As he released his hold on the hilt of his sword and let it slide back into the scabbard, the desolate torn and wasted skyscrapers around him shivered as if a mirage. Hollowed out buildings and crumbling stone blurred and sank from the corners of his vision, like a fading illusion, and the darkened sky that had never known light peeled away, leaving in its wake a bright sunset. The curtain of reality drew back, and the world around him was filled with life again; with buildings and with living, breathing people who had never known the turmoil of the existence from which he had come. He could hear voices, the calls of birds . . . even the sounds of tires rolling across hot pavement . . . it was all welcome. But it was all also an illusion to him. For he knew this peaceful mockery of the world was but just a fragment of land where his footsteps lie. And the gaping wound in his side was still draining itself with crimson, no matter which reality he stood in. For a brief moment of insane sanity, the thought came to him to grasp the hilt of his sword again, and to be thrust back into that dark, dreary world. At least there, he knew, there would be nothing to regret leaving behind.
Posted on: Sat, 06 Jul 2013 15:06:27 +0000
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