Done.

The fire has died down and the flames no longer lick at my plating, boiling the flesh underneath without a care. My exoskeleton is now a brittle collection of segments, the tissue beneath it ash and sand, not the living stuff that was there just a short while ago. The job is done, the knowledge so much like electricity, like fire, like the hand of some god has left and Olo Lamna is left behind to pick up the diamonds scattered all over the floor and polish them. Later they will be either put on display or buried with the carcass out back...no matter, it's done. My job is done and I am used up.
Used-up, burned to a crisp, but something has been done here. I can only hope that it is good and will shed light on...on what it was that beckoned to me so very long ago and screamed to be accounted for and told. Three days...that's all it's been? Time has no meaning, not when you have a job to do and not when you are tired and ground to dust. I am so weary...the sleep sticks to me like molasses but is not sweet at all. It is as the greeks said so long ago, a little death to prepare all for the bigger, less temporary one to come. It will come sooner then later if the fight does not end.