I walked the edge of the cliff and stood looking over the sea, a sea unmarred by toxic spillage, though it was not a peaceful shore. Too much had happened in this new land and my heart was turning to stone because of it. Insurrection in the Alpha Institute… petty squabbles among the Praetors and the Legate… a Choi and Constantine who professed to have been ever only angels… it made no sense. Constantine talked of curtains and dreams, killing kitten after kitten in his failed attempts to open a portal to who knows where.
It was all too much, too soon after the flight from the City. I had done much of late that shadowed my heart with regret. I could no longer depend on Nareth, for she was not herself. Whatever remained of Omega’s Chylde lay deep in the belly of a ghost, growing into some unknowable thing. Our attempts to restore her had failed. The moments of her passion had been followed by insufferable anguish for me, and Desdecardo had made it clear: there was no easy freedom from thralldom. I was not unaware of the distrust with which most of the Institute viewed me because of this. Thus, I did the only thing I could… I sought refuge in the Tree of the Garden until all my desire was replaced by life and fire. I felt my wings unfurl. I was thrall no more, but the cost was great.
Now an even greater weariness lay upon my shoulders, a weariness from which I could find no rest. I’d heard the reports from the City, read the letters… Grrbool was dead. A picture drawn in crayon from Brit seemed to say only that Grr and Omega had left the City for a while. Ethan, however, would have sheltered Brit as best he could. The news in the letters though... I couldn't believe the truth of it. Grr and Omega’s bodies had been found in the Great Library. Their remains had been burned and carried away from the City.
Denenthorn hadn’t even wept.
Yet I still hear Grr’s cry to the moon.
He’s not dead.
He can’t be.