He sat in that broken home, on a broken chair, now a bench, alone. He did not know what would become of him, but he knew that he'd like to have one of those who blindly followed him to keep him company. They were all gone now.
There was nowhere to go, there was no one to follow him. In fact, no one else but him remained.
His actions had the reach he desired, but not the impact. In fact, instead of destroying the central Power and liberating the People, he ended up destroying everything.
He had turned the whole world into a red, barren, wasteland.
He knew that, when he died, a thing that would most likely happen soon, there would be on evidence that he or his kind had ever existed. What he had released would make sure of that. And when it was done, it would carry its seed to another planet... maybe that little neighbouring marble his people had been studying for years, watching it evolve, knowing that soon they would be able to go there and live a better life... All those hopes were gone now.
His people were doomed, and he had been the Harbinger of their Fall. That was the truth, and, accepting it, he died.