against a backdrop of pitch night. Towers sharpened to points and archways stood elegant and poised. As if the building itself was built by God’s hands. Each sweep of stone outlaying the monastery a master craft of divine touch, holiness seeping into the cracks in the walls.
“Where’s the entrance?” Arthur urged, hoping John would give him more details to grasp onto. Something solid and real. Something beyond shadows and conjured images.
“Up ahead, a bit to your right. If you steer Orvyn to the right, he should follow along the wall to the entrance.” John answered, voice clipped and quick.
Arthur only hummed in response. Tugging on Orvyn’s reins to steer him in accordance to John’s directions. The rain was still beating down overhead. Its thundering downfall holding less of a vengeful weight now that their destination – and with it shelter – was, well, as close to in sight as it could be in Arthur’s case.
If the journey through the woods had been one of cacophony and unruliness, the one trekking across the clearing struck in opposition like a steel blade, ringing in a blaring contrast. A silence spanning like a cloak across the land. The rumble of thunder, the muffled steps of horse hooves upon trodden and wet earth, and a slightly rattled breath echoing against metal were the only sounds drifting into Arthur’s ears. John, uncharacteristically silent. Arthur didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Orvyn’s unhurried pace, paired with the steady downpour of rain upon his armor, lulled him into something of a trance, a quiet drifting until John’s voice cut through the silence once more.
“Arthur,” A quiet, questioning thing.
Arthur, still lost to the steady lull of rain, could only hum inquisitively. A half-hearted venture into responding to John.
“Arthur, we’re here. At the entrance.” John clarified. The definitive tone to his voice calling Arthur to attention and causing him to tug on Orvyn’s reins. Now, at a sudden halt.
The rain tumbled down with persistence upon Arthur’s shoulders. The hushed clamor of its collision upon his armor alongside the roar of thunder above rattled between his eardrums. Arthur sat like that for a moment, just taking in the sounds of the space before being jostled from his thoughts by John’s voice.
“Do you– were we going to go inside?” he posed hesitantly. Voice sheltered as if he were ready to flinch at Arthur’s response.
Shaking his head in an effort to clear his thoughts, Arthur redirected his attention back to John and the task at hand. “Yes, sorry I was just–” he trailed off for a moment. Unsure as to what was stopping him from dismounting and walking towards the door. Dread had yet to find anchor in his heart along this journey; he was not afraid embarking upon this quest. Yet, there still exists a hesitation, a minor reluctance to enter the monastery. Perhaps it lay within the fact that Arthur was walking into a house – no, beyond a house of God –, a fortress of God, seeking answers for something many would deem blasphemous and unholy. Perhaps it's something more mirroring the fear one holds when revealing something. The tremble of a hand as it reaches to pull aside a curtain. One concealed in shadow and murk, one you swore concealed a pair of feet just below the drapes.
John had revealed both so much and so little to Arthur about who he was, where he had come from, in their time together. Despite everything they had persisted through – Arthur’s flight from the kingdom, the Dreamlands, the prison pits, Kayne– despite it all, Arthur still had yet to know what truly bound this soul to his own. Beyond that, how to unbind such a soul.
Regardless of his hesitations, nothing was going to change if he remained stubborn and stagnant out here in the storm. An involuntary shiver ran through him, his flesh holding remembrance of the cold that plagued them that his scattered mind could not. With another shiver, Arthur moved to dismount Orvyn. “Sorry, I just– got lost in thought, I suppose,” he muttered, his voice a phantom to himself as he planted his feet on the ground. Holding on to the reins for balance, then switching to run his hand along the side of Orvyn’s neck, then firm against his nose as Arthur passed in front. As much of a signal of his direction to the horse as it was to himself.
“The doors are up ahead, just here a bit to your right. If you walk forwards, you’ll reach them.” John’s voice cut through the silence that lay between them. Arthur nodded wordlessly and continued his pace till John signaled him to Stop. Here. Before he could even lift his still-gloved hand to knock at the doors, John cut in again. “There are tall double doors that rise above you. They double, perhaps even triple you in height. Their sides are rigid before coming together in a sharp peak at the top. Both doors are stained a dark tint, a deep brown, nearly black. In the middle of both doors are two hoops, woven through the mouths of rams, with a heavy ball at the center of each. They both lay tucked just a hand’s length into a stone alcove, the stone framing both doors and curving in reflection.”
