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The following pages can be found in a small leather bound book, worn by time and use. Among the various prayers are scattered small snips, almost like confessions.
Fear is an odd, difficult thing to explain. How do you describe something so intimate? How do you tell another about that sudden leap as your heart quickens, that faint little buzz in your ears as the blood serge's. Then, your breath catches. Everything seems to pause, and a battle rages through you. Your mind slips precariously on the edge of desperate, shielding anger or the dizzying slide into madness. It seems to last forever and then you hear this impossible loud thud. You feel the kick in your chest as your heart beats and then the world is racing so fast you can scarcely keep up. There is no past, no future, only that one, endless moment.
Those who don't feel the sharp sting of fear have little patience or understanding for those of us who suffer under its lash. I think they try to be compassionate, but in the end, they really just can't accept except the weakness of fear. I suppose I can't blame them. How can I when I envy their resolve? I covet that ability to face down the hunter that stalks them, to be so unflinchingly in the dark. Sometimes I think I would give anything to not be afraid anymore.
The writing seems to end though further down the page it picks up again.
In my dreams he is wearing red, though he certainly was not wearing red when he gave me his warning. I am sure he wore black. I remember the slick feel of the rock under my hands as I looked at the collapsed tunnel. The smell of rot and desiccation swirled around me, making my throat scratchy as I tried to breathe through the stench. There had been talk of trying to find some new tunnel. A little guarded entrance that might serve as a way into the crypt. It seemed like something I could do, a task I could devote myself to.
The lichen in the cave gave off a sort of pale glow. I admit I was distracted by the effect but even so, I should have heard him. There was no warning however, not even the whisper of cloth. Suddenly, the darkness was given a voice, and the form of a man blocked my retreat. It is an odd feeling, seeing such a relaxed posture, but almost tasting the edge of violence simmering just under the surface. We spoke for a time and though I listed closely to his words, I could not tell you what was in his voice; anger, boredom, maybe