It started as a white light. One instantaneous flash of energy, like the birth of a star. You don't see it so much as feel it. Something inside of you wakes up and you know. It's coming. It's here. It's past, present and future. One moment for all eternity.

Bob was wrapped up in an airtight, magical mud-suit. That mud-suit in turn was surrounded by layers upon layers of wet tentacle. There were inches of material between himself and the beam of fiery energy. Inches and inches. Surely, surely not. There was no way. A rank E spell. He was safe. He must be safe. White shifted to red, to black, to golden fire. Bob was inside the end of the world. Waiting for silence.

Fire, beats, flesh. Tentacle fat melted then vaporized. The monster died instantaneously, without even time to call out, without even comprehending. Reduced to shadow. To dust and ash and nothing. And then the fire was upon him. Upon Bob. Angry energy battered against Harry and the heat bled through. Bob was being roasted alive. He could feel his skin redden and sizzle. This was the end.

Mud is a composite. Particles suspended in a liquid solution, in water. In water. Bob reached inside Harry and dragged out every last drop of the stuff. He sucked it all up and threw it into those unquenchable flames. He reached in for more and there was more. There were deep wells inside the cloak, pockets of space that shouldn't exist. Bob tapped every last one.

He was holding. Somehow he was holding. The flames were starting to weaken. He was losing consciousness. He wasn't going to make it. He fought on, draining Harry dry, stealing away every last shred of water. And he kept going, even as he felt Harry stiffen and harden. He kept going even as he sensed Harry's conciseness slipping away. He kept going until he couldn't even feel his cloak, until the system unilaterally designated it as non-mud and revoked his authority over it. He kept going until he couldn't, until the omnipotent system itself swooped down and stopped him. He pushed up against every limit and then past and then furthur. It was barely enough.

Bob crumbled down backwards. He fell into a pile of severed tentacles that he'd shielded from the blast. He was breathing. Just. His lips were cracked, dry, blistered. His hair, his eyebrows, his nascent beard, it had all been burned off. His skin was a dark, warning red in places, in others black and leathery. There was an octopus horn sticking out of his side. The attached head had melted into goop or evaporated off as smoke. He was in excruciating agony. But he barely noticed the pain. He was gaping in shock at the figure in front of him.

In front of Bob was a wall of blackened mud, a wall of lifeless brick: three feet wide, six feet tall and one foot thick. Harry. The mantle of the mud magician. Bob reached out with his mind. Silence. Somehow Bob got a hand on the wall; he tried to push his mud sense inside. He couldn't. He couldn't feel anything. Silence. Harry was...

Sophie and George ran over. They propped Bob up. They moved him away from the ash and smoke and the ruins. Bob didn't notice. He didn't notice as Sophie pulled health patch after health patch out of his pack and stuck them onto him. He didn't notice as his red, blistered skin started to recover. It didn't matter. He'd lost Harry. George snuggled up next to him and whined and whined. But Bob didn't notice. It didn't matter. Harry was gone.

"No," Bob stumbled up on to his feet. He immediately started to fall, but Sophie caught him and held him up.

"Water," he mumbled to himself. Sophie scrambled for a bottle. He shook his head fiercely.

"Water, water," he mumbled. He rounded on George. "George, spit it out, please. George. The water."

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Sophie said something, but Bob wasn't listening.

"Spit it out George." George whined and let out a bucketful of water on the ground.

"No, no, over here, George. On Harry." Bob started to limp back to the wall, tugging George by the collar.

"Robert, stop, stop. You need to lie down. You're wounded. You've-you've got a horn in you."

Bob had forgotten that entirely. It didn't matter. But he was so weak. He couldn't resist as Sophie held him in place and jerked the horn out. He winched, but the pain didn't matter. And it didn't matter when Sophie applied another health patch and the wound slowly stitched itself up. And it didn't matter when Sophie froze up and stared worryingly at the horn's tip. Nothing mattered. "George;" the dog led Bob over to the wall.

He felt so dizzy; his feet were spinning, and every step forward was a trip. He clung to George's back, trying to steady himself. He was going to pass out on the ground any moment. But he had to stay strong. Bob looked at the dog, "George, Harry needs you. I can't feel him at all. I think... I think..."

Bob fell over. Face down, without even the grace to throw out a hand. He hit the brick wall and slid helplessly down it. He was sobbing.

"George," Bob pressed himself off the ground, "Harry saved you. You remember don't you? That night. I'll never forget. It was Harry who saved you. The good cloak. Harry brought you back to me. You've got to save him George. Promise me. Promise me George."

Sophie screamed a little. "Robert, it's poisoned. The horn is poisoned."

"George, you heard me right? Don't leave him. No matter what you do. Don't leave him here."

"Robert, what are we going to do? The health patches won't work on poison."

Bob was blacking out. He was losing the battle. He had to stay strong. He had to.

"Robert, Robert. What are we going to do? I just checked the store. I can't find it. There's no antidote. It must be some new poison. What are we going to do? It'll kill you Robert."

Bob looked at her. His vision was blurry. Her face was a white fuzz.

"Sophie, I trust you."

"What am I supposed to do? Robert, no, Robert, don't fall asleep. I forbid you from falling asleep. Robert, I don't know if you'll..."

Bob's strength gave out. He crumbled down onto the hard, wet ground. His hand resting against the dead brick that was once his companion. Harry Mud. He wasn't strong enough. They'd beaten him in the end. The system had won. George bent down over him and whined. The dog squeezed his wet nose under Bob's face and tried to lick his master's cheek. That was the last thing Bob remembered, a brown nose sniveling clumsily around and a smooth pink tongue.

Bob was lying there, unconscious, his breathing shallow, his face pale and bloodless. His lips had turned blue and cold. He wasn't fighting any more. The fight was over. The fight was lost. George fussed about him, whining and howling. The dog kept trying to squeeze his head under Bob's shoulder and prop his master up. But Bob's limp body was too heavy for the dog. George couldn't manage it. George moaned and looked at Sophie for help.

Sophie was running around like a headless chicken. She would pick up random stones, stare at them for a moment and then throw them away. She'd sprint from the point to point, pulling up grasses, scouring the bank for flowers or herbs. And the whole time she would be cursing under her breath. "Stupid Robert, how can he do this to me," and then, "No, no, it's not here. I can't find it," and then she'd look back at Robert, with his rattling, faded breath, curse him again and run off to some new spot.

Pop, Bob's camping chair. But Bob didn't get up. Bob didn't sit down.

Pop. Bob's sleeping bag. But Bob didn't need a sleeping bag any more. He was already dreaming.

Pop. A pillow. But the hard ground was pillow enough for Bob.

Pop, a bowl of dog food. But Bob wasn't hungry. Not any more. Never, never again.

Pop, a stick. George's special stick. That nice, brown balanced one. The one George had been carrying all this time. But Bob didn't pick it up. He didn't throw it. He wouldn't play with George. He'd left George behind. His George. His own George.

George moaned and moaned. He howled. But Bob didn't wake up. Bob was asleep, deep, deep asleep. In that dreamless, empty sleep, the sleep that sits beside death, two cousins each politely offering the other his place. The sleep that is death. The death that is sleep.

Is this what the end of world looks like? Because it was such a warm and happy day. The sun shimmered down by the lakeside. The wind trickled through the grasses. The sky was blue, blue, imperial blue. The end of the world. The end of the world? The sky does not fall for such trifles.