And so it ends. Not in darkness, but in blood.

With the blade in my hand I took her and blood was our maritial covenant. She never offered any resistance, she knew what was coming. She knew I was coming. Kadmon repenting, closing the circle, laying his judgment upon Lilith.

Thank you, Alice. Your spheres made me remember her, remember her beauty. Remember my duty. Once I opposed you, old friend, but today I carried out your unspoken order. Once I begged for her life, today I took it. You showed wisdom then, not ordering me to punish her, knowing that eventually I would. Was this all part of your Big Picture? Why can't we just leave in dignity, why this fight against ourselves? Why not accept the inescapable and go? Everything must go. Why must we all chain ourselves to futile dying hopes? And why does wisdom always come too late?

The blade is lying on the ground, smeared with blood, in a pool of red wet sand. Her body is lying not far away; still, no longer bleeding, all her hopes torn asunder, all her fears fulfilled. The look in her eyes no longer painful; broken, but never accusing.

The echoes of her last scream still reverberate through the still air; full of anger, frustration and the knowledge of a final rest she screamed out her soul's sorrow when my blade bit her flesh. Not trying to draw away from me, embracing me instead, pressing her body deeper into the blade, rocking gently back and forth, as if she was making love to me. Our first kiss, at the same time our last; deep, long, and full of the darkest flavour.

The sky in Meny was twilight, the domed roof high above our heads hiding the clouds above that shield us from the stars. I wish she would kiss me, but she only leaned closer, whispering, her head hovering above our two cups of coffee, "I always wonder why all our names have a meaning. Slayer, Intruder, Eldritch, Banshee. Each of them, and nobody seems to escape it."

I was impressed from the beginning when I met her. Not only the beauty of her body, the structure of her Formulae. The beauty of her mind. So full of perfection that no language ever could name her properly; never, in more than 800 years did I meet a woman as unreal as Banshee was.

"Do you know the meaning of yours?"

She only nodded then, her smiling lips dropping to a slim line. "And I chose it myself, when I Came of Age. Sometimes later a heretic told me that it meant Weeping Woman. Weeping for the dead," She looked at me, her eyes full of pain, "I weep for everybody, Eldritch. Everyday. Not only the dead. Everybody."

"Is that all?" I hoped she would answer yes, but she didn't.

"He told me more. He said that my last scream would end the world. That I was born under the sign of the Eternal Serpent."

Now, so many years later, Necronatirian has finally come to her, with me, its prophet being its messenger. The truth we all struggle so long -indeed, our whole life- against, has come to her and she is free. Soon it will be my time to follow her, to leave the lies behind and face the Eternal Serpent myself. Alice has been right. I am the last; I may not have been the first here, but this place will never die. We all have our own Mort and although we might sometimes experience someone else's Mort, we all have to face Mort alone in the end.

White Earth calls, and with me this universe shall die -as will I, and Banshee's dying scream will be the sound that I will follow until its ripples crash against a foam-tormented shore and I can see the White Tower and the chaotic images at the horizon, rising until they reach the racing clouds and dissolve.

The blade is cold. So cold. As cold as Banshee's lips and all the sudden all of them are here. All who have gone before, Slayer, Senti, Intruder, Wave, Hellraiser, Alice, even the Walker. All of them smiling, guiding, beckoning me.

To White Earth.