I didn’t want my demise to be the simple consumption of time on earth, and I should likewise concede to a level of weakness. Then, at that point one morning—I had been exploring different avenues regarding Felipe’s medication—in the wake of getting back from a stroll outside the palace dividers, I was passing the Golden’s chamber, and it happened to me that she could fill in as the office of my death. I thought this was a great idea. I had consistently sought to take an interest in a Decanting, and presently I could fulfill this longing. I realized the Patriarch would not allow such a break of custom to go unpunished. He would condemn me to an Illumination. Also, in that, I understood, lay the worth of my passing. I would have questions put to me that would shine the perishing light of my psyche on the specific piece of things to come that has so concerned me these previous years: whether or not the Family should leave the West and go into the East for wellbeing.” Beheim attempted to remove a stage, yet he felt frozen in place. Agenor’s tall dark figure undulated like something seen through fire, and his voice had the reverberation of an extraordinary ringer; its vibrations dizzied Beheim, made him slow and cutthroat. “I wanted to take a taste, no more. Just a taste. Be that as it may, whenever I had tasted the Golden, I couldn’t stop. Goodness, Michel, what a character the blood had! Also, it was not the character alone that directed me. There were dreams. Maybe I had turned into the Golden, as though by drinking I streamed along the waterway of her life and knew… No, not knew. Felt! I felt all her womanly mysteries, the hot joy waked by a first kiss, her month to month torments, her sharp virginal longings. I corrupted myself in my maltreatment of her. Thus with a solitary demonstration of viciousness I dismissed hundreds of years of mild life and insightful standards. At the point when I saw what I had done, my craving for death developed further, and I put into high gear a plan that would both rebuff me and hoist you. I accepted that regardless of your inability you were the person who should have my spot, that you would turn into the voice in our Family for strategies of reason and limitation. I planned to lead you gradually toward the finish of my responsibility, to make it look like your brightness had won the day. However, presently apparently my choice to bite the dust was not a firm one.” He positioned his head as though hearing an internal voice and made a scratchy clamor in his throat, as though what he had heard had managed the cost of him gentle amazement. His way of talking became progressively ending and occupied. “It was rarely firm. Never. I… I comprehend that at this point. My desire to die, maybe, was only one more side effect of the psychological flightiness that had so discouraged me, a sort of grim perkiness. Games. I was messing around. With myself, I assume. With everybody, and everything. Furthermore, my tangled effort to accomplish demise through your examination, that, as well, was a manifestation. A game. I both did and didn’t have any desire to kick the bucket, you see. Equallyattractive closures. So I developed this situation against which to play out my irresoluteness. Indeed, even right now I am playing with the thoughts of death and respectable penance. Be that as it may, a broke giggle—”I won’t accomplish more than play with them.” Agenor, Beheim acknowledged, had moved very near him, not exactly a careful distance away. His white hair looked splendid as fire. The extended lines on his temple appeared to compose an epic of worry, of profound examination; his eyes were hooded, agonizing; however there was a febrile slackness to his mouth that talked about shortcoming, extravagance, an internal unwinding. That articulation was a sign of awful risk—Beheim knew it well. In any case, every one of his perceptions and acknowledgments were pointless. He was unable to mix a stage. Agenor’s lips separated in a gradually creating grin to uncover his teeth, and Beheim felt that he was wilting away inside himself, as defenseless as a bird before a snake. Then, at that point something came whistling down onto the side of Agenor’s head, something that affected with a strong thud. He shouted and staggered away. Blood finished his white hair, rilled in a substantial stream down his cheek and jaw, and Alexandra, her hair in chaos, looking half-distraught herself with dread, dropped the dead branch with which she had struck him and gotten Beheim’s hand and pulled him toward the forest. Still stupefied, he battled against her. She yelled, smacked his face, and stung to sharpness, he let her drag him along, running cumbersomely over the lopsided ground, staggering sideways at whatever point he struck a downturn, thrashing his arms to keep up with balance. There was a thundering at his back, a sound, for example, an injured creature may have made.