He could see, and what he saw was the ceiling of his coffin. There was no peace, no beauty, no stream of recollection. It was a drab and awful moment he could not have imagined in the worst of his nightmares.
And then he beheld two things, and in beholding them, felt a sense of hopefulness steal over him he could not explain.
The first was recognition of the organic sword Rosethorn (for her water-rejuvenated, oil slick-colored, nearly black surface had rendered her all but invisible before) ... still high above him but lowering steadily, all the while twirling horizontally and gleaming as though made of night and stars. The second was a glimmer of pearlesque light—which danced at the very edge of his vision as if someone had kindled a torch in the depths—so that he dropped his chin to fi
