Himeka had asked, when they'd spoken in Achamoth, what proof there was the Regent could remake the world. Zenos had had no answer for her then - then, it had not mattered to him, because the Cause was not the important thing, only that heroes of her ilk opposed it enough to offer him sport - but in the time since it, as her comments were frustratingly wont to do, had niggled. He wonders, in the time where he is still capable of wondering - as his shard vibrates at his throat and the world begins to fall away - if this would be proof enough.

He's died before, of course. This is different. There is nowhere for his soul to retreat to - no thundering urge to do so - no light to turn away from, back towards flesh and fire and fury - because there is nothing.

This is exactly what he wants, isn't it? An End. The rest he's been denied time and time again; no more tepid beige slurry to crawl through, searching for that one bright spark of transcendent joy. That Resentment - that desire to Unmake - is his own self writ larger and brighter and Magnificent and Terrible, and it is tearing into the thing the Hates. This should be Beautiful. It is, in its way.

... so why, then, when the pop of Silco's champagne cork shatters the silence-beyond-silence, is the taste that clings to his teeth one of Fear, and not Relief?

He realises he's been holding his wineglass tight enough the stem has shattered in his grasp, and stalks towards one of the remaining servants to deposit the shards unceremoniously with them and source another drink.