The hand trembled.
It stopped, fingers spread, a breath from the collar, and it shook there in the air as though caught between two winds, and the face of Anaximander contorted through astonishment into shock and then into rage as the thing inside him hauled at the arm with everything it had absorbed across every age, and the arm did not move!
HUUM!
Impossible.|
The Voice tore out of the borrowed mouth.
|I accounted for everything. EVERYTHING. The wills of multiple Primevals lie atop his consciousness. Mine, and my friend's, and every candidate of every age, all of it pressing down on whatever remains of him, he cannot simply...! I....!|
But he could!
Oh, Anaximander could!
Because not too long ago ago, a scholar had said the same thing to the only two friends he had ever made in different times.
Whenever you need me, call. Say, Anaximander, Come!
