I had studied the frost for many years, searching not for salvation but for comprehension.  Perhaps it was why I was one of the remaining few clinging to life.  Others had succumbed when hope had died, but I had long since abandoned hope.  It was only desire that had sustained me.  A desperate need to understand what evil had been wrought upon the world and why.  Now, as the dying flames of the last fire in the heart of the last planet pulsed and flickered, I had finally achieved my goal.  I knew the frost like I knew myself.  It was fitting, since it would soon consume me, just as it had so many others I had loved and lost.

It was no comfort that, as part of the frost, my form would become immortal, forever encased within its impenetrable walls.  Without a witness to my fate, the manner of my demise was irrelevant.  My only solace came in finally knowing the truth of the entity that had brought my people to the brink of inevitable extinction.

The frost was traitorous.  It was not an invading enemy.  It had co-existed peacefully with us for many years, content to dominate and be dominated from one season to the next, until it had turned on the very beings that gave its presence meaning and purpose, electing to use its immense power to destroy, rather than sustain, life.

The frost was patient.  After all, it had no concept of time.  What was time anyway but a construct of those whose lives had a limited span?  Time submitted to frost, not the other way around.  No other force could slow time at its pleasure, using its tentacles to freeze a moment and trap it in eternity.  Patience was the frost's greatest weapon; its slow advance through our galaxy going undetected until it was too late.

The frost was merciless.  It had witnessed death and despair at its icy hands as they had reached out, slowly and relentlessly, to claim each insignificant planet, one by one.  Even now, as the anguished cries of the last living creatures on the last bastion of mortal existence echoed across its glassy surfaces, the frost felt nothing.  We had worshipped at the altar of fire, not comprehending that frost was born of water, the very nectar of life.  We had failed to give it the respect it deserved.  Now, we had paid the price.

The frost was insatiable.  Only everything was enough.  Everything and nothing.  When there was nothing that had not been consumed by the frost, only then would it be satisfied.  The frost had no concept of balance.  No appreciation of dualism.  Victory did not come with compromise, but with annihilation.

The frost was doomed.  It was never so beautiful, so dynamic as when light danced across its surfaces and sparkled through its pillars and mountains.  When the fire was gone, the light would be gone, and the frost would be alone and lifeless.  A joyless, purposeless expanse in the vastness of space.  

The frost was its own worst enemy.  I pitied the frost.  Even as it took me and I breathed my last, I pitied it.