It was important for death, part of the limitless country whose solitary line was the demonstration of biting the dust, and like all Mysteries, it was a domain where one could lose oneself absolutely, where the idea of eternal life was changed from a philosophical idea into a dreary genuineness, a district whose incomprehensible rationales could in a moment overlap up a fold of dark embodiment into the state of a beast, adream, an interminable cluster of fear occasions and items. He felt now similar loose gravities as he had when he condemned, a similar weakening gloom and loss of direction, as though he were falling and falling, expecting a fire to get in his blood that would loan him the solidarity to swim against the flows of death and endeavor toward one of the weak lights that selected the distance. By one way or another the Patriarch had prevailed with regards to wedding the continuums of life and demise, and here he abided in both, at home in fire and in ice, totality and nothingness, soaking himself in these unadulterated contraries, solidifying over the long hundreds of years into a divine being. More terrified than he could recollect, Beheim moved in an opposite direction from the edge of the wharf, eyes fixed on the mass of fuming bodies; however at that point he spotted something on a dock straightforwardly inverse, maybe 100 feet away, that provided him opportunity to stop and think: a blasting figure, a man made all of white fire, so forcefully characterized against the blue-dull scenery, it seemed inset into the air. However it had human structure, it was featureless, its impact rather like, he was later to think, a wizard’s imprint stepped at the lower part of a spiritualist parchment. After a couple of beats the figure lifted its arm and highlighted a battered opening looking like a cavern mouth approximately forty feet above and to one side. Beheim had the thought it was bringing up a way to the Patriarch, telling him to take it. Be that as it may, the possibility of venturing down among those half-alive things carelessly beating their approach to no place… He was unable to bear it. He kept sponsorship toward the entryway, however as he turned about, getting ready to run, he observed himself to be eye to eye with another bursting white figure. (Or on the other hand was it the equivalent? At the point when he looked behind him, he saw no indication of the first.) It stood a manageable distance away, hindering his exit. However the face was without include, as he gazed into that white oval, into a particularly searing supreme of whiteness it appeared to stream with astonishing traces of each tone, he had a feeling of crazy keenness, a spirit in angry disorder. One dash of that sparkling hand, he thought, and rankling energy would spread through his tissue, magicking him into a raving, featureless thing, a spirit detained inside a defensive layer of fire, crazy by torment, proficient just of this sentinel submission. Beheim’s previously thought was that the figure had once been a man such as himself, one who had disappointed the Patriarch and been rebuffed in this design; however at that point he was seized by the information that this was not somebody such as himself, but rather was by some uncanny interaction the picture or truth of hisfuture, the fiendish thing he would become if presently he attempted to escape. He was unable to tell whether this impression was simply foreboding or then again in the event that it had been planted in his brain by the Patriarch…