“Thank you,” Arthur whispered. Reaching up to wrap his fingers around one of the rings John had described. Once his fingers found purchase, he lifted the ring up and brought it down in quick succession, three loud and certain knocks. The silence that spanned afterwards was near deafening. While they waited, Arthur moved to take off his helmet. Shifting his grip so it was now held between his hand and his side. Breathing deeply for what felt like the first time in days. He shifted his weight side to side, legs still acclimating to the feeling of no longer being on horseback. It felt like both an eternity and no time at all before John’s voice drifted again through the silence.
“Should you try knocking again, or–”
Before John could finish his question, the doors gave a loud creak, and Arthur could make out the sound of a lock being moved, before they both were swung open.
“A man greets us. He stands about a head shorter than you, Arthur. He’s wearing robes that nearly cover his feet. He’s watching us expectantly.”
Arthur bowed gently before righting himself. Gazing in the direction of the man who opened the door.
“Hello, M’Lord.” The man greeted. A voice shrill and sharp in Arthur’s ears.
“Hello,” Arthur greeted.
“What brings you to our monastery, M’Lord?” he pressed.
“I–” Arthur started. “I came for shelter. A bed, if you have one, that is and– we’ll, I’ve heard wonders of your library and wanted to see it for myself,” he clarified. Internally wincing at the latter half of his statement.
“Yes, M’Lord,” the man answered. “We still have beds here for your use. As far as the library goes, I would have a different member of our order speak to you about it, but I see no issues with you having access to our collection,” he elaborated.
Arthur sighed gratefully. The weariness was slowly catching up to him in waves along with the relief that the miles they traveled through the rain and woods shall now end with sleep, in a bed, of all things. “Thank you,” Arthur breathed, grateful to know that soon he would be dry, his body – hell, his mind – would be rested, and perhaps, if John and he were lucky, questions would be answered.
“You’re quite welcome, M’Lord,” the monk offered. Arthur heard the sound of the door creaking further open. “Right this way,”
He was on his way to follow the monk's voice into the monastery when John cut in.
“Arthur, the horse! What do we do about Orvyn?”
“Ah, right-” Arthur nodded to himself, thankful for John’s catch. The monk let out a questioning hum. “Oh-” Arthur began, “My horse. Do you have any stables, or perhaps a post where I could leave him?” he elaborated.
“Oh, of course.” The man answered. “We’ve got stables right around the bend. I can take you there if you’d like,” he offered.
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Arthur thanked.
“Certainly, M’Lord. Now, right this way,” he continued.
Arthur pivoted to follow the man’s voice. John’s hand gathered Orvyn’s reins before leading him along to wherever the monk was taking them.
“The man is taking us further to the right, Arthur.” John began. Arthur followed both the sound of the monk’s footsteps as well as John’s direction, leading Orvyn close behind. “He’s leading us around the curve of the wall. The Monastery, the towers, Arthur it, it all looks so much grander up close.” Wonder flooded John’s voice. A near-reverent awe in his tone as he described the sights to Arthur. “Vines branch like tendrils up the cobbled walls. From up close less of the towers are visible, but their spiked tops poke out beyond the top of the wall. They loom against the night sky, unshakable and daunting.” Arthur nodded silently to himself, envisioning the towers and walls that John described. Long, spiked towers reaching up and up, skyward-bound. Anything to bring a mortal man closer to his God.
The rain still hammered on as the two men walked. Only the soft shuffle of footsteps and hooves interrupted the storm that thundered on above. In his tired state, Arthur could not pinpoint exactly how long they had been walking but in what seemed like no time at all the monk’s voice cut through the quiet. “We’re here, M’Lord,”
“He has brought us to the stables, there’s a gate just ahead with a hinge and beyond it some alcoves, the floor is covered in hay. All the alcoves have their own gate. There’s a roof over it as well. So the animals and hay are kept dry.” John described.
