Viewed from the the catacomb's crenelated ceiling, the torch is a pinprick of light, tentative and overwhelmed by the utter darkness. A panoply of blinking, winking ocular apertures are experiencing acute photalgia.
The lone figure moves slowly, sending tread after tread across the marbled surface, stirring up dust that descends slowly in the chill, stagnant air. The torch light is spread thin in the vast chamber, igniting abstract geometries with a weak effulgence.
In the distance, as if growing accustomed to the negation of darkness, something ancient and precious gathers the rays of light to itself and sends out brilliant golden waves. Every available surface of the catacomb emits a faint blue mist that gradually brightens until the bone white surface is almost too bright to look upon.
The figure shields his eyes with his free hand which, after a cry of pain and rage descends with an enormous tearing sound, snaps to the pistol at his waist.
The beating of wings fills the chamber with a sound like the heavenly hosts returning to earth.