As you settle down, you can still feel a small remnant of the spirit of Pompeii filling you with determination. You are holding a quill in one hand and, with the other, you are stretching Cordelia’s scroll out onto a broken pillar that, by this point, feels like its been given a new life as a table. You take a deep breath, and begin.

Of course, it is painful to return to the end of Pompeii. The soot-black sky, the rumbling ground, the death, the destruction, the fire… After just a few lines, you are not sure if you have it in you to continue. But then, you feel a rush. A warmth. A strength within you that you never knew you had. In your mind, a thousand indistinct voices pipe up with their own tales of localized earthquakes and volcanic ash, of terrible loss and of incredible survival. By all accounts, that should be overwhelming but, somehow, it isn’t. Instead, you feel held. Useful. And much less alone than you have felt in a while. You are a survivor, and so are these voices.

And now, you are going to write your stories.

Line after line, you weave an impressive narrative or both loss and hope. Your craft is not as refined as Cordelia’s, of course, but you can really feel that new “Storyteller” skill coming through. Your pen feels lighter in your hands than ever before and, with the spirits of Pompeii by your side, you feel like not a single detail will escape being put to paper.

Time flies by as you work and, in just a few short hours, you feel the voices inside you piping down, and you know you are done.

Or… almost done. You’ve concluded the wider, historical narrative, of course. But the story of the narrator, of Cordelia, still remains open. But how to end the story of such a kind, brilliant soul, and yet one who seemed to feel so invisible?

You think, for a moment, about making her physical. But where has physicality ever gotten anyone? Bodies, cities, empires – they all decay. Rot. Burn. But stories, however…

You put pen to paper, and write:

Et quia mihi voci, dicere laetam ego

Semper vivam, diem post diem

Non iam in frigus aer sum, nec quia morosam avem

Autem in corda illae meam formarum verborum audiet sum

And as for my voice, I am glad to say

I will live on forever, day after day,

No longer in cold air, nor as a wayward bird

But in the hearts of those who hear the beauty of my words.

You spend the rest of your day copying out the ending of Cordelia’s poem into every single one of the transcriptions you made, plus a few new ones. Within you, Pompeii’s Spirit buzzes with excitement, and you smile. In your words and Cordelia’s, you will all live forever.