an epilogue
The wanderer stands on the cliffside, watching with dimmed eyes, waiting for something that will never occur. A sign. A signal.
Finally, finally, the wanderer is ready. At least, the wanderer thinks that the wanderer is ready. Ready to return home, at last.
Ready to see Nathaniel again.
Ready to see Acatalepsy again.
Ready to face the truth.
The wanderer came here with good intentions. The wanderer wanted to free the people, here. Wanted to help. But the wanderer never was able to. The wanderer sometimes wonders if it is because of the wanderer's sins; if perhaps the wanderer had committed one too many sins long ago, and now everyone else was paying for it.
That, however, was a silly thought. Karma did not come for gods. It came for lowly men, instead.
The wanderer signs the letter and sends it.
And with a flash, the wanderer is gone, leaving nothing but stains of ink behind.
