Days Go On [gxk]
Mar 31, 2012 3:40:33 GMT -5
Post by Tea on Mar 31, 2012 3:40:33 GMT -5
It starts off black.
At first, there is nothing but darkness, unforgiving and sinister, closing in around him like a great suffocating shadow. There is no space; no space to breathe...but then...then there is light. Images appear in quick succession – a park, a stopwatch, knives and a girl. A girl with a face so heartbreakingly familiar, yet one he is unable to recognize.
Then a man appears, his stature tall and menacing, and replacing the others. He too is a figure of familiarity, though all memory of his identity seems to be blurred ever so slightly. The man moves toward the girl, a scream pierces the air, and everything stirs, time halting.
A knife appears in his hand, and suddenly, he's barreling toward them, driving it deep into the man's ribcage. The blood is everywhere – bright red, dripping from his hands, staining his shirt. One drop, two, then three. The distraction it brings is soon replaced by a sharp sting in his shoulder. The girl is throwing knives.
His knife has morphed into a sword, as he swings it toward her, the blade colliding with the soft flesh of her torso, tearing it open. More blood, pooling at his feet, creating a puddle, that's getting deeper and deeper, nearly engulfing him, before a name breaks through the silence.
"Duke Quaidar III!"
The blood disappears, and he's alone on a stage, looking out into a faceless crowd, only one standing out. The girl, hair like the sun, and her brown eyes, pleading with him, begging him for...for something.
"What's my lovely little Amira doing with that?"
Another voice echoes through the darkness, and once more, the sword is in his hand. A boy, blond and green eyed, towering above him, strikes out with his own sword, and there's even more blood, only this time, it seems to be his own. The darkness is around him once more, closing in, his breath growing shallow and –
Eyes jolting open, Duke gasped, pushing himself up. That dream again. It seemed to becoming a bi-nightly occurrence at this point. Waiting until his heart rate had been given the chance reestablish itself, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, tugging off his sweat-soaked shirt. God, what did it mean? Most things in it stayed true to reality, except for his encounter with Sinan toward the end. He had come out of that fight – albeit rather battered – alive, had he not? It had been Sinan's blood that had painted the street that night. Not his.
Passing a hand over his face, Duke sighed, casting a glance at the clock. Five thirty. Only a half an hour now, before he would have to begin the day; there was no sense returning to bed now. Duke leaned over the other side of the bed, watching the sleeping form that he knew so well. Her breathing was so shallow, as though she were still terrified of the world around he, even in her sleep. How many years had it been now? How many years had she been like this? Two? Three? Perhaps it had even been longer, for it certainly felt that way.
"Amira," he whispered softly. "Sweetheart, it's five-thirty. I'm just gonna get up now. You don't have to, if you don't want, but I know you like to know where I am. So it's okay, I'm not leaving you. I'm just going get breakfast."
