Silence stretched across the land. Wind, its only companion.

Silence.

It's all there ever was here.

Silence broken only by the occasional shriek of a bird in the distance, by a snort from the horse grazing next to him, and by the agonized screaming of the dying colossi.

And by Dormin. The voice he feared and relished. His damnation and his salvation.

And every now and then, he imagined he could hear her too. Her weak voice crying out for him, or merely her shaky breaths. But he could be imagining it.

But for the most part, silence was all there was.

And silence left him time to think. Time to gaze across this huge land and realize how alone he was.

Time seemed to pass differently, the sun had been in the sky since he had arrived, and he wasn't sure if it was his perception of the passing of time that was off, or if here, at the end of all things, night and day no longer applied.

All in all, he mused, it did not matter.

For as it were, he had all the time he needed. All the time he needed to fell these creatures, to bring her back.

And also all the time he needed to gaze at the black blood on his hands, on his clothes. And the silence during which to imagine it sinking through his skin, being absorbed into his blood, becoming him.

To remember the moments when the black tendrils had pierced his body, and how he then no longer knew who it was who was dying, him or the creature. No longer knew who was in more pain, whose pain it was, who it was who actually perished.

And which one of the two he was.

Even upon waking, he was not sure. The lingering effects still pained him. And he was afraid. Afraid, because, if he cut himself, he was no longer sure that his blood would be red.

His gut clenched in fear at the thought.

"Agro" he called softly, needing the company, acutely aware of his solitude; needing to hear his own voice, acutely aware of how close to the edge of oblivion he stood.

If a tree fell in the woods, and no one was there to hear it, would it make a sound?

If a man was outcast by his village, and no one was there to see him die, did anyone care?

If a man died alone in the wilderness, and no one mourned him, did he ever really exist?

Would anyone remember him, should he fail?

Could he even succeed?

Would he ever see her smiling face again?

Desperation gripped him, cold fear and inferiority seeping through his veins, mixing with the black blood he was sure was there and the agonized screams of those creatures he had killed echoing in his mind. He clutched his head, a grimace of pain and deep sorrow on his face.

Who was he? This clan-less, loveless man who sought meaning in crawling over rocks and moss like some insect, killing the only company he had. A corrupting feeling that was slowly taking hold of his body, was it because of the black tendrils that pierced his body and made him one with the creatures he killed? Or was it because he was brutally killing the only other living creatures here? The only ones he could now call neighbors.

Here alone, at the edge of the map, was he creature, or was he man?

Did it matter?

A gentle nudge on his arm broke him out of his reverie. He looked up and saw Agro standing next to him, head lowered to nudge his master's arm. Brown eyes blinked slowly at him, and as the man still did nothing, Agro snorted with a shake of his dark mane, sending dust up from the ground in a small cloud, and nudged the man's arm with his nose again.

The man smiled and reached out pat the horse's sleek neck. Seems he wasn't so alone after all.

"It's alright, Agro, we'll be alright." He said reassuringly, and brown eyes blinked at him again.

Regardless of how much he doubted, he had a job to do, he had to keep on going, there was nothing else for him.

He pulled himself up into the saddle, tired muscles protesting, and sat for a bit staring off to the horizon.

Then he raised the sword to the sun, letting it guide him through this empty land.

"Not all those who wander are lost" she had once smiled and told him.

He wasn't so sure.

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