Osiris sits in the small stone garden beneath the Traveler; his attempts at communion unsuccessful. He had seen the Speaker stand here for hours.
Ikora had begrudgingly agreed to appear in his place at the Remembrance. Her words were stern, but deep down, she knows victories have lulled in complacency.
There is an imminent, daunting pressure.
A noose awaiting a misstep.
A delicate game.
Braziers cast shadows; distracting shades flickering across his eyes, breaking his concentration.
The stone gardens are endless space. The skyline is razed horizon.
He is alone in the void. Intrusions no more.
There is a point in the depth. It cannot be directly viewed.
Delve. Dive. Deeper.
Still, only a point in the aphotic depth.
The nothing. Expansive.
Osiris sinks to gain new perspective. The point remains.
It is so faint. Distant. Though he knows he can see the Light.
His reach stretched thin. Clarity, in the space between his hand and the point. The osseous-white point. Dim now.
The omnipresence was.
Vast. Himself against the enormity; an endless unfurling midnight. And a lone point.
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