A/N: Just a tiny little something that came to me when I should have been working. Tip: Never fight creative urges. They distract you from revision.
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Sometimes he looks at the sky and wonders where it ends.
He wonders why the rain never falls, why the night never chooses to descend upon this forbidden, forgotten place. He wonders when the last time he took a sip of water was without fear of it being his last. It seems that every step he takes is another in a direction he has yet to fathom, and that every beam of light shining into the distance only darkens a path of solitude and strife. Sometimes, he wonders if he is blind. At times he prays to the gods to grant him such mercy.
For when he sleeps, he is haunted by what he has seen; what he has done. He flinches and winces and scratches at the shadows until the dry dirt lines his fingernails. His back scrapes against the sun-warmed stone and his heart beats a relentless staccato until, suddenly, it stops, and he has no heart. The darkness has taken it, ripped it from his hollow, bloodied body. The ribbons that bind him in shadow have purged him of more than his consciousness. He knows it. He knows that, somewhere, inside him they are purging him of his own self. Of what soul there is left to purge.
He awakens, but is never rested.
There is no rest for the wicked.
But still, he rises, and every breath that rips through his lungs is for her; every scream his muscles make from within his weary body is a battle cry for her. All that he has, all that he is…
He must do this. He must fight.
But pieces of him are drifting away like sand through his own calloused fingertips, and the wind possesses every grain, taking it back to the start.
He feels rootless.
And he wonders.
He wanders.
An eagle in an endless sky.
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Thanks for reading my pathetic creative urge :)
Toodles!