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The slithering dark is cold against my face.
I cannot speak, cannot breathe, I reach for Sagira but then I remember… I form a fist but feel nothing, I am bound, and as I thrash the images cut fissures through my mind—
She has stolen my form, my voice, but someone will see my failure and cast her out… they MUST—
A glimmer of sunlight… how long has it been? Zavala looks at me—at her, considers her words, poison cloaked in wisdom. I cry out, he must know. Zavala, listen, LISTEN, you KNOW me, you know not to—
The smell of night flowers… I am walking—SHE is walking through a moonlit garden, and there is Ikora, speaking, laughing, nodding… Look, Ikora, LOOK AT ME, DON'T YOU SEE IT—
Pay attention, pay ATTENTION, I taught you better than this—
I hear his voice and push to the surface. Saint. No no NO I scream but there is no sound. He looks into her eyes, he smiles, he reaches for me but it is not me, Saint, that is not ME, PLEASE, please—
I am weeping but I cannot weep. I am nothing, only heat and hate, only sickness and shame.
"Trust me," I hear my voice say, and I drown again.
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