Стража! Стража!

           Therewasanatmosphere.

           "Brothers,"repeatedBrotherWatchtower,tryingtoreasserthimself,"weareallhere,aren’twe?"

           Therewasaworriedchorusofagreement.

           "Ofcourseweare."

           "What’sthematter?"

           "Yes!"

           "Yes."

           Thereitwasagain,asubtlewrongnessaboutthingsthatyoucouldn’tquiteputyourfingeronbecauseyourfingerwastooscared.ButBrotherWatchtower’stroublesomethoughtswereinterruptedbyascrabblingsoundontheroof.Afewnubsofplasterdroppedintothecircle.

           "Brothers?"repeatedBrotherWatchtowernervously.

           Nowtherewasoneofthosesilentsounds,along,buzzingsilenceofextremeconcentrationandjustpossiblytheindrawingofbreathintolungsthesizeofhaystacks.ThelastratsofBrotherWatchtower’sself-confidencefledthesinkingshipofcourage.

           "BrotherDoorkeeper,ifyoucouldjustunboltthedreadportal-"hequavered.

           Andthentherewaslight.

           Therewasnopain.Therewasnotime.

           Deathstripsawaymanythings,especiallywhenitarrivesatatemperaturehotenoughtovaporiseiron,andamongthemareyourillusions.TheimmortalremainsofBrotherWatchtowerwatchedthedragonflapawayintothefog,andthenlookeddownatthecongealingpuddleofstone,metalandmiscellaneoustraceelementsthatwasallthatremainedofthesecretheadquarters.Andofitsoccupants,herealisedinthedispassionatewaythatispartofbeingdead.Yougothroughyourwholelifeandendupasmearswirlingaroundlikecreaminacoffeecup.