10.
 He was unconscious for a while. When he came to, he couldn’t see, and he couldn’t move. He felt a dull ache all over, but he knew it should be worse. And yet it wasn’t. He could smell the soil, and tiny bits of plant life, so he knew he was alive. He knew roughly where he was. It was very silent. No shooting, no cheering. If only he could see. Something held him close. Something enveloped him, healing him with goodness. He luxuriated as if floating in syrup, in sunlight, amid bubbles, shooting toward the surface.
Healing.
Whatever had saved him, whatever had wrapped him in its arms, it grew weaker as he grew stronger. For it was very old. Not an animal or a thing that moved about, but a spirit about the place, of something very ancient that had long since stopped moving about, had not left its lair in a long time. It was dying, and let him know it. I have lived a very long time, and I have sung many times to the stars. All things must end, and I have lived long enough. I give you what life I have left. Go with—.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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