“Thank you,” Arthur offered. Both to the monk and to John. He started to walk forwards. “You said there was a gate just ahead?” Arthur asked quietly.
“Yes, just up here, a few paces to your left.” John elaborated.
Arthur nodded, taking a few steps before John signaled him that they had arrived. John released Orvyn’s reins to reach and open the gate, then gathered them up once again as Arthur moved inside of the stables. He walked along the stable wall, silently grateful for the brief shelter from the rain. “Are all of them empty?” Arthur whispered to John.
“No,” John answered. “But there is an open stable just up ahead to your left.” He finished.
Taking John’s direction, Arthur walked a few paces forwards and to the left. Him and John leading Orvyn into the stable. Arthur was sure to remove the saddle bag, the one containing his meager belongings, and more importantly, John’s book, before leaving his helmet along with Orvyn in the stable. Walking back the way they came, Arthur rejoined the monk, now ready to be led back to the monastery.
The walk back was silent. The monk having little to say, and Arthur having little else to answer with. Both walked in a near-comfortable silence back to the main doors of the monastery before the monk pulled open the double doors, formally inviting Arthur inside.
The first thing Arthur noticed once the doors closed was the echo of this space. The pure vastness of it all. When the doors had fallen shut, their resounding click seemed to echo off the walls for a moment too long. A nearly eerie sensation compared to the ways in which the earth and storm would swallow up any sounds Arthur would’ve heard on his way here. The echo and vastness a testament to the grandness of the space. Arthur was never one for tight spaces, never fond of the cramped and narrow, but sometimes, oh sometimes, a cavern can be as haunting as a coffin.
Arthur followed the footsteps of the monk who had led him inside. Listening closely to both his footsteps and John’s gentle directions to turn here, or a bit to your left, no, your other left, Arthur. The walk further into the monastery grew eerily more silent as they progressed through the halls. With each turn they took deeper into this labyrinth, the more cavernous the echoes of their steps grew. Each echo sent a shudder down Arthur’s spine. Somehow, the inside of the monastery provided little warmth in contrast to the outside, the dryness was miles greater than what Arthur had been traversing through thus far, but these silent, spacious halls did little to chase the chill that clung to his bones.
In what could have been moments, could have been no time at all, Arthur was shaken from his thoughts by John announcing that the monk leading them throughout the monastery had stopped.
"He’s standing in front of a large set of double doors, reaching to open one of them.”
Arthur heard the sounds of the door hinges creak before giving over to their nature to swing open, a quiet grunt from the monk was the only indication there had been any struggle when it came to prying the pair open.
“These are the sleeping quarters, M’Lord,” the monk began. “You can take any of the beds available, the baths are just down the hall. Our kitchen has closed for the night, although I could fetch something for you if you’d like?”
“No, thank you, that’s quite alright,” Arthur reassured, hunger being the last thing on his mind at the moment.
“Right, well– if you require anything M’Lord, our quarters are right up the hall.” he answered. “Oh, and our kitchen will start serving breakfast after morning prayer, which the bells will signal.”
“Thank you,” Arthur offered. As he turned to move further into the sleeping quarters, he swiveled back to face the monk again. “Oh, and– where would your library be?” he asked. Not necessarily wishing for a guiding accompaniment on his journey there.
“Ah, the library will be just up the hall, take a right, and then follow it all the way down, there you’ll find our collection,” the monk elaborated.
Arthur nodded as he processed the directions, silently hoping John was paying attention as to better guide them there later. “Thank you,” he offered again.
“You’re welcome, M’Lord. Good evening,” the man responded.
“Good evening,” Arthur answered quietly. Only turning again to the sleeping quarters after he heard the retreating steps of the monk as he made his way down the hall.
As he stepped through the wooden doors, careful to pull them shut before entering the room, he paused, giving himself a moment to adjust to this new degree of silence, a void contained, one fit snug between these walls. An echo that dared not span beyond the cavernous walls of the rest of the monastery’s rooms and halls.
And as if it were second nature to do so, John began to describe the space.
