The Last Dark: The climax of the entire Thomas Covenant Chronicles (Last Chronicles of Thomas Cove)

never learned the most mundane social interactions. In that respect, he was younger than his years; unfamiliar with himself.
    Yet he had learned other lessons too well. The flames of Lord Foul’s bonfire had taught him that some pains were unendurable. And the moral rape of possession—the manner in which he had been used by the
croyel
to betray Linden’s trust—had shown him that hating what was done to him both aided and harmed him. It gave him the desire to fight back—and yet it also convinced him that he would not have been so hurt if he did not deserve it. Hate cut both ways. If he had not been such a coward—if he had not hidden himself away to escape his wounds—Lord Foul and the
croyel
would not have been able to possess him, use him. He had brought his worst suffering on himself.
    He did not understand why that was true. Nevertheless he yearned to
pay back
what had happened to him. At the same time, he hated what he felt. He hated himself for feeling it.
    But there had been other forces at work in him as well. His mother’s love and devotion had kept him alive. With Tinkertoys and Legos, Lincoln Logs and racetrack sections, he had constructed a sense of possibility and worth that might have eluded a less abused youth. And during his visits to the Land, Covenant’s spirit in the Arch had offered him a one-sided friendship, compassionate and respectful.
    The result was a conflicting moil of emotions which he did not know how to manage.
    And now Linden had abandoned him; actually
abandoned
him in order to enter a
caesure
with Mahrtiir. The fact that she had explained her actions did not ease him. It did not muffle the beat of indignation and fear in his veins. He had
counted
on her. She had
taught
him to count on her.
    And yet, strangely, he could hardly contain his excitement. Right here, right now, he had a chance to make his whole life worthwhile. If he succeeded, he would save some of the
Elohim
, some of the stars. He would prove that Lord Foul and the
croyel
and his natural mother were wrong about him. From head to foot, he trembled with eagerness to begin.
    That contradiction was confusing enough; but he had more.
    He had inherited Anele’s legacy of Earthpower. It belonged to him now: the Land’s living energy had become as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. He was inured against the vagaries of heat and cold, wind and wet. His bare feet endured sharp rocks and the ancient shards of weapons or armor without discomfort. His health-sense sloughed off Kevin’s Dirt. He could fuse bones to make marrowmeld sculptures. He could even summon fire from his hands. And there might be more possibilities.
    For him, Earthpower had become a piercing pleasure. It had enabled him to rescue himself from his prison.
    But he had received other things from Anele as well. The old man had given him inarticulate scraps of knowledge, and horrific vulnerabilities, and an instinct for moral dread. Much as he treasured Anele’s gifts, their implications appalled him.
    And because he had never learned how to manage among his emotions, he tried to ignore the worst of them. Nevertheless they clung to him. He was like his pajamas. His mother had dressed him in them and tucked him lovingly into bed. The horses rearing across their faded blue might have been Ranyhyn. Now they were torn and tattered; soiled with grime and dirt; defined by bullets. From the waist down, their innocence bore the stains of Liand’s death. The
croyel
’s gore marked the shirt.
    So he had turned his back on Linden when she had insisted on throwing her life away in the Land’s past. What else could he have done? He did not know who he was without her. He hardly seemed to exist. When her
caesure
collapsed into itself and vanished, taking her and Mahrtiir and their Ranyhyn to a place and time from which they might never return, Jeremiah dissociated them in his mind, buried them away. Then he chose the excitement of building. It was his only escape.
    “Come on!” he called down to the Giants and Stave. “Let’s get started. The longer we wait, the more
Elohim
we’ll lose.”
    Elohim
and stars.
    That was why he was here, after all: to save things that could not save themselves. To delay the Worm’s feeding, slow its progress toward the Blood of the Earth. To buy time until somebody came up with a better answer.
    But the Giants ignored his shout. None of them glanced up at him. Even Stave did not. With the Swordmainnir, the former