The echo louder than the plea haunts the boy in every dream. He does not remember what has happened or where he has gone, but he remembers his father’s own eyes looking more orphaned than his own. He runs his hands through the dew of the dark grass on which he sleeps, and blinking himself awake he feels the slip of his father’s fingers through his own. Each time the boy wakes, he becomes lost anew.
The night is full and the trees are mighty. Their dark bark cuts the boy’s palms if he dare seek refuge amongst their branches. The grass where he lay is matted now. The wind wakes him.
The boy rises as the storm brews. The wind is more than wicked where he is now. Its teeth draw blood; its breath bruises.
He rises to the beating, the discipline of the realm. There is only darkness with shadows even darker. Even blood is darker here. It seems ebony black on each carnal canvas. He is the only pale thing, but for the warring stars. The boy traces the thousands of them with dilated, dark eyes, as their wrath rains down, angering the wind and tempting the trees to fell themselves. If there were any others they would run. If there were a sea it would retreat, drowning itself. He does not try any more; he does not run. This world works in circles.
All he can do is stand, withstand. If the world will take him then take him it will. There are fireworks in heaven and it no longer hears prayers. This new world is dark. A fallen star, from a world eons away, is all the hope that can be begged for. It is the only light that might break the dim. The only sun that this place might see.
The boy stands, withstands. He is bleeding and he is bruised, but he holds up his arms, and he shouts, vicious,
“What is this but a body? What are these but my limbs? You curse me, and keep me here, but this is not where I reside! I am more, I am more, so take me as I seem! My soul shall not tire of its aimless flight.
“And father I forgive you. This is nothing of your doing.” He has lost fear; he has become.
He is cut down. The blood blackens the grass. The body becomes the bruises, but he is not there, the boy. No. He is far, far away again. He is infinite. He is ancient.