Swiftcurrent Creek August slipped away into a moment in time.

Unseeing—and yet the softest brush to his cheek, branding him, as it had once before. He blinked—shifting his weight, trying to straighten, but finding no energy. Lethargy pulled at him, and he allowed his eyes to close a moment as the voice from his mind toyed with him coyingly—at times he had thought to have forgotten her voice, as the moons passed. Now, it was as if the softest whisper was indescribably her—as if his memory hadn’t truly failed him.

And gods, it hurt.

You’re alive, the voice seemed to say—and he wondered now how far along the edge of sanity he remained. “For what purpose?” His own voice a dark rumble—the beginning of an end, perhaps.