There's no sun here, but it doesn't matter. I don't sleep. I don't need to.
One of my "gifts"
In a way, its for the best. My life span is finite, and there's so much to do. All of history to watch over, and mere centuries to do it in.
It's not enough!
I feel the pain, hear the glass shatter as my fist goes through the mirror. Fascinated, I watch as the blood drips down my fingers to pool on the floor.
I look back at the mirror. It's whole, it always is. It mocks me by it's presence, it knows I can't break it for good.
I grab the staff, angry at the momentary loss of control. That's what its all about, really. Control. Control of this, control of that. Going back to fix my mistakes, or the mistakes of others.
My fingers tighten about the staff. I want to be free! I want to walk down the street, be noticed, be stared at.
But I can't. I can't be noticed, I must totally blend in when I walk among them. Part of my punishment.
I stare at the mirror, my helper, and my jailer. I, who was foolish enough to ignore the warnings, condemning myself to an endless cycle of guardianship in this hell.
I hear the sound of footsteps. Someone approaches the Gate. They must be turned away. They're not one of the Permitted.
They never are.
And so I go forth.
Tired. I'm so tired. . .
In a way, its for the best. My life span is finite, and there's so much to do. All of history to watch over, and mere centuries to do it in.
It's not enough!
I feel the pain, hear the glass shatter as my fist goes through the mirror. Fascinated, I watch as the blood drips down my fingers to pool on the floor.
I look back at the mirror. It's whole, it always is. It mocks me by it's presence, it knows I can't break it for good.
I grab the staff, angry at the momentary loss of control. That's what its all about, really. Control. Control of this, control of that. Going back to fix my mistakes, or the mistakes of others.
My fingers tighten about the staff. I want to be free! I want to walk down the street, be noticed, be stared at.
But I can't. I can't be noticed, I must totally blend in when I walk among them. Part of my punishment.
I stare at the mirror, my helper, and my jailer. I, who was foolish enough to ignore the warnings, condemning myself to an endless cycle of guardianship in this hell.
I hear the sound of footsteps. Someone approaches the Gate. They must be turned away. They're not one of the Permitted.
They never are.
And so I go forth.
Tired. I'm so tired. . .