“The room spans on for quite some time, Arthur. There have to be at least twenty beds here, if not more. Long, pointed windows line the walls between the beds, and there are some wider ones at the end of the room. All of the beds are made and empty. We could– you could choose any one that you wanted.” The final part whispered. John’s quiet correction of himself and Arthur’s degrees of separation. It’s a curious thing. To share a body with someone and yet still find ways to create oceans between each other. Creating a vastness between two souls that should, by all logic, and even beyond it, be inextricably bound.
“Thank you, John.” Arthur nodded, walking further into the room and settling onto a bed to the left, one closer to the large windows at the end of the span of beds.
“There’s a small table, to the side of the bed. If you wanted, you could store your bag and my book there.” John elaborated. Arthur’s mind filling in the gaps of the space. Envisioning the span of mattresses, the cot they were settled on, the table, and its drawers. The way the moonlight must be painting the space. Small slices of cool light staggering the shadows. If he listened closely, he could still hear the rain patter on outside, the roll of thunder now a gentle sound, muffled by the layers of stone between him and the elements. Despite Arthur still being in pieces of his armor, he felt safer, here inside the monastery, although he was certain it was no work of God performing this small miracle. Still, there was something that itched at him, some restless, pacing urge within him, hesitant to let him sink fully into the mattress, a gnawing to go further.
A wordless nod was all the confirmation that Arthur gave that he had heard John. His gloved hand fidgeting with the bag that held John’s book.
“Did you–” John began, hesitant as to how to continue. “Did you want to head to sleep? It’s been, well– many miles since you’ve done so,” he continued. His voice quiet, careful, almost. As if not to come off demanding. Just offering a suggestion to what Arthur could do with his time. In a distant part of his mind, Arthur thought of Parker, how he never pushed. How John was now learning in his own ways to do the same. Something inside Arthur ached fiercely at the thought.
He shook his head of the notion. Other pursuits of thought were more favorable than this trek down bittersweet memories. “No, thank you, John. I’d– I think I’d like to look at the library, before turning in.” Arthur began. “Just to get a lay of the land, if you will. See what we’re working with so tomorrow's search goes smoother,” he offered, hoping to give John a suitable reasoning as to why he was still refusing himself sleep.
“Of course,” came John’s reply. Short, and dejected, but not arguing. Still not pushing.
“Do you– do you still remember the way?” Arthur asked. Not sure if he trusted his memory to serve him best to guide him there.
With as near to a nod as a disembodied voice could provide, John answered. “Yes, I know the way. Given that the monk’s directions weren’t deceptive.”
Arthur had to snort at John’s cynicism. “Only time shall tell, I suppose,” he offered.
“Indeed, it shall.” John agreed as Arthur moved to stand up, heading back out the door and into the hallway.
Little conversation was had between the two as Arthur made his way to the library. Only John’s softly given directions cut through the soft echo of his footsteps against the stone. He slowed as they neared the archway of the library.
“The library is open to the hall, a large archway serves as the door, nothing closing it off, no barrier to the collection. There’s a few chairs and long tables scattered around the space.” John began. “Oh, oh Arthur, the stacks. They stretch far beyond your head. Taller than the arched doorway. All of them lined with books of all kinds. It’s hard to make out much, but there are still candles lit on the walls, away from the stacks, and there are windows along the walls, similar to the ones in the sleeping quarters. The moonlight illuminates the rows visible from here.”
Arthur could imagine it, the staggering stacks cramped with books, the moonlight painting the room in a cold blue glow as the firelight flickered on from the candles, the shadows between rows dancing to some silent melody. The place held that distinct smell of aged paper, of worn wood and fabrics archived by dust and time.
He took a few hesitant steps forwards, not sure where to begin, just wanting to move further into the stacks. To gain a feel for the space before navigating it in the daytime. Arthur continued like that, walking further into the labyrinth as John pointed out various titles and volumes that looked interesting. Fleeting glimpses of new worlds of knowledge. Arthur was rapidly learning that his and John’s taste in literature didn’t quite align.
As John continued to read out the names of titles they passed, Arthur kept walking like this until a soft voice interrupted them, nearly scaring Arthur out of his skin and armor.
