filled his lungs with the dusty, sweet air and looked out on tomorrow and forever with clear and guiltless eyes.
He tested his power. It was intact.
He walked to the inner and outer barriers, kicking them down. He looked out at the sunlit ruins of the city.
If I live, he thought (and barring accident I can live forever), I can build it up again. I have magic; they gave it to me and no one can take it away. Magic and science, humanity and the Powers. It’s supposed to have worked that way long ago. It will again. Build it up again…
And if I don’t, if I fail, then at least I’ve fixed it so they have no enemies but themselves. Terrible as that might be, there are worse things.
He saw a flicker of movement in the distance, something feeble, hungry, misshapen, ragged.
The runesmith stepped out of the shadows, and walked toward the movement in the distance. There was sun now. For the first time. Because he wanted sun. And he wanted cool breezes. And the scent of good things in the air.
He could have it all now. They might never forgive him, but they could not harm him, and he would help them, as they had never been able to help themselves.
They were still alone, but perhaps it would be better now.
