[Nicholas Anstalionah]
The first sound was the snap of a twig. Then another.
Outside this cabin, far away must be my executioners.
This world could not be described by any normal or even abnormal means.
It was neither sensible nor nonsensical, simply there, an unending, shapeless truth that pretended to have meaning.
Could I truly exist within it?
No. The thought was foolish, yet still I entertained it. Even now, as I waited to be killed, I felt the absurdity of my own hope.
What a strange, stubborn thing hope is, like a candle that insists on burning underwater.
Did I wish to be saved? Or was I simply yearning to watch myself fall again, trapped within my own pity?
Was I so weak that even in running away, I sought comfort? So lazy that I turned my despair into philosophy? How absurd, to rationalize cowardice as reflection.
I rose, picked up my sword, and donned the tattered, rain-soaked clothes I had brought.
Each motion felt like the rehearsal of something already done, like time had circled back to remind me of my futility.
The storm pressed against my skin, cold and relentless. I stepped out of the cliffside cabin, into the mist and rain, where even the air seemed to mock the warmth I had abandoned.
I looked back at the room, its fragile glow, the blue flame that refused to die. It flickered as if aware, as if amused, watching me pretend I had a choice.
I stared until it seemed to blink back, silently saying, You'll be back.
I turned sharply, slamming the door behind me. Water soaked through my clothes, yet I felt no chill. Perhaps my body had already forgotten what warmth meant.
I could not be lazy. I must not. Though perhaps all action is laziness when nothing truly matters.
They would reach me soon. I had to prepare.
Even if preparation meant death, it was necessary— or so I told myself, because to die unprepared would mean death had won.
I would refuse to grant it that victory.
I looked down at the pills Ri'Ishtar had given me and swallowed them all at once. My throat burned.
My lungs rebelled. I coughed violently, reaching for air that would not come, for peace that had long since exiled me.
Then, slowly, my mana eased. My soul began to sing, a trembling, pitiful hymn that sounded almost like laughter.
As the effects of the pills spread through me, I realized even suffering could be a kind of rhythm.
My veins tingled with unnatural warmth. Clarity returned like a cruel friend. Above, the moon hung pale and hollow, a white eye that had seen all things and judged none.
The mist coiled low across the earth like thought itself, heavy, shapeless, and unwilling to rise.
I gazed at the stars, wondering if they too were trapped in some divine monotony, forced to shine only because the void demanded it.
A rustle. Footsteps. I froze, chest tightening. Fear should have felt alive in me, but instead, it felt rehearsed. Even fear had grown dull from repetition.
I sighed and began to run. My boots splashed through the puddles, mud clinging to my skin as though trying to hold me back.
My sword hung heavy in my hand, a symbol, a relic, a burden pretending to be purpose.
Every step echoed with memory, failure, cowardice, small victories that meant nothing.
I had lived hating myself, hating others, hating the world, but absurdly, impossibly, I kept moving forward. Perhaps I feared the stillness more than the end.
I ran toward the threat not to survive, but to change, to rewrite the meaning of my own collapse.
I had lacked power. I had lacked impact. Yet that mattered little; in a world without reason, even power is meaningless.
Perhaps I no longer feared death because I had already died in every way that mattered.
I wanted to survive, yes, but I wanted, more than anything, to be punished. To be seen by the world that had long since stopped looking.
Maybe that's why I waited so very long. Waiting was, after all, the only thing I'd ever been good at.