Illusions. . .
Fingers split and bled, as Allistair reached a shaking hand into another edge: another space to grip on his steady climb up the black spire. It glinted like obsidian, baking him as sunlight radiated off it. Beads of sweat trailed down his forhead, running through the crags of worn and battered face.
Upward.
Ever upward.
Allistair stepped through shallow reflecting pools of a substance that moved like mercury as he paced his room, the reflection of his clean form echoing against the flowing, formless silver at his feet. High arches rose above him, and blessed warm light flowed in from arced windows, through flimsy white curtains, onto his pristine four poster bed. The room radiated light, dancing along curves everywhere, never breaking against edges. A soft cream colored the walls: a relaxed reminder of patience. Allistair struggled for this. There was no calm to be had in his previously eternal place of peace, so worry streaked his soft face, tore at it with a veracity that no emotion ever grasped at him before. So he paced.
And waited.
Ever waiting.
A filthy, sweaty, bleeding Allistair heaved himself up through a window across from where Allistair paced.
"Finally," Allistair gazed at his broken self, "Finally he's here."
After his long climb, Allistair gazed at himself, that weak, soft little child of a man. No hair hung out of place, his cool gray eyes looked so steady, so certain, so ready for the inevitable as he stared back at Allistair.
Allistair studied the climber, tears in the fabric seemed to be in style, fatigue and shaking seemed the fashion of this man. He was such a wretched remainder, such a waste.
Both mens' faces stayed steady, solid, waiting.
"I'm ready," Allistair brushed imagined dust from his sleeves, a distraction for his frayed nerves, though his eyes never left Allistair's, "I'm ready to die."
From a bruised and battered hip, Allistair raised a gun, his hand shuddering, and in an echo of sound, smoke exploded from the barrel, and Allistair watched the bullet hunt him in slow motion. With a near stilling of time, steel tore through skin, a wave of blood bursted from his own chest, and mixed into the silver of the liquid floor beneath him.
Beyond Allistair's muzzle, he watched himself die again and again, like the image of a man reflected in a mirror, reflected in a mirror. A thousand times Allistair died, and yet, a thousand more he stood firing, one upon another, upon another, and upon another to the end of time.
Morgan gazed into the deep reds of a massive setting sun when the echoes of a gunshot screamed through the land. His head snapped to the East. Was that the call?
A shriek shattered the still of the empty city streets as James stood in the shadow of a skyscraper that climbed into the stars of night, he breathed out slowly, watching his breath dissipate in the cold from beneath the brim of his bowler. That was the call.
Aidyn's strong, stormy eyes watched birds burst from the still of the forest into wild and confused flight, fleeing the cries of the echoing gunshot. Was it time?
Harrison smiled as he leaned back in his chair, his fedora brim blocking out the world as he draped it loosely across his eyes. That was the call. He chuckled, they'd probably be scrambling. They could wait, he'd get there eventually.
Allistair stood over his fallen body.
"How strange," he pondered, "How very strange indeed."
Upward.
Ever upward.
Allistair stepped through shallow reflecting pools of a substance that moved like mercury as he paced his room, the reflection of his clean form echoing against the flowing, formless silver at his feet. High arches rose above him, and blessed warm light flowed in from arced windows, through flimsy white curtains, onto his pristine four poster bed. The room radiated light, dancing along curves everywhere, never breaking against edges. A soft cream colored the walls: a relaxed reminder of patience. Allistair struggled for this. There was no calm to be had in his previously eternal place of peace, so worry streaked his soft face, tore at it with a veracity that no emotion ever grasped at him before. So he paced.
And waited.
Ever waiting.
A filthy, sweaty, bleeding Allistair heaved himself up through a window across from where Allistair paced.
"Finally," Allistair gazed at his broken self, "Finally he's here."
After his long climb, Allistair gazed at himself, that weak, soft little child of a man. No hair hung out of place, his cool gray eyes looked so steady, so certain, so ready for the inevitable as he stared back at Allistair.
Allistair studied the climber, tears in the fabric seemed to be in style, fatigue and shaking seemed the fashion of this man. He was such a wretched remainder, such a waste.
Both mens' faces stayed steady, solid, waiting.
"I'm ready," Allistair brushed imagined dust from his sleeves, a distraction for his frayed nerves, though his eyes never left Allistair's, "I'm ready to die."
From a bruised and battered hip, Allistair raised a gun, his hand shuddering, and in an echo of sound, smoke exploded from the barrel, and Allistair watched the bullet hunt him in slow motion. With a near stilling of time, steel tore through skin, a wave of blood bursted from his own chest, and mixed into the silver of the liquid floor beneath him.
Beyond Allistair's muzzle, he watched himself die again and again, like the image of a man reflected in a mirror, reflected in a mirror. A thousand times Allistair died, and yet, a thousand more he stood firing, one upon another, upon another, and upon another to the end of time.
Morgan gazed into the deep reds of a massive setting sun when the echoes of a gunshot screamed through the land. His head snapped to the East. Was that the call?
A shriek shattered the still of the empty city streets as James stood in the shadow of a skyscraper that climbed into the stars of night, he breathed out slowly, watching his breath dissipate in the cold from beneath the brim of his bowler. That was the call.
Aidyn's strong, stormy eyes watched birds burst from the still of the forest into wild and confused flight, fleeing the cries of the echoing gunshot. Was it time?
Harrison smiled as he leaned back in his chair, his fedora brim blocking out the world as he draped it loosely across his eyes. That was the call. He chuckled, they'd probably be scrambling. They could wait, he'd get there eventually.
Allistair stood over his fallen body.
"How strange," he pondered, "How very strange indeed."