Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 8 + The Final Choice (NEF)

MAYBE, MAYBE NOT - FINALE 

Reality had been sucked free of the fantasy to a boy built from old tales.

Lashes flicked, black and long, weighted by sweat and the absence of what made him true. His eyes fought for sight, fought to see a dark less daunting - that of night. The boy wasn't quite sure if his eyes were really open or not, though. The black that hid behind closed eyes and the black that hugged the arena held no difference.

The waiting. He breathed. The blood. His fists uncurled, and he felt a stickiness against his knuckles. The game. Did that one really need to be expanded on?

Nefyn tested his waters a little bit, blinking a few times. He felt his eyes open and close, but was it real that time? Were the tricks done? Yes, yes, he thought so, and it offered him a peace he hadn't felt in days.

The peace, though, was like a plastic olive branch; it meant nothing for it was not real.

A blaring bit of blue stretched over the sky above him, and he winced at the light, though pale. The blue meant one thing - he waited. A moment of a memory came to him, that of a girl with brown hair and shimmering blues caught in her vision. The moment, however, seemed to be captured in the sky above him, for the smile was the same, and the crinkle at the eyes belonged to no one else that he knew.

Reality told him that Mara Risso was dead.

But he, lore, told himself that this was not the case, and lore was never wrong when it came to what didn't exist, right?

He sat up abruptly, and a dizziness took root in his skull, clinging to those temples so tightly he wouldn't so much mind bashing them out against a rock. He abstained from such whims, though. He had to find Mara.

She's dead, Nef. You know that.

He next noticed that he smelt of urine, and wrinkled his nose up in disgust.

Don't let it lie to you. She's out there. She's all you've got.

You will not survive this alone.

Now, Nefyn had never been the most decisive of people, but he, most assuredly, knew at the highest level of his being that he did not want to die. When he managed to stand, however, this outlook seemed to take an immediate swan dive, and his legs begged him to sink down again and wait. He settled for a crouch instead. In doing so, he found a middle ground between the need to live and the want to die. It was awfully confusing. He wanted to stay there for a while longer, just to collect himself up - to rethink those dreams and sort reality from fantasy, the real from the not real. Someone seemed rather set on keeping him off his wits, though.

A vibration began beneath his feet.

"Grand," he whispered. It came out shaky, though he doubted it was due to the ground's more recent activities. "Just fucking grand."

The adrenaline rose up through the dirt and into his legs, propelling his back into something straight, forcing his bent knees to correct themselves. He'd started jogging before taking stock of anything he had (he had nothing but an empty box, though, so he didn't stress over it too much). And though the trembling rose in tempo with every step, it hadn't gotten so violent that he couldn't keep his balance. He'd keep on keeping on until he couldn't, at least.

As he ran he continued to think of that tug-of-war between the non-existence of Mara. Had reality won out, he'd be a damn near squabbling mess, but because fantasy's possible win was still on the table, he kept himself at bay. Instead, he worried himself over something else.