[It's the middle of the night, and Sorrow is at the fountain. His shirt is dampened, the black fabric matte in patches where liquid has gathered. There are flecks of blood at the edges of his hair; since it isn't tamed back right now, thin locks manage to dangle by his jaw. His face seems to have gone past rueful, past said, past even despaired, ( Read more... )

[Sorrow makes his way to the top of the lighthouse, padding up the spiral stairs with not a single board's creak. Suspended above him there, at the tower's height, is a huge double lamp with two immense reflectors. Down in the staircase, one or two curious ghosts pause on the steps to peer up at him; he focuses his mind on them for just a moment, ( Read more... )