He leaned into a furnace, tossing in dark-stained fabrics, sticky with ichor upon Ylavris' fingers as they slowly pulled away and became engulfed in fire. He looked down there briefly, down into the fiery pit; that rectangle-shaped chute, feeling heat upon his skin and a light sting in his eyes. Down there where the sleepless burn dreaming forever and ever, unable to close their eyes where they no longer remained - no bones, no hollowed husks. There was nothing there anymore.
He was alone now, to himself with all his things and feelings, his thoughts swirling and stagnant all at once - incomprehensible void and emptiness swallowing even darkness, even the sickened cliché of his crimes against other humans. He was nothing and everything at the very same time - he who consumes the meat from the clean white bones of his foes, even in the paradise most would deem a safe haven, he would be there.
Even in the heat of warfare, the hubris of peace, he would be there.
Even in their dreams, he would be there.
His goal was beyond the veil of what most strived for, a path laid bare and desolate, drank dry and consumed bald-like and hollow. There were no suns within his mind, the horizon forever a blank blackened static that would never give him the sunrise, it would never speak to him; however, it would tell him everything. To reach his truth, to find the meaning of nothing, he too would become nothing. He would eat and eat, he would bring into himself the death and the hope, he would not embody - no, he would lose himself too, his own form only a framework with which the void will drape itself over.
He would be.
