It vaguely resembled him. His hair, his eyes, were the same.
Nothing else would say that it was him. Nothing else could get out more than a whisper.
The temple light shown down upon the abandoned street and glared in the face of the man who had been the first of his kind, the most famous of his kind. He was a Juggernaut.
A light rain fell on the cobblestones and he hesitated in his step. The temple seemed to waiver in his vision. Was he dreaming? What would he do if he was?
He drunkenly took another step, his right hand brushing against the lightpost.
He fell in the sand, face forward, then lifted his head.
There was no temple, there was no rain…only the dark sands of the wilderness. He was dry to the bones. Even worse than the dryness in his body was the dryness of his soul.
But the man he had seen near the temple; could he be the one he was supposed to find? What had happened to the temple, it was there, then gone.
Had he been thinking rationally, he could have reasoned the cause, but reason had abandoned his dry soul long ago.
Power will abandon us all: Health will fail us.
Michael died in the desert he had created. In his own creation did he die.
Closer to the way of life than ever, but never on the right side.
Mourned by many, known by few, he was a brave soul.
These were the words written on his headstone.
