And who knew what lay beyond in that undiscovered country? What if it was the Hell of the Greeks and the Romans and the Christians where demons exulted as they burned you with unquenchable fire? Or what if it was nothing, nothing but floating in the thin atmosphere above the earth along with mindless spirits such as Gremt had once been, and Amel had once been, and Memnoch had once been? What if he found himself there, bodiless, neither thirsty nor full, neither warm nor cold, neither sleepy nor wide awake, drifting forever as he peered down on the lights of the earth as his memories slowly dimmed and finally left him completely alone with all his suffering, a thing that might witness without understanding, or haunt out of a need for which he no longer had a name?

Was the air itself made of dead souls?

And what if some night, floating up there beyond the reach of love or hatred, of pity or fear, he heard the music again coming from the ballroom of a mountain château below, heard music which he had all his life so loved, music down there, music once more organizing his thoughts and his emotions and calling him back to himself to discover that he was as dead as anything in this strange world could be?

To die or not to die, that is the question; it is nobler to live in torment and rage than not to live at all? And to recall almost nothing of the slings and arrows that drove one over the brink?

Someone was coming towards him. Someone was walking rapidly up an old path through boulders and trees, towards the spot where Rhosh sat, like an angel perched upon a small cliff.

And who would that be? Well, who did it have to be—the Prince himself, of course, the one being that Rhosh could not blast into infinity unless he chose to destroy himself?

He watched and listened. The figure was hurrying. The figure had a time of it in the deep snow, and jumped uneasily from this outcropping to that. No, that couldn’t be the Prince. The Prince was too strong and likely knew the woods too well.

Suddenly, as the figure drew closer and came up the rise directly below him, Rhoshamandes knew for certain who it was, and turned away, burying his head in the crook of his right arm.

Oh, that this too, too certain pain would not come.

It was Benedict standing only a few yards below him, his own beloved Benedict, who had left him six months ago in a rage of recriminations and condemnations and sought the shelter of those who’d forgiven Benedict for the slaughter of Maharet but not Rhosh.