It was the susurrus of grass and leaves, the verdure of foliage, and the aberrant lack of ennui that characterized his incipience. He both craved and felt guilt for his need of the evanescent Elysium that doubled as his nightmare. Yet, he couldn't give up the way his muscles ached, the avaricious consumption of air, and the familiar sensation of a sword gripped tightly in his right-hand; he couldn't forget how they made his existence concrete, even if he only existed in death.
The rush of endorphins, the indomitable will to live, the melodious sound of his blade cutting into monsters over and over again. The Forest never slept. Through crepuscular skies, acrid winds, torrid humidity, and the torpid autumn there were always monsters, always more battles, and always the fleeting memories of a life that fell out of reach.
He could no longer remember how long he'd been there, his wife's voice had slipped away, and even his children's faces were also starting to wane with each passing day. He used to cry, used to wonder how they'd been, used to entertain their reunion, and he used to remember the warmth that encompassed his memories.
It was ineluctable that he'd lose his way, though how could he stray when a path never existed from the start? The aphotic hope and the slipping of self all sedulously leered over him in jest at his existence. The celerity of action before thought, the rush of adrenaline, the trepidation against a powerful foe, the clarity, and the knowledge that life still existed within him; they were addictive drugs. He annihilated for the high, his excuse of self-preservation the crudest of masks.
The everlasting knowledge of his depravity and despair only surfaced when he felt the ebullient pull on his soul. The sudden abysmal night was the illusion of death, but he felt only hopelessness that he'd forever fall with the knowledge that he'd truly passed without a fight. However, the umbrage was cast aside and harsh golden beams transported him.
The susurrus of life was whimsical and light. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of human life, the hustle-and-bustle, the sound of a large clock, the chatter, and there was the warmth that permeated the air. It was summer. He could tell from the heat and the way Alvarna smelled like the sea.
His surroundings were familiar to him. The dirt paths of compacted soil, the cleared vastness of the square, and the benches had barely changed in his absence. He ventured to his left but upon seeing the barn an acrid burn sprang into his chest. He eventually came upon a large staircase that was situated next to a farmhouse.
Tears sprang to his eyes when he recognized it as his home. He was afraid to believe because if it was an illusion he would surely be broken beyond repair. He proceeded with caution, taking in the scenery he'd forgotten, but in the distance he could hear two children talking in solemn tones. He felt the need to comfort them, to assure them that everything was alright, and that he'd never leave them again.
It was always just after he was able to catch a glimpse of the two children that he awoke in a cold sweat. He'd cried openly for the first month that the nightmare took place, remembering how it felt to finally see everyone again after so long, how warm his children had been and the reality that he'd returned. Life was majestic, vivid, and a blessing to him; yet, how had he fallen so far within only a few years.
The nightmare took on a new meaning to him as the seasons passed in succession. He was the gullible Kyle, a family man and father extraordinaire. Scholars and adventurers alike flocked to Alvarna to question him about the Forest of Beginnings and many of the latter often asked him to teach them swordsmanship. He was revered, his children were revered for defeating Firesome, and his wife had more students to teach at the academy than ever before. Life was perfect.
It was a façade that he used to hide the ennui he felt with his current life. The local monsters were no longer adequate opponents for him and people no longer challenged him to duels. His life became humdrum and he wore the mask to complete the set. His wife began to worry about him more and, not long after, he was approached by Gordon. The priest understood his guilt and his avaricious urge to fight, but he could only tell him that he'd have to find something to block out the urge. Gordon had found that in his family and religion.
He tried to find outlets, but none panned out as the nightmares became more frequent. Sometimes, his dreams bled into reality and the wind or sudden movements were enough to put him on the defensive. He tried to escape the need to sleep, he tried to escape the worry he was causing his family, and he tried to escape the urge to return to the Forest of Beginnings.
He had nowhere to run except his dreams. The false and Utopian Elysium that was evanescent, lasting only when the moon was bright, lured him to sleep in the evenings and left in the mornings with a bitter aftertaste. Yet, succumbing to the desire was far easier than fighting it. He still felt the urge to fight a real opponent, but his hunger was sated enough that he never left his family.
Sometimes, in the aftermath of dystopia, Kyle wondered when the hunger would become too much and he'd be eaten by the monster inside.
A voice always whispered in response, you wanted a challenge.