Sorry.

  That was the thought that came to his mind as he was falling, plummeting into the depths of an abyss. A place where not even light is ever allowed to escape as it is swallowed whole by the seemingly ravenous void at the bottom.

  It stretched beyond what the naked eye could see, deeper than any gulf, darker than the blackest of hollows.

  A wry smile wrinkled his face as his right hand stretched out, as if trying to touch and comfort the crying face of a dear friend.

  She too had her right hand outstretched, trying desperately, hopelessly, to reach the falling him. How could she? The distance between them was like an ocean’s width of darkness.

  To his eyes, sharp as they were, even in low light conditions, her tear-streaked face remained beautiful, even as it contorted as she struggled with all her might.

  Her other hand was trying with all the strength she could muster to shove past the people around her. She was trying in vain to reach him and come to his rescue.

  She could never truly escape the grip of the people holding her back as there were two of them, and only one of her. She was screaming, at the people around them, friends and comrades, desperately pleading for them, to go and help him.

  To her right was his little brother, who looked on desperately. Armored in a design that looked like German Gothic plate, even with his bevor covering half his face, shock, fear, anxiety, dread — all were visible.

  To her left and holding her just as tight, was her childhood friend. Garbed in fantasy-like leather armor topped with a metal breastplate and arm guards; her raven-black hair, drawn into a short ponytail that reached slightly past her nape, was disheveled from the effort of holding her friend back.

  She too was crying, yet, there was not only clarity in her eyes but measured wit. Far more so than her despairing friend, who was getting frantic with each passing heartbeat.

  He was proud of her, for despite their damned near hopeless situation, she had grabbed hold of her emotions and mastered them. Her level-headedness might just be enough to guide them out of their predicament.

  The companions that surrounded them were fighting off waves of enemies. Even now, the noise of battle continued to overwhelm the solitary voice that called out his name.

  Chants started, spells flew, voices echoed and the clashing of metal on steel rang throughout the cavern walls. And still, their enemies came from them on all sides, intent upon their ruin.

  Though in his current condition there were a few options he could attempt, but that would, for all intents and purposes, ruin his plans. Plans he had laid out so carefully, one wrong move here, even if he should survive, might lead to their deaths or worse.

  Before he could execute a ‘next’ move — an act which he wasn’t even sure he could achieve out in the open without arousing some level of suspicion — something unexpected occurred.

  The chaos of a battle that overwhelmed his comrades unfolded before him, like a macabre ballet of sights and sounds, of flesh and blood, of spells and steel.

  It reminded him of a time when he was young in his journey, where he directed war like a preacher to a congregation, the screams were his sermons, his wit, his instrument, the battlefield his pulpit.

  The symphony of battle and the orchestra of war were his to conduct. And it made him strong. All in the service of a vision, one that nearly ended on the tips of cowardice and spite.

  The cost then was great. Now, should the Tollman collect for his due, this time, only he had to pay alone.

  As the music of the fight reached its climax, it sparked something within him, a flicker of mischief and even, melancholy.

  It was the same here.

  When a coward and traitor could roam free, would he allow it? Could he strike him down, for the burn on his back, even as he continued to fight foes as if his earlier actions were nothing but an illusion?

  He could, he had the power to do so. And yet, he chose not to, not out of forgiveness or anything so generous. It was simply that something else caught his attention.

  Here, at this point in time, at the space between heartbeats, his thoughts, already accelerated faster than normal human comprehension, sped up still, past superhuman levels, not just to perceive his surroundings but to truly “see”.

  To his senses, he was already falling slowly, and then he was slower, and slower still, and even more, before even time itself held its breath.

  Even as the sight and color, as well as screams and echoes of clashes dissolved and faded into nothing, and as the luminescence of aura overtook his vision, he took in not only the struggle of his peers but everything, including the world.

  He was, from his point of view wonderfully cursed.

  For despite himself, his mind continued to race, its contents never stopping, continually weaving and unravelling.

