Nevermore

Chapter Twelve - An Escape from Oblivion

The darkness was crippling; and there was nothing to separate the torture from the ultimate void that awaits. 

        When the explosion ensued, Xoren did not even had time to blink, nevertheless to be shocked. There was that momentary darkness, like he had just decided to close his eyes in provocation; a white flash and a pang of severe, inexplicable pain on the whole of his front was what immideately followed. He didn't even feel the ground upon which he fell, nor did he had any idea how, in perhaps a few years later, he had been placed inside the tent, enigmatically. 

        But within the expanse of those bitter moments nothing passed between Xoren's mind but the excruciating fire that was seemingly engulfing him, such burning sensation that did not only feel like boiling water splashed across your body, but also alike some flaying knife scraping, endearingly, through your skin. It had gone on forever, it seemed, and will not be likely to stop until he had come to his end.

      And then it passed his thinking, within the third of his suffering, aside from the groaning and writhing--death. Yes, of course, that word had crossed his mind once or twice in war, but never did he come as close to it than this, though he had been in a lot of tight spots. It was a sensation he had never imagined, nor had he seemed possible, or else, so near him.

        Death and fear mixed together, much despoiling than the pain, geared inside him. Perhaps he had let it pass his knowledge once or twice, maybe in an act to fulfill his duties as a warrior, or as a patriotic act. "To death!" was something he often shouted in battle, leading his men to it, unknowing of the cause, the darkest void, the bottomless pit.  But then, how could he have been so foolish to regard death as a heroic thing? There was nothing heroic about this death. There is only fear. Yes. And torment. Xoren was never the one to believe in the gods, or those myths the elders had instilled upon their minds and hearts. He could not recall anything that pertains to an afterlife, but there must be something--more to this, at least. 

        He was frightened, and haunted by this continuing thoughts, even though the fire had not ended. What if it never will end? What if it will go on and on, burning its way through his body, until it creeps unto his face, eating away the skin, destroying everything that was about him to the extent he would become nonexistent. 

        Suddenly memories unfolded into view, like multiple flashes of lightning, it showed before his eyes. He saw his mother's face--a hazy, blurry view of her pointed chin and dark, long hair--looking at him in a speechless state. The image disappeared and was replaced by his father, an insignificant tyrant in his life, wearing his usual, but foggy, glare--and then the face of a young boy, who looked very much like him other than the blue eyes, staring innocently. He never saw his older brother before, even in a dream, who died at the age of nine. The image of the boy shifted into Aethon, and into Leo, his scar-faced subordinate, into the Parthian king, a beefy bearded man, and into that familliar darkness. 

        There was nothing. A stomach-churning oblivion. But the pain still remained. 

        If this was death, Xoren thought, he could not believe it.To just wander into the darkness of an empty chasm with the same pain--the same thoughts, the same self--was not how he pictured a heroic farewell. 

        But there was another flash of unbelievable light--something he could not put into words, a light that illuminated him entirely. And then he heard a voice. 

        "...hold still?"

        An echoing voice, as though it was happening inside his head; a conscious of some sort, resounding inside him. A thing was placed upon his chest, and it burned deeply, more than the engulfing fire that was churning. It was a soothing pain, however, though he could not believe he could feel it continually, until another one was placed, rather bluntly, upon other parts of his skin. 

        Xoren winced, and then gradually relaxed. It was as though a cool sensation was fending the burns, and he seemed to have been splashed by cool water. 

        He must have sighed in relief, because the voice said "That's better..."

        It was definitely so. But sooner than he wanted, the pain slowly came back, but now, he started to regain realization back, now able to feel the surface upon which he was placed. The sheets tangled beneath him and its ruffles uncomfortably rubbed against his already unbearable skin. 

        A gentle hand touched him, carefully coaxing a wet, cool liquid upon his skin, a very comfortable feeling, that had verily calmed him down. 

        There was a liberal time alloted to him to finally regain his senses, an unbelievable feat--to have gone from a traumatizing feeling like that and back into the world. It was death and life battling inside him. He felt the soles of his calloused feet, his heels rubbing against the tangled sheets--felt the heavy cloth tightened across his chest and arms. A figure hovered over his sight, merging with the bright green and gold blurs of the coming morning. It was carefully formed; slender and petite. Gradually it showed the short ebony hair, the glowing, ivory skin, and the emerald eyes. 

        The girl quickly stopped, and oggled at him with an unreadble expression, something that made Xoren's heart pump uncontrollably. Deliberately, she continued again with what she had been doing earlier, now with eyes looking down. And though it was completely appeasing, Xoren started up, making his whole chest throb. He eyed the concoction beside the girl, of some sort of green fluid, and started to cough. 

        "Lie down," she murmured calmly, her hands aloft but unable to push him back.

        Xoren turned to her with a doubtful look. Suddenly he remembered everything about her, and it was indeed confirmed that he had woken up from after several years. Then, instead of voicing out his utter confusion, fear and puzzleness, he snapped at her "What are you doing here?" 

        The sudden excursion of his rage fell through him and the acidic pain ensued once more. He fell unto the sheets and heaved a sigh.

        When the pain became bearable once more, the girl answered, in an almost sarcastic tone "Well if you must know, you so gallantly made me a slave."

        Xoren made to reply, but found no words, preferably because his wounds still produced abominable pain.

       She waited for a response, her brash look going well with the masculine cut. Her face softened as she commenced her treatment once more.

       While she acted, Xoren watched her. The ebony head laid low, carefully eyeing  her tedious work of tending to his wounds. He remembered, all so suddenly, of a frail figure lying helpless underneath him. He, towering once in height, pressed down, perhaps in a lustful urge, or else in a strong desire for power, upon her.

      Has years really passed? If so, how come the tent looked in the same familiar state as he had left it, and how come the girl's hair had not grown an inch then?

      Xoren's head began to hurt. He bent his nape back and looked up the canopy.

      "I know how it must feel," he said, without thinking, as the girl silently tidied up after herself. "This is one of the worst nights of my life too."

~*~

Brief Massage: Dedicated to AnonymousCookie11 for being such a lovely reader :) Plus she filled out my notifications with her votes XD

     Leave your comments and opinions, specially about Xoren's near death experience, I'd love to hear that from you :)