He hangs over the abyss—the world below that is black fire and smoke and ice. Darkness itself has seized his soul and pulls down, ever down, toward the place where he would be consumed, utterly devoured. He has nothing left; his strength has been sucked into the fathomless pit, his cries engulfed by the wailing that echoes deeply, eternally.
But he will not fall, he will not be consumed, because by a thread he hangs and is held aloft. It is almost invisible, so fine is this thread, but it is there, pale and shimmering in the darkness, like an anchor in the sea’s bluest depths. By this is he connected to Light, to the world above that is milk and honey and warmth.
He has nothing left—nothing but a thread, and it will not be broken. And this is his consolation in the desolation: no matter how great and terrible be the forces that seek to swallow his soul, he will not be lost, because the power of One is stronger.