Forty-two thousand five hundred twelve.
The shock still sits in my bones as I awaken again. It takes a few moments for my eyes to clear and grasp where I am. I do not know exactly how I ended up here, surrounded by my brothers and sisters. Watchers, all of them. Like me, they briefly look at each other with confusion before routine, habit takes over and pushes away everything that was before.
Our mission is everlasting. Our watch has lasted for over 10,000 years.
And then there are the others. Some call them “Strangers” or “Foreigners.” Others call them “Heroes.” They appeared here not long ago, at the side of the Prince. The Prince who has subjected us all to this torment.
These “Heroes” are nothing but looters. They scour the Academy, rummage through the ruins of the great city, rob the relics, the arcane scripts, the bones of my ancestors, even those of my brothers and sisters. No, these heroes are not here to help us. If they were sent by Mother Moon, they would put an end to our condition, find ways to end this game without pleasure, so we could all awaken from this nightmare.
But they do not. They come and go, day in and day out.
Then it begins again. The seagulls fly away with a final screech. They are smart animals, they know what is coming. They are superior to my sisters and me, for they can escape, flee this place. For a few heartbeats – what an absurd term in my state – one only hears the crashing of the waves.
Then comes the screaming. It spreads, faster than any fire. It is the young acolytes who notice it first and fall into panic.
The serpent people surge from the sea, pressing forward into our city. Although it is foolish, although I know what will happen, I try to save as many students from Nar’thalas as possible and lead them inside. It is madness, for…
The trident pierces me. Although no blood flows, I know that two of the three prongs have punctured my lungs. Although no blood flows, it hurts. Although no blood flows, I know I will not survive.
I can’t breathe anymore. It is absurd, for I could not inhale it anyway and yet I need it. But each time it escapes again from the wounds, while the blood that does not exist fills my lungs.
I think still “Mother Moon, if only Prince Farondis had never turned against the Light of Lights”, before my vision blurs and the screams of the dying grow quieter.
Although it hurts, although these are pains I would not wish on the worst enemies of the goddess, it has a familiar feeling. We are damned for all time. How many times has this curse forced me? I know, for I count with. As long as I can count, it is not eternity. It is the last thought I have:
Forty-two thousand five hundred thirteen.
I pray that this death will be my last.
