The ointment smeared over my left eye, clouding my vision like some kind of cloth used to keep the truth hidden from a captive. My right eye adjusted to the loss of depth perception as I continued to write history into existence. The burning sensation was dying down, but still, with each blink, the epithelium threatened to tear away from its home on my eye. I kept it closed for the most part, but concentrating enough to do so distracted me from my work. I knew there was a reason I was enduring such pain, just as I knew it stemmed from the frigid air blowing down on me, numbing my extremities and making my skin tighten, revealing goose bumps under the hairs on my arms.

The slag, my personal assistant, hovered close by in case I was in need of anything.  I knew the task was hard to manage. I was hot, then cold, and then in pain, then too busy toiling away at my work to be bothered with him. It the worlds of my stories men such as myself would have been seen as rude, incorrigible men. I wondered for a moment if he felt such towards me. The thought lifted much like the epithelium on my eye and once again I felt the stabbing pain like a needle in my eye as ambient air and light invaded towards the weakest part of me.

“Why must I endure?” I asked no one in particular. I felt a lurch in The God Machine, but the sensation revealed nothing about my plight or the reason for this life.

All I felt as my vision clouded over once again was the drifting sensation of falling back into history, knowing full-well that the outcome for these characters would appear just as shrouded as the words I scratched onto parchment below me.

Lexandera Areva

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