INFINITE WHIMS: THE CONDITIONAL EXISTENCE

Chapter 42: An Incomplete Memory

GOD'S POV

The voice had called out to him. Even now, as he found himself drowning in these shallow waters, his feet submerging in nothingness, he could hear the tiny cries of the blade that had helped his savior to keep him alive.

 From the very moment, Max's eyes had laid their gaze on Silvanus's state sword, the liveliness of that inanimate object seemed to preoccupy his mind like a sudden temptation in his heart that refused to be quenched until one gave in. He couldn't even trace a single instance in his memory, where he might have seen the sword before.

Yet, the sword called out to him.

He didn't know the sword's name or its prowess. All he had known was, as he drifted into this state of utter pitch-black blankness, that the sword had undoubtedly called out to him as if the very cold metallic blade would come alive and snap away from its hilt at any moment, to be in hands, even if for a second.

Yet, as his consciousness lay there in this charcoal-black layer molded inwards onto another until his eyes could see nothing but a half-hallucinated reflection of his disfigured face and the deep impression the attack had left on his bones.

The pain of bruises and cuts on the cheeks had long gone, its memory only serving now as an anchor, to what he could only presume as the hook keeping him away from drowning further in this endless nothingness. An endless nothingness where only the sensation of falling through oblivion in these shallow dark waters seemed to captivate his mind.

 His eyes darted around, left -right-up-down-forward, and backward, though indeed, he wasn't sure whether he had actually even been moving in a circle or not, in this absence of light. His legs seemed to be aching in pain, as if he was being hung down, pinned through his jacket to some high wall, at the mercy of earth's pull.

He frantically waded his legs through absent waters, as if trying to reach some kind of brink yet to no avail, the aching continued, increasingly stronger with the passing of time. Then when he was done pleasing himself over making an attempt a escape, faced by futility, his arms which had so far been pressed closely to his chest, fell down as well, feeling the waters.

His eyes closed as if ready to capitulate himself and then for the first time since his consciousness had drifted into this soul-devoid place, a moment of ephemeral relaxation eased his muscles. 

The relaxation increased manifold quickly enough, as the imaginary hook's grip seemed to waver and his body sunk like a weightless corpse, into the unknown.

........................

As Max opened his eyes again, a hazy picture came in the frame. The roof, twelve feet away, made of luminous golden fire clay tiles, was in the shape of a small cone. Sharp brown in color, the timber frame support constructed around it blended in quite easily. Spreading out from its side, at the lower end of the conical top, numerous white collar beams covered the roof.

At the upper corner on the northeast side, he could see a big gap in the castle wall with a short circular boundary, probably meant for dromer. He tried to direct his gaze elsewhere but found himself unable to do so as if held firmly in one grasp.

That is when he realized that his feet were not touching the ground and his eyes couldn't see any outline of his arms at all.  He tried to make out a voice but it simply turned to incoherent babbling. With much strain, as he turned his gaze to the left side, he noticed a figure leaning over him. 

 A girl who could barely be out of her three's, with a thin frame. She had a  gentle face with beautiful ocean blue curls hanging down, tucked behind both her earlobes. Her delicate and tender hands seem to be caressing his tiny forehead with utmost care. Yet, her face remained obscured, the upper portion of her face bearing her eyes as if refusing to teem out.