  But, as his skill took hold of his senses, he grabbed hold of the vortex of thought and forced it into order, a near titanic effort even for the sheer volume of his mental prowess.

  In this suspended world and this instance of clarity, his mind managed to focus on one thing.

  There were many words that could be used to describe the scenario he finds himself in: fall into the darkness, plunging into the void, descend into hell. He chose that wonderfully iconic word, shit.

  Some would see, this as sublime and profound, like in Greek culture, the tragic tale of Orpheus's journey to bring back his beloved wife, Eurydice, which ended in disaster.

  Even Hercules, that ever steadfast god, found himself in the underworld, Hades, to finish the last of his labors.

  Some are a bit mundane. In Sumerian mythology, the goddess of love and war, Inanna, descends into the realm of the queen of the dead, Ereshkigal, all to attend a funeral.

  Others are allegorical. In The Divine Comedy, Dante journeys through the nine circles of Hell, guided by the ancient Roman poet Virgil, his unrequited love Beatrice, and Saint Bernard of Clairvaux.

  In others it shows the introduction of death into the world and the establishment of the natural order. The Japanese deity Izanagi, overwhelmed by grief at the death of his beloved wife Izanami, after she died giving birth to their son, travels to the land of the dead, Yomi, to bring her back.

  He witnessed his wife’s decaying form, horrified, causing him to flee. He sealed the entrance to Yomi with a large stone thus separating the world of the living from the land of the dead. Different versions from different cultures, and on go the stories.

  He chuckled to himself. He had let such idle thoughts wander into his mind. A tangent to what he truly intended.

  He banished them, only for his mind to snap back into focus, the sharp and razored edge quality cutting away at most of the doubts and worries that were slowly eating away at him.

  He then focused on one thought.

  Each hero, in their own grand tale, stared into the darkness for different reasons: selfishness, sacrifice, the consequences of one’s actions, spiritual enlightenment, longing, heartbreak, betrayal—the list goes on.

  The result of their struggles was inconsequential. Indeed, to him, it was truly unimportant, as what would that do for his current predicament?

  What need had he for lessons that show the fragility of hope or irreversibility of death? He knew this lesson all too well.

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  What need had he for power and courage to face down adversity, to stand defiant against any odds? He had this in ample supply.

  What need had he for the unfaltering madness or determination to challenge fate, all in the name of redemption or penance? He had done this once before and done it without the current advantages he enjoys now.

  What was a second time but a simple repeat, that which will prove to be easier than the first?

  What mattered was what those heroes should have found after their journey ended, indeed what every journey presented to its intrepid protagonists, who, for all their weaknesses and strengths, their failings and triumphs, failed to see.

  Many still remained ignorant of it and so remain achingly flawed yet beautifully human.

  However, memory finds him, and his past returns unbidden to remind him that he is far from human. He is a copy of a copy, something worse than flawed, unworthy of himself.

  Therefore, he sought out something that no one would see, a treasure known only to him.

  Something far more valuable than any form of ability or power, beyond any shining jewels or glittering crowns, more than honeyed words or glorified titles, greater than any connections or any kinship ever offered.

  Truth.

  This sentiment was compounded by his current situation and the fact that he himself cannot help but think that there was a strange allure to the void.

  Something had called to him. Subtle at first, but ever there, ever present, and yet, always seemed to elude his senses as he tried with all his mind to grasp it.

  Like something that was constantly at the edge of one’s vision, before vanishing the moment you try to focus on it. It was more than a feeling; it was a tug on his soul.

  The “call” began the moment he was summoned to this world, and now, the deeper he descended, the hook on the very fiber of his being burrowed further.

  It became stronger the longer he fell; it grew incessant for every millimeter of descent, more impatient for every fathom traversed. There was something down there.

  He had sought the answer to this, to find the origins of this call; now, at the hour of his seeming demise, it had revealed itself.

  Come find us; we are here.

  Come find us; we are here.

  Come find us; we are here.

  His very soul was screaming now. He had to be there.

  A sweeter song than that of the ongoing clash sure, yet again and again, it calls, almost as if it was begging.

