Jane had felt the world break outside, but her hand didn't stop its motions, as the inspiration flooded her mind, and an elegant proof of Euclid's Theorem took shape. She continued her slow and deliberate work, mind buzzing with it. The end of the world outside wasn't important, not compared to this. It must be proven. Something must work the same; how could mathematics be different? Mathematics didn't rely upon what world you stood on; they were defined in terms of their own rules, rules which didn't rely on petty things like the laws of the universe.

And yet, as she reached the end, the inspirational light in her died, her heart sinking once more. Because, somehow, mathematics was different; she stared at the failed proof. Well, she'd call it failed, except she had proven, for the third time, that there -were- a finite number of prime numbers. Which was, simply, impossible. She knew it was impossible, yet as her eyes traced over the diagonalisation she had laboriously dissected the problem into, she found no fault. She felt no need to repeat the earlier exercise of going through the prime numbers; the dismay when she had discovered some numbers that should have been prime, and weren't - that had been an existentially terrifying experience. Numbers didn't owe their existence to the universe. And yet, and yet.

The expensive paper, made of some kind of very finely-woven cloth rather than tree pulp, burned slowly, and she drew forth a new sheet. The world trembled outside once more, and this time, she looked up, startled, and walked out the doorway, pushing aside the fabric that served as a door. One of the strange dog monsters disappeared in a spray of fine gray mist when it ran at her, raw mana ripping it apart at a fundamental level; most of the threads of her mind did not notice either the threat, nor its elimination. She did notice that the sky appeared to be torn; that was a curious phenomena. Was that normal? She didn't have a good reference point for "normal", here. It didn't seem like it should be normal, however. Maybe the world was ending? That would be absolutely fascinating to observe. Actually, if the world was ending - she was struck by inspiration, and turned to hurry back into her little hovel.

What would happen to proofs, if the world was ending? She started working on a proof, and then stopped herself to work on another, until she had six going. Trivial proofs she had already worked out here, but it would be interesting to see what happened to them, as the world was destroyed. It wasn't much longer before she felt reality tear further, and then - and then the proofs got interesting. She found herself smiling as she worked, her attention drifting to the failed proof from time to time, noticing errors accumulating in it, compounding on themselves. She started on Euclid again, then. The results were immediate; the proof began to prove itself. Her smile grew, as she charted a course through conceptual space, and a broken world came for the ride.

There was darkness, and there was light, but somehow, there wasn't sufficient difference between the two. The world was no more; reality had shattered, and then the fragments had each shattered, and the splinters had shattered in turn, until the world was nothing but a fine dusting of mirrored surfaces, reflecting light, and reflecting nothing, each a prism in itself.

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Each particle spun slowly, none in synchrony with any other, a glittering field of flashing colors. They spun, and a kaleidoscope world glittered. And slowly, so slowly, their different speeds began to align, with a growing pulsing of light, until they turned once more, and with a sensation like falling, the world asserted itself once more.

What was left of it. Earth and sky were torn, bleeding light into a void through which could be seen the incomprehensible, flashing by at absurd speeds; the world continued to tear, the rips spreading, minutely but steadily. He wondered what would happen if the tears met, if reality was ripped in half. Probably nothing good.

Sage Eslan had stayed. He remembered that. Sage Eslan had stayed, when the others had left. He couldn't quite remember the words that had been exchanged; however, he had a guess. Eslan had stayed because he knew what proofs were. That was an odd thought. Why was it odd?

“Because you're all now free.” The faceless one. His attention took several seconds to focus on her. It was difficult, his thoughts were … slow. He had made a bargain with her. It hadn't really been much of a bargain; he'd been out of his mind with pain. He wondered if there were any lawyers who would take the case.

“I am the law now. Part of the astral came with this plane, and I'm the only occupant. I intend to keep it that way. You should too; your freedom only lasts as long as I can afford it. It is cheap, now, without rivals.”

So there was only one god now? His attention drifted back to the plane, still actively ripping itself apart. She had her work cut out for her.

“Oh, I have someone who will be fixing that for me shortly.” The cracks continued their relentless widening. It would be interesting to see how her somebody handled that. “It will. It's probably a good thing you gave your pain to me. Even so, this will be an … interesting experience for you.” He considered that. His thoughts were sluggish, and it was difficult to wrap his mind around the multiple complex concepts represented there.

And then there was power. It was indeed an interesting experience, like being strapped to a rack while being made of rubber, while also being struck by lightning repeatedly. He had trouble keeping up with all the information coming into his mind, sensation overwhelming consciousness, stretching it, ripping his mind open wide as the rents in reality ripped apart his body, as it was forced to grow, to grapple, to – heave.

Roots, his roots, reached through the consuming void. They were consumed, and yet they continued, tearing through the emptiness through sheer overwhelming growth. Branches reached to the sky, and caught – something. It was not pain, for there was not a single note of pain, just an avalanche of everything else, burying him – and his mind screamed voicelessly, screamed and screamed and screamed, until the scream became static, and the static became a hum.

The plane was pulled together with forces that pulled him apart. And then it ended – but it didn't. The forces had stopped flowing, but the great channel of sensation remained. The sheer scope of the information still coming to him remained a constant high tide, beneath whose turbulent surfaces no structure could arise in the sands of his mind.

He was aware. He was aware that reality was still cracked. He was aware that he couldn't think. He was aware of innumerable leaves, aware of each stirring of wind. He was aware of every single inch of earth his roots suffused. Every twig, every branch, every square inch of the not-quite-bark that clothed him. He was acutely aware of every jagged crack in reality, cutting into that information, distorting it, twisting it.

He was aware of a slow ebb and flow, like breathing, suffusing everything.