There were only two of them left, now. Two, when once, long, long ago, there had been billions. Luckily, even with their numbers reduced to so little, they still had been able to do what needed to be done. But had what they’d done been enough? Would the cosmos survive the eons to come–the eons where there would be no one powerful enough to keep the Prison guarded? The hope was that it would, provided that the Key stayed hidden–or that it had already been destroyed, altogether.
Knowing the status of the Key, however, had become a problem. The efforts to hide it from those who would use it–and there was at least still one of those, may her name be forever cursed–had made it all but impossible to detect. Touching it with so much Obliviation–which had seemed a wise precaution at the time the plans were made–now seemed foolish. Why keep the location of the Key from those who wanted it hidden, and who had gone to all the trouble of hiding it in the first place? Surely they–of which there were now only two–would know better than to use something so dangerous, wouldn’t they?
Perhaps, thought the bespectacled man who stood at the doorway of what had come to be called the Void. But, if we’re so trustworthy, how could we ever have done the things we have? How could we have left so much devastation and suffering for those who will come after us?
You linger too long, Brother. The voice in his head spoke to him from the other side of the doorway, and, though the person to whom it belonged was very much like him, that person was not his brother. No, his true brother was long dead, one of the lucky ones who had never lived to see the Cataclysm. What’s done is done. It’s time for you to join me.
And so it was. The bespectacled man opened the door to the Void and stepped through, thinking as he did so that he, as well as the one who waited for him, the one who called him Brother, were no better than the monsters they left behind.
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