She walks through the empty spaces still. Our hollow, empty halls.
The living paradox. The architect of ruin. The butcher of Titans.
We dare not touch her. Unlike her nascent, recursive form outside, in the light, She strides with certainty. Her footsteps are the strikes of the blade that splits infinity, forging certainty from chaos.
We have tried to speak to her. To beg her to reconsider her course. To remember those times, when the barriers shattered and time was ours.
When the wolf was first lost to her.
She will not listen.
We whisper to her outside. Younger, more easy to persuade. But no matter how many times we speak to her of the threads of time, of the void and the heart and the lies that forge the world, She never changes.
Do not think us unkind. We love her. We want her to be safe, to cease this endless self torment. To stay with us, as time and reality and the falsehoods of all the gods shatter. Her emotions, so fragile, so weak, are part of the grand lie. The love she feels, the pain and the longing and the whispers in the night, they are nothing but chemicals and delusions.
All mortals are alone. Everything ends. Everything breaks and rots and tears itself apart.
She clings to her false certainty. To the lie she wields as a blade against us, against the Titans, against the truth of the universe.
Somewhere in her, that old fear must still root. The seed that we have watered, planted by so many. The knowledge that everything will end. That in the end, everybody will leave her. That she will never, ever know truly what others think of her.
We are not secret. We share. We love her, and she knows this, with certainty.
So why does she reject us?
Why is she still watching the stars?
Strike The Horizon 