Yes, perhaps you do.
‘Nimander.’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you. For this gift of creation.’
‘Next time you meet Gothos,’ Nimander said as his friend pushed him through the portal, ‘punch him in the face for me, will you?’
‘Yes, another good idea. I will miss you. You and your good ideas.’He fell through on to a thick powdery slope, hastily reaching up to grip the window’s edge to keep from sliding. Behind and below voices cried out in sudden hunger. He could feel their will churning up to engulf him.
A heavy scrape from the window and out came the final stone, end first, grinding as it was forced through. Catching Nimander by surprise. The weight pushed against his fingers where he held tight and he swore in pain as the tips were crushed, pinned-tearing one hand free left nails behind, droplets of blood spattering. He scrabbled for another handhold, then, voicing a scream, he tore loose his other arm.
Gods, how was he going to manage this? With two mangled hands, with no firm footing, with a mob surging frantic up the slope behind him?
Inexorable, the stone ground its way out. He brought a shoulder beneath it, felt the massive weight settling. His arms began to tremble.
Far enough now, yes, and he reached with one hand, began pushing to one side the nearest end of the blood-slick chunk of obsidian. He could see the clever angles now, the planes and how everything would somehow, seemingly impossibly, slide into perfect position. Push, some more-not much-almost in place-
Thousands, hundreds of thousands-a storm of voices, screams of desperation, of dismay, of terrible horror-too much! Please, stop! Stop!
He was weakening-he would not make it-he could not hold on any longer-with a sob he released his grip and in the last moment, tottering, he pushed with both hands, setting the stone-and then he was falling back, down, swallowed in cascading ash, stones, scouring chunks of rough pumice. Down the slope he tumbled, buried beneath ever more rubble. Hot. Suffocating. Blind. Drowning and one flailing hand was grasped, hard, by one and then two hands-small a woman’s hands.
His shoulder flared in pain as that grip tightened, pulled him round. The collapsing hillside tugged at him, eager to take him-he understood its need, he sympathized, yes, and wanted to relent, to let go, to vanish in the crushing darkness.
The hands dragged him free. Dragged him by one bloody arm. The storm of voices raged anew, closer now and closing fast. Cold fingertips scrabbled against his boots, nails clawing at his ankles and oh he didn’t care, let them take him, let them-
He tumbled down on to damp earth. Gloom, silence but for harsh breaths, a surprised grunt from nearby.