And thus it begins anew....
He had been careless.
A hole.
A hole had appeared in his world.
His carefully crafted world.
When that one had left.
Shouldn't have been possible.
No. No he shouldn't have been able to--
Too late, too late. All in ruins, he had to--
There was the furious scratch of pen on paper as he forced the words into reality.
Come back. Come back where it's safe, where he can't touch you.
I'll protect you, come back...
come back....
The town looked as if it had been long abandoned. Broken windows left shattered shards of reflection across the cobblestone pavement, tattered bits of colour waving against the wind that whipped through the echoing streets.
Ruin.
The discoloured sky howled above, the vortex hovering over the clock tower pulsing with ripples of distortion as two forces warred out of sight. A sound. Scratching. A desperate, furious scratching broken only by the briefest of pauses as the unseen tug of war raged, echoing through the town as if battling the wind. Swirls of change, glass restoring itself only to break again as the sounds pushed against each other.
Shattering. Reforming only to shatter anew.
The will to escape. The will to protect. The desperation.
It wouldn't end this way. He had made his promise. He would not back down, not even when the very ones he promised he would save had broken the carefully spun world his pen had given birth too.
His world. His world!
The howling of the vortex grew louder as the sky seemed to stretch to swallow it up, the scratching growing louder and more furious.
Slowly, the hole in the fabric of the world began to shrink..
He almost laughed as the words held. Yes. Yes he would put it right again!
Laughter. An echo of the smug tone as the candlelight glinted in reflection.
He would not back down. HE was the greater writer. He had been given that gift, that curse, that will--
The blood on his hands sang with the words. No more bad ends. He would see to it, he would see to it!
Slowly, the discolouration in the sky began to fold in on itself, the wind in the streets fading as their source was painfully crumpled inwards.
Shaking now. Sweat dripping on to his paper as the letters flowed.
And with a final burst, the hole vanished from the sky.
The silence was deafening, his hand gone slack as his job was completed.
But only for a moment.
Now, he had to call them all back...
Shaky now. So tired. But there was no time. He would call them back. All of them. All those he had sworn on the blood of the tragedy that had not been prevented...
No more bad ends.
A hole.
A hole had appeared in his world.
His carefully crafted world.
When that one had left.
Shouldn't have been possible.
No. No he shouldn't have been able to--
Too late, too late. All in ruins, he had to--
There was the furious scratch of pen on paper as he forced the words into reality.
Come back. Come back where it's safe, where he can't touch you.
I'll protect you, come back...
come back....
The town looked as if it had been long abandoned. Broken windows left shattered shards of reflection across the cobblestone pavement, tattered bits of colour waving against the wind that whipped through the echoing streets.
Ruin.
The discoloured sky howled above, the vortex hovering over the clock tower pulsing with ripples of distortion as two forces warred out of sight. A sound. Scratching. A desperate, furious scratching broken only by the briefest of pauses as the unseen tug of war raged, echoing through the town as if battling the wind. Swirls of change, glass restoring itself only to break again as the sounds pushed against each other.
Shattering. Reforming only to shatter anew.
The will to escape. The will to protect. The desperation.
It wouldn't end this way. He had made his promise. He would not back down, not even when the very ones he promised he would save had broken the carefully spun world his pen had given birth too.
His world. His world!
The howling of the vortex grew louder as the sky seemed to stretch to swallow it up, the scratching growing louder and more furious.
Slowly, the hole in the fabric of the world began to shrink..
He almost laughed as the words held. Yes. Yes he would put it right again!
Laughter. An echo of the smug tone as the candlelight glinted in reflection.
He would not back down. HE was the greater writer. He had been given that gift, that curse, that will--
The blood on his hands sang with the words. No more bad ends. He would see to it, he would see to it!
Slowly, the discolouration in the sky began to fold in on itself, the wind in the streets fading as their source was painfully crumpled inwards.
Shaking now. Sweat dripping on to his paper as the letters flowed.
And with a final burst, the hole vanished from the sky.
The silence was deafening, his hand gone slack as his job was completed.
But only for a moment.
Now, he had to call them all back...
Shaky now. So tired. But there was no time. He would call them back. All of them. All those he had sworn on the blood of the tragedy that had not been prevented...
No more bad ends.