In the place that is not a place, visions of the Ruptures and Raptures are captured for all eternity, remembered, never forgotten, just like everything else.

One book at a time, bricks for a cathedral, lines for an epic - it will be completed, it must be completed: ruination. Pages scattered to the twelve winds, knowledge forever gone. This must not be -

The roof father fixed, the walls mother painted, the house that was home - gone, sacrificed, all because of the good will to a mage. “Sorry,” he said, sincere and sorrowful. “Sorry,” it dissipated in the cold wind, blowing across where used to be a house.

Golden fields burnt, giving way to a festering wound carved into the soft, warm soil. A body being carried out on top of gleaming ore, weightless, worthless. Never again a chance to utter: “Father”.

Crystalline cascade courses through the clearing. Another secret stroll in the forest. Another small act of rebellion. A tap on the shoulder, a slender arm longer than a beech branch, a scream cut short by another’s battle cry. A homecoming drenched in blood, in death.

Blinding red, searing heat, pain, the moan of wood, the crack of stone. All gone, everything. Home is a place and that place is no more.

Turn over the mirrors. Throw away the pictures. Cover all windows. Away, away, to lay eyes upon such abomination is worse than death! The praises of beauty are now a cruel reminder, the cheers mockery. To have such a face is worse than not having one at all.

A heavy blade falls from calloused hands, its weight suddenly unbearable in the homely candle light. Turn and look back. Ten thousand shadows casted on the wall - foes fell, rivals slain, nemesis vanquished. Blood-soaked soil, upon which crops now grow.

Gilded clouds unfurl like tender summer vines. A blue dress vanishes behind the wall of roses. Peek behind, or don’t. A drop of tear, a drop of blood, an embrace of roses, a lingering touch.

Another body hits the ground, another brick upon the wall. How many more? How many more? Friends, brothers, comrades - bricks in the wall.

Long, suffocating nights, being assailed by an ennui that strangles and flays. Whispers of a familiar voice: this is all there is.

The bed is hard, the sheets worn thin. The air is putrid, heavy, slick. No one comes to the door with dinner. Just another thing forgotten, like them. “Brother?” The response is ragged, shallow breath. “Brother?” The response is a repressed sob, he does not want his brother to see his weakness. “Brother?” The response is silence.

Once proud spines bent down by years of moil, injuries, duty. Eyes once so bright clouded. They cannot see they are blind. They will not see reason. Wrest over the blade, the bow, the weight! - hurry, before it’s too late. Bodies broken on the battlefield: the end of heroes.

“What do you want?” Hands extended, eyes pleading. “What do you want?” They do not hear. “What do you want?” Hands outstretched, eyes begging. “What do you want?” They cannot hear. But the dolls hear, the toys understand. They can live entire lives in silence.

Why must it be so, why is the world so cruel. For the reward that had been dealt out for our suffering we are abandoned. It can't be so, it can't be. It is a gift and I will show them… I will show them how much good magic can do.

A crying boy, alone at the side of the road. They left him there. But another will not leave him. An outstretched hand, a painted face. A clown smiles and tells him to come along: “Bring smiles to other's faces, and someday you'll bring a smile to your own!”

So great he towers above you. You beg and plead and shout and scream, but he cannot hear you. It is the magic, that must be why. You are too weak, you don't understand enough. If you can be as great as him…

A child watches as her mother closes her eyes for one last time. Rage at the unfairness, rage at her father, rage at the Sanctuary that was made for people like him.