Behind and above the wails, a primordial thunder clapped. A shudder went through the Wall, already restless souls stirred to frenzy. The Wall, the universe the faithless inhabited, was coming unfixed. In the pitch darkness, the fabric of their reality trembled at its foundation.

Then there was silence. A creeping, uncertain nothingness. Seconds or aeons passed. The torment of the Wall ceased, faithless souls frozen in what passed for space and time. The screams stopped. A collective breath was drawn and held.

Suddenly, a cleft appeared in the domain of the faithless, the darkness torn asunder by grey light, blinding in its brilliance. It drew Bishop's ragged, formless being towards it, scalding him with its lustre. Impossible, immeasurable pain resurged in him as the fibres of the Wall were torn from his ravaged body, drawn up his throat and from behind his eyes. He tried to scream, but no sound came as he was immolated, exorcised and regurgitated with an undignified plop on to cold, hard stone.

Trembling, he curled into a ball, eyes sealed shut, face buried in the crook of his elbow.

"Kneel, Bishop of Redfallows Watch."

That was a familiar voice. A voice that had haunted him in the Wall. The same voice that asked him why he had chosen the path he had in life. Kelemvor, the tyrant and tormentor, master of the Wall, bane of the faithless.

Bishop could only manage to force himself to his knees before strong hands lifted his shoulders and he settled back on to his legs, bleary eyes blinking open.

It was an odd scene. Bishop sat on the promenade, surrounded by the grey robed servants of Kelemvor, bastard swords drawn and bloodied. Black smoke rose in thick plumes on the horizon, crumbled masonry stacked in piles. The spire itself, towering above the city, wore a great cleft in the crystal, a scar from a recent battle. Halfway up the promenade, behind the looming figure of the god of the dead, lay the still smouldering corpse of a great dragon, four legs hanging limp in the air, ruined wings splayed across the stones.

"A bargain has been struck for your soul." Kelemvor went on, behind his mask "You are to be returned to the prime material plane, your life restored to you, against my better judgement."

The god paused to survey the damage to his city, hand on the hilt of his sword worn high at the waist.

"Few are given a second chance. What you do with it will be up to you. But I will await your return, Bishop."

Bishop's head was spinning. This was all too much, too fast. He had so many questions, but his voice had not returned. He barely comprehended the scene in front of him and watched dumbstruck as Kelemvor signalled to his acolytes. A circle was drawn around him, incense was lit, the bone charms were cast.

"All come before me, in the end. It is only a matter of time… and of faith."

"Wha…?" was all he could manage to croak before the circle surrounding him was illuminated and the figure of Kelemvor was outshone by the brightness.

Deep in the dark recesses of his mind, something stirred.

Breathe.

He opened his mouth and tasted cold, bitter water.

You need to breathe.

He snorted and choked, lungs burning and his eyes flashed open to a world of murky green. There was pressure on his ears, his body weightless.

Breathe!

Lungs burning, his feet found purchase and he surged upward. As his head breached the water's surface, he took a great, shuddering breath, filling his lungs to near bursting. Sweet swamp air flowed true and clear into his lungs and he took great gulps of it, drinking in the smell of the swamp, his heart bursting with joy to be alive and breathing again.

Wobbling on his unsteady knees, he steadied himself in the water, up to his elbows in muck. Something resembling dry land lay only feet away and he sloshed forwards, half walking, half paddling to the nearby muddy slope. There was no great strength in his arms and it took what felt like an age to claw himself out of the mire and kneel, face down, in the dirt.

Limbs trembling from the exertion, he howled into the muck. A howl of joy for his escape from eternal torment. A howl of grief for the suffering he had endured. A howl of pity and remorse for the man he had been.

For a moment, he lay still, feeling withered sunlight on his face, listening to the sounds of the trees. It was all a violent assault on his senses, unused in the Wall. Taking slow, steadying breaths, he reassured himself. He had time.

"Don't move!" someone called out, steel in their gravelly voice.

Bishop forced himself to a kneeling position, blinking mud from his eyes and squinting at where the sound had come from.

Pain exploded in his chest as a crossbow bolt hit him with a thud. He roared, as a reflex more than anything else, as if pain was new to him. In the dim light, Bishop's eyes adjusted. There were five figures standing by a campfire, one bent over to knock another bolt in the crossbow. Weapon reloaded, the figure approached from the haze, a mop of shaggy chestnut hair above keen blue eyes. A familiar face.

"Pavel?" Bishop rasped, clutching for the name of Linn's childhood friend, the young brother of Lorne Starling who had served as a captain in the Keep's forces.

"Bevil." He corrected, staring at the ranger in disbelief. They locked eyes for a moment of stunned silence.

"I can expl-" Bishop began, his words cut off by Bevil's roar of fury. The stock of the crossbow came down heavy on Bishop's forehead and the ranger was unconscious before his head hit the ground.

The sun was low when he came to, crackling campfire at his back. Bound and gagged, he breathed the familiar, earthy smell of the mere through his nose. Bevil's camp was set near an empty stone archway, a gateway to a collapsed pile of ruins. The last of the grim daylight cast ominous shadows over the great pile of broken masonry, blanketed by vines and creepers. It was the entrance to the Vale of Meredelain, where Garius had taken him after the battle for Crossroad Keep. The very entrance he had been running for as the tunnel collapsed. Killing him.

Bishop groaned with recognition and struggled meekly against his tight bonds, rope at his ankles and wrists, tied behind his back. Something stirred behind him, heavy boots squelched and he was hauled to his knees in the mud.

Bevil sat across the fire from him. Unshaved, looking tired and worn down by the muddy armour he wore. The blue cloak of the Crossroad Keep soldiery was stained with the grime of the mere, wrapped close around him. More than anything, he looked scared. Two soldiers, similarly attired, sat on either side of the fire, and two more again held Bishop in place.

Without speaking, Bevil nodded to one of his comrades behind Bishop. A cork popped and cold water poured over his scalp then down his face and neck. Perhaps a cup's worth. After a moment of tense observation, Bevil spoke.

"Ungag him."

"Sir, just because the holy water didn't do anything doesn't mean he isn't-"

"Ungag him, recruit."

After a moment's hesitation, the rag in Bishop's mouth was pulled free from his worn and stinging lips.

"You shot me." Bishop growled.

"You moved." Bevil replied with a shrug "What are you?"

At that moment, Bishop was many things. Hungry, angry, exhausted, confused and hurting from the lump on his head and the bolt wound in his shoulder.

"I'm… back."

"How?"

Bishop explained as best he was able, describing the City of Judgment and how the god of death had imprisoned him in the Wall then rescued him after what felt like an eternity to send him back for reasons unknown. It didn't take very long to tell the tale and it sounded much less phenomenal than it had felt firsthand.

"He's lying." said the guard behind him after he described waking up in the bog and crawling ashore.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Bevil replied, still looking at Bishop, as though he was trying to see the truth in the ranger's eyes. "Not for us to say. Can you walk?"

"If you feed me." Bishop replied, his stomach letting out an audible grumble at the mention of food.

"You can eat at the Weeping Willow when we get there. Put his gag back on, we're breaking camp."