As he fled his miracle, the crowd fell to their knees in wonder before him. He wanted to stop them. He wanted to shout at them. He wanted to shake them, hard, until their awful expressions of awe evaporated.
He knew, unquestionably, that he would never again be able to do what he had just done. His relentless, fanatical source of power was gone, and an entirely different madness smoldered instead. Yet he could not help but sink into the soft, consuming burn. He was lost, he knew that. He could only hope to keep Camelot from burning with him.