The more his existence drank the particles he could not yet name, the more he understood.
He had no better word for them than the weavings of The Long Night, and so that was what he called them, and he drew them in, and with every one that sank into his Root a little more of the shape of the thing came clear to him!
He raised his hands, palms turned up, the same posture as the dead Immense One pouring the winter in the distance. But where light flowed out of that blank-eyed titan, something else flowed into Noah. Rivers of freezing white-blue brilliance ran down into his open palms, gathering there, pouring inward toward the Root that would not stop drinking.
Around him, the frozen underworld had become a storm.
He sat at the center of a swirling blue galaxy of snow, a slow turning vortex of white and blue drawn from every directon, pillars and rivers of the cold bending away from the seated dead and toward the one figure who had risen. It spiraled into him, all of it!
