....
How could she be gone, the one he held so close? There was no
justice..... God? If such a being had stood before him in that moment,
telling him the reason, he would have cursed him and tried to kill
him.
The Lord Purceville found himself alone, on the bed that he had made,
his eyes as dry as the desert of his life, the hateful emptiness of
the present. It was pointless: to look for meaning in a world where
none existed, to search for reason among the airless stones of a
ruined temple. He had never known such bitterness.
There was nothing left. Nothing but to destroy his enemies, and live
out his life in defiance, unvanquished and unawed. The soft light that
had tried to suffuse his soul, was snuffed out like an insolent candle
in ancient and unchangeable darkness.
He had made his choice. The night had wounded him, but not enough. He
had chosen the sword long ago, and by the sword he would die. He cast
aside worthless sentiment, and studied the end-game before him.
Because stone is hard---it does not change---and a stream will run to
its conclusion.
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