  It was clearer now than it was before, however even in this suspended world of his own making, the call was present. Which meant that whatever this thing was, it was something, deeper.

  And now, as if answering that call, the void answered in kind. It pressed close, thick with hungry anticipation, as if the abyss itself was yearning for companionship, drawing him deeper into its gaping formless maw.

  Like a caring mother, welcoming him into its ever-loving embrace, graciously offering a place at the very womb of the earth.

  Despite the abyss’ terrifying emptiness, a world so dark that it feels like a numbness that would consume every thought, every emotion, every pain, there lies a kind of purity.

  It is nothing, and in that nothingness exist no lies, no corruption. Like a blank canvas, it held potential without distortion.

  There existed possibilities that have yet to come, unseen paths and unwritten futures, and in falling into it, metaphorically or literally, as he was doing now, offered up a chance—the chance to rebuild, to be reforged again, to enter an albeit unknown crucible of transformation and be stripped of imperfections and falsehoods, and emerge, remade, renewed.

  Would he need to be re-forged? He did not know.

  He had already undergone one transformation, violent and soul-deep as it was, and he was not eager to face such a crucible again.

  However, reluctance and unwillingness were two very distinct things. Reluctant as he was to endure another transformation, he was still willing to brave whatever dangers this unseen song holds.

  All in the name of responsibility, as he was, an ever a dutiful son, he would keep his family safe.

  The voices had whispered and sung, even echoed his name once. But it only sung for him. Echoing in his dreams and moments between breaths, a choir not quite heard, yet never silent.

  He will find whatever it is that plagues him, and if it is a threat, he will end it and be about his business, for he had, still one too many.

  He was, as he knew it, outside the threads of fate, a soul unwoven from the tapestry of life and unchained by destiny due to the events of his past.

  Despite his disconnection from the grand cosmic loom, even before he came to this world, too many strange occurrences have been happening to him. Too many and too often, to be called mere chance.

  Because of this, he cannot help but think that some unseen will, moved beyond the veil of what he is able to perceive, is guiding his actions until there is but one recourse.

  Someone was shaping his path with invisible hands and with such terrible subtlety, that he himself is loath to admit, was better than his own machinations that it is as if destiny itself wore a mask.

  His next thoughts went to the four souls bound to him. His star, his knight, his blade, and his destroyer. What would they say of his choice now?

  Two of them would no doubt laugh it off; the other two, however, were the problem. One would probably just smile at him, her ever radiance, a balm to his turbulent soul, content in knowing at least, that he would return safe.

  And the last—or the first, depending on how one chose to see it—would prove to be his real dilemma. Her tongue and most important of all, her judgment would be sharper than any razor’s edge and far less forgiving.

  He sighed in his mind; in time, they would undoubtedly seek him out. Of that, he had no doubts. And when they do, he would owe them more than words, but he would begin with an apology.

  Offered up in full, as was their due, and as honor demands.

  Or not, he could just shrug and look stupid. That, to him, a wonderful, yet to others, an artless expression he’d long since perfected. At this point, it was already a talent.

  And so, he made up his mind. If the answers he seeks will not willingly come to him, then he will have to claim them. On the point and edge of his blade if need be.

  Downward he would go, into the void, where the light falters, and trials yet unnamed await. A journey marked not only by his intent, but by confrontation—and should any fools sought to bar his path, they would learn the cost.

  As once before, and if necessary, so too again, he would unleash the inferno that is his will and wield the silence of madness as his blade.

  For he was someone who once made all of existence tremble, he who carved meaning not just into a single world but into the very pillars of creation, where time, fate, and even gods dared not look away.

  He relinquished his hold on his ability, the art that set his thoughts ablaze and quickened his mind beyond mortal measure.

  As time, now unshackled, began once more to move forward and resume its flow to his senses, he continued his descent through shadows.

  And there, in that still and fading moment, he uttered a single word, more than a whisper, yet contained more meaning than any long sentence can provide.

  Sorry.