Words were rising through the blackness like little wriggling golden fish.
She fought her way towards them, now that there was a direction.
The slivers of light turned into sounds.
'-and asketh you in your infinite compassion to see your way clear to possibly intervening here . . .'
Not normally the kind of words she'd associate with light. Perhaps it was the way they were said. But they had a strange echo to them, a second voice, woven in amongst the first voice, glued to every syllable . . .
'. . . what compassion? How many people prayed at the stake? How foolish I look, kneeling like this . . .'
Ah . . . one mind, split in half.
"CJ"