“Hello, did you need a hand finding anything?” a gentle voice with an accent Arthur couldn’t quite place started.
“Oh, Jesus–” Arthur exclaimed, turning on his heels so fast he’s certain he had made John dizzy.
“Sorry,” the man laughed quietly. “My apologies, M’Lord. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s only–” the man paused for a second, the few breaths in between giving Arthur enough time to regain his composure. “It’s only well– you looked a bit lost, M’Lord, and I wanted to offer my service, if I may.”
“Oh,” Arthur started. The man’s earnestness catching him off guard. “I uh- I do think I should be alright. I was just looking around tonight. I do plan on returning, though, tomorrow, that is. I just– well, I wanted to familiarize myself with the space,” he elaborated.
The man hummed softly before he responded. “Hmm, so not to get lost in this labyrinth, aye?”
Arthur no longer had his eyes, but if he did, he’s certain they would have locked with the man’s at that moment. A thousand thoughts rushed through Arthur’s mind then. Did this man also feel lost? Is that how he recognized Arthur’s aimlessness? Did the same curious hunger pace this man’s stomach as Arthur’s? Did they hold similar beasts within them? Was this place truly a labyrinth? Were they both lost? Perhaps this is why one found the other.
“I–” he started, “Yes, yes, that’s exactly it,” Arthur confessed. His voice quiet, the confession honest and raw. This man, having known him for only moments, seeing a truth, a fear at Arthur’s core hidden under layers of bone, layers of flesh, layers of fabric and chainmail and metal. One lost soul beholding another.
“Aye,” the man agreed. “I know how you feel, M’Lord.”
“Arthur,” he countered.
The man hummed curiously.
Arthur didn’t know what had compelled him to share his name. Why it had slipped past his teeth and into the shadows and candlelight that flickered between the two, but he had. His name, not just a title, not just an address, but himself. Still coated in armor, but now laid bare before this stranger. He wondered distantly if one could hear the echo of his frantic pulse against the stone walls.
“You don’t have to–” Arthur started, “It’s just Arthur,” he finished. His own voice sounded like a stranger’s.
“Thank you, Arthur.” The man said his name with a reverence, a sincerity Arthur had only heard in the tones of holy men and brothers as they spoke of the Lord. The sound stirred something fierce within Arthur’s ribcage. Before Arthur could thank the man in return, he spoke up again. “Oscar.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you, Oscar.” Arthur managed. Hoping his voice was loud enough to hear. Hoping that in his whisper, this man, Oscar, could read the sincerity in his voice. The earnestness cloaked under the wraps of a hushed tone.
“Of course,” Oscar responded, his voice just as hushed. And although, oh, although Arthur couldn’t see it, and although John offered no depictions of the man, oh, Arthur could hear the soft smile on Oscar’s lips as he spoke. He felt a warmth he thought the rain had washed out of him many miles and hours ago bloom within his chest. Something soft and sacred. “Well, Arthur, if you need anything, I’ll be here, amongst the stacks,” he finished.
Arthur nodded, silently. Not sure if he could manage any words outside of more hushed thank you’s. He could hear Oscar then, turning on his heels to retreat further into the shadows of the stacks, and a frantic urge to keep him close, to have this man’s voice hover next to his in the quiet candlelight for just a moment longer, filled him.
“Oscar,” he started, his voice a wanting and tender thing. “Oscar, wait,” He began to reach down to the bag he’d carried with him.
“Arthur, Arthur, what are you doing?” John’s silent span now at a close. His objections roaring between Arthur’s ears.
A sudden stop of quiet footsteps and a gentle, questioning hum was the only indicator of Oscar pausing, but it was enough for Arthur.
“Oscar,” Arthur began again, feeling out of breath although he’d barely taken a step. “There is something I– something I could use your help with,” he finished as his fingers grasped around the spine of John’s book.
This, oh this may be the beginning of the beginning, or the beginning of the end. This, is the height of the pendulum's swing. This is the lid of Pandora’s box cracked open just a hair by shaking fingers. The first leaf to catch alight in a forest fire.
