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   Chapter 72 No.72

The Book of Deacon By Joseph R. Lallo Characters: 5086

Updated: 2018-01-19 19:02


"Need me for what? I don't understand, " she said.

"Do not resist me. I come to guide you, and in turn you may guide me, " the voice said.

"How?" Myranda asked as the cold wind began to gust more forcefully.

"You are strong, and the path you follow is closed to me. You are nearly out of my reach. You must choose. Take my hand and the way will be made clear, " the voice whispered.

The figure's hand seemed to reach out. Myranda reached for it, but something inside of her resisted. She turned to the light and grasped at it, as though it were a lantern. It remained, but a part of the eerie light trailed along with her hand. She moved her glowing fist to the figure, but it recoiled.

"Reject it. Light is sorrow. To tremble in the light is to be extinguished with it. The brightest candle burns only briefly. Darkness remains eternally. Accept the darkness and endure, " the voice demanded, somewhat twisted.

The cold became intense and the darkness pressed in about her. The light fought valiantly, but the walls of oppressive blackness moved closer and closer. This was wrong. She backed toward the light, but it was withering. In a matter of moments, it was no more. The earth beneath her seemed to drop away, and she was afloat in an abyss of darkness. It felt as though the blackness itself was tearing at her.

In a last effort to fight against that which consumed her, Myranda held up her arms defensively. When she opened her hand, a burning ember of light was revealed. As the remnant of the li

told me, " she said.

"There is nothing you can do. They are healed already. Not quite the way they ought to have. A handful of fighters I've known had the same problem. Nothing they could do either, healers or no, " he said in a disarmingly cheerful tone.

"How terrible, " she said.

"Shed no tears for me, my dear. Where we are headed, no ailment will endure, " he said.

"That sounds familiar, " she said, the flowery prose stirring her memory.

"A play, One Final March, spoken right before our hero heads to a battle he cannot hope to win bearing a wound he cannot hope to survive, " Leo said.

"That does not speak very well of our destination, " she said.

"Don't worry. Some of my fondest memories are in the land that lies ahead of us. But enough about that. It must be seen to be believed. Frankly, if you don't mind, I would dearly love to hear what your life has been like since our last meeting, " he said.

"At the usual rate, though. I'll trade you my story for yours, " she said.

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