It was a sunny day, bland and warm, the wind blowing in soft, fluttering gusts through the pristine fields of deep brown, late summer grain fields, and the sky blazed a light aquamarine blue below the atmosphere dome. The man lent against the haphazard stone walls that lined the thin dirt path that wound its twisty way through the fields, collapsed back with his legs sprawled out as he struggled for each wheezing breath.
He was dressed in a long black duster, leather torso armor, and forest green leggings, and his right hand clutched desperately at the handle of the large, chipped and inelegant paladin’s greatsword embedded halfway into the soil before him.
His hair, an unnatural, obsidian shade of black that ate all the light that hit it and offered no shine or sheen of reflection, hung in a long queue down his back, trapped between the rough stone wall and his back.
A second, thinner, longer and more beautiful sword rested through the meat of his upper chest, just above the right lung, bobbing slowly to the rhythm of labored breaths. His right arm hung limply against his side and blood dribbled and trickled in slow runnels down his still form, soaked and soaking into the fabric of his clothing.
Despite the tranquil calm of the day, the scent of burnt flesh and decay hung off the man.
The world’s star climbed slowly towards the zenith of its path. Shadows sped closer, collapsed beneath their origin, then lengthen back out the other way.
The man’s breath eventually slowed and evened, and his head fell back to rest against the rubble wall.
His eyes were closed and his whole body seemed to relax, muscles unbunching and tension leaking from around his eyes.
Yet he still did not move, only breathed, the sword nestled tightly in his chest bobbing in silent rhythm to the rasping inhales and exhales.
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Shadows stretched and time passed.
An hour, then two.
The world’s star began its far descent, slow at first, hanging there for a moment above, as if to let all below bask in its glory. Then faster, as it began to fall, speeding its way towards the horizon.
Too fast, the man groused to himself, his eyes still closed despite the slow relaxing of muscles. That was the problem with young worlds, he would have said had anyone been there to listen. Their days were never the right length. And these foreign stars. Never the right amount of light.
He sighed, and tried to move, rocking himself to the side. Muscles seized and froze, complaining at the simple motion, and he fell back again, groaning in pain from between clenched teeth.
Maybe a moment more, he told himself. His companion had stirred itself into a frenzy at the simple motion, its screaming and thrashing growing to a fevered pitch as it threw itself again and again against the bars of its prison.
He ignored it, as he always did, always had done, and let his body relax back, working slowly though the large muscle groups, twitching and jerking them in small, practiced motions as he tried to work life back into a sore and battered body.
Another half hour passed. The sun closed in towards the horizon. He sighed again and rocked his body, then in one heavy motion yanked against his sword’s handle, throwing himself to his feet.
He only half stumbled, righting himself back to grab at his sword’s handle and worked it slowly from the soil’s embrace.
He took a moment then, face turned up in relaxed appreciation as he watched the rapid sunset. Far above, glittering in bright pink cotton-candy colors, invisible to mortal eyes but weighty and attention grabbing to his own Vision, the Spine of the World cut in out of deep space, wandering here and there, swirling and glittering and twirling in slow dance before cutting back out into deep space. He bowed his head a moment, giving the heavens their due, then turned to walk down the dirt footpath.
Darkness set in quickly around the long dust coat disappearing down the path, sword held lightly to the side.
Through it all, locked tightly against the side of his spirit in its barred cage, his companion screamed, its refrain of constant demands scratching against the scarred walls of his mind.