Meditations and Illusions

[DoS Archive]

From: mannicohai@aol.com (ManniCohai)
Date: 03 Dec 2002 19:27:35 EST

Dawn's light caught on the unique blade's glossy surface, flashing briefly in motion as he thrust it forward into the air, perfectly perpendicular to the gravel surface underfoot. Droplets of sweat flew from his grip as the weapon halted at the end of his reach, snapping from suddenly taut skin.

Not ready yet.

Turning his head the opposite way, he bent his body like a strung bow, spinning and bringing the blade around in a fierce arc, disemboweling the imaginary threat that had been sneaking up behind him.

Not ready yet.

He bent one knee, fluidly dropping back and holding the sword before him, bracing it with his palm on the flat. It was Baron Llegron's blade he imagined caught on this guard, the man he had once again failed to overcome.

Not ready yet.

He ducked forward, letting the prisoned weapon pass over his head and rose quickly after. Twirling in place on the ball of his left foot, he slashed the air in a horizontal stroke, throwing his free hand to the extreme opposite to keep his balance.

In the instant of vulnerability while both arms were outflung, a flaming bastard sword flashed through his vision, striking him down across his neck and chest.

He fell sprawling, the breath frozen in his lungs. He was dimly aware of the sound of the sacred weapon clattering to the gravel next to him as his hands flew to his throat. His head impacted with the ground last, the blackness folded in.

Yet this was not that dreaded last eclipse. Stars briefly flittered around the temporary darkness before the rooftop hazed back into view around him. He scrambled to sit up, scattering the gravel beneath as he propped himself up with one hand, the other touching his neck.

His fingers met only the rough texture of the scar already there, no new wound, no fresh pain. For a moment he concentrated on making sure he was still breathing, and calming that breath.

The blade that had caused that would should have killed him. Only luck and the grace of his God allowed him to survive that slash. Had the blade not been afire, surely he would have bled to death instead of having his flesh seared closed at its mere touch. Should the heretic wielding it cut any deeper, he would have died from blood lack though the blocked jugular.

How long would he be haunted? He already knew the answer to that; it was his every living moment, it permeated his being.

But he was not ready for it yet.