Numerous times now I've stopped writing to swallow the lump in my throat. Somehow, this pen is channeling much more than simple words. It's been a sad and arduous road, my life, and as I plod through it here I remember so many things that were forgotten, or even that I had not noticed at the time. My Eris knew something when Turk tried to convince me to follow him into Haven. He told her my place was at her side, and she spoke volumes with a nod. I remember a girl from my boyhood named Kendra, who was dear to me while we both lived. She sang a song that meant more than I could comprehend at the time, but now, having lived that song's truth, I marvel at her young wisdom.

It's strange, as I've always felt my memory was poor, save for a few sporadic facts that only occasionally prove useful, that moving slowly through these bygone days, holding this inquisitor's fork in my hand, I feel as if I'm again walking through the dark tunnels of Pandemonium in search of the Devils' command center, contemplating the nature of my undeath, and recalling Makore's heartlessness and how if not for me it would have lead him to his goal. I remember the hate in my heart when I saw Patches in the court of Blitzkrieg, the devil commander, grinning at our foolishness for having trusted him, and how his face changed only an instant before the angel slew the devil from above. I remember the tension in my gut when Patches did obeisance to the Chalcedony remnant. It rivaled the anxiety I felt when first I saw Turk and Goth in each other's company. And of course, I remember the strange, knowing look in Eris's eyes when we returned from our foray into Haven's ruins. I belonged at her side, and never again would I have left it. If only she could have been in better health and travelled with me, following the exact path to the inner sea where I sacrificed the fragments of the founders. If only she were able.

Somewhere out there, an angel blasts his trumpet, for Abdiel survived the war with the Devils. I'm glad he still lives for a cause, as he is mean and hard, entirely incorruptible by honor or pity, and it comforts me deeply to know he's out there still, wings volant, watering the seeds of Ares to purify the land. I owe him much, but directly I mostly value this; our excursion into dead Haven would have been much more problematic without his keen eye, and I might not have made it back in time to watch my Eris fade.

I think I was beginning to suspect the nature of the work my fathers had done with me by the time of our venture. My fathers, the vast pool I was drawn from, the mothers who toiled through their lives until I was extracted, then refracted, then collected when all others had failed so that I could stand on the shoulders of an army of valiant cadavers, gave me this gift that I might be impervious in the land of death.

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There is no surviving Tarthas. Tarthas will kill you. Tarthas is death. There is cold, there is dark, there is poison, there is sting. Above there is a storm of crushing rock that cloaks the giver of life and mover of tides. Below there is a second Sun, hidden beneath impassable rock that though impassible, has peopled its battlements with Devils. Both Suns are guarded, one with black ice, one with white fire, and our warrior angels, those imbued with gemstones and photonic runes, are scattered and preoccupied while the Devils have set their sights on us. And here we are, caught in the middle, severed from the pierced heart that now oozes weakly though our prison bars, and seated atop the cone of Vesuvius, clinging to life while we feel the shaking of its roots.

I poured over books while I served the Bibliotheca. Had I not been adopted by their acolytes, I doubt I would have become the man I am today, or chosen the path I walked. I recall a story of a man, raised by a hated sect of torturers, who wandered a dying world that in some ways was not unlike my own. He wandered in exile after restoring agency to an abused victim, and by strange happenings gained the authority to enact worldwide change. Am I this man? Was this a book of prophecy? Were I to reveal the title of this book, you might be inclined to think so.

I also read of the heavenly scions. Strange things all; phosphorus engines and animal kings, segments of vast calendars and harbingers of impending change. Aldebaran, Sirius the Dane, the Son of the Morning and his sister Vesper, a mighty bear sow and a warlike wolf, the cub of the bear and a golden ram. White bulls, black holes, warrior shepherds and ocean queens; they are the legions of the sky who all look down on our sodden dome and wonder if we are still alive. Somewhere, between us and them, lies our hope. Turk sought salvation everywhere but up. Besieging Pandemonium, pouring Ponce de Leon's boda into the mouths of Elvedon, picking the bones of Haven and the redemption of thieves, these were his labors, and they were mere distractions. Only his inaction has lead to any lasting good. He stood in front of the dreaming gate as I rose from my gurney, but when the conclusion of the Dolomite's neuromancy came together in his thoughts, he stood aside, and let me pass. Since then I have not seen the man.

Eris, if only you were with me now. You would love the room I write in now. A parlour made of ivory so dry it feels like bone. The drapings are all faded lilac and grey that is almost black. There are no windows, as the parlour is deep within the fortress. it was clearly a ballroom, with a grand staircase that splits at the loft like the flared head of a cobra, and the chandeliers are all collapsed on the floor. You would truly love this place. I am enjoying it for you, knowing your love of all things broken and rotting. Too bad there is no such thing as ghosts. If there were, you could look down on yourself within the mausoleum and finally love you. I do, Eris, though you be dead. I love you, and I always will. If I can succeed in my ultimate goal and at last find death, my last thoughts will be of you.