"Child, child, wake for me as an echo of the sun."
It was the voice; the voice took. Coaxing him, asking him, telling him, demanding of him. It was the voice.
It was the dark and the cold and the hurt and the madness all rolled up into one, for the voice was many and the many were one.
"At worlds end I believed in you. One of the weary on the run."
Yet, the voice gave to him that one thing that was, to him, indelible.
"To you I entrusted my all, my people, my dreams."