Alexander could still feel that phantom pain.
Constantly it thundered across his existence. Millions upon millions of years of agony had been compressed into what had objectively been only hours, but subjective experience did not care about objective time. He had lived through eons of torment. He had experienced every possible expression of suffering that Beowulf's expertise in Existential Nociceptors could produce.
And truly, he wanted to die.
That was how bad it was.
He wanted to die.
But he was not alone. Inside that fractured Enneagram on his chest, his family was still there. The souls he had promised to protect. The existences that depended on him to remain coherent enough to house them. If he collapsed, they collapsed with him.
So he endured.
Thinking of the Enneagram reminded him of what he had done.
THE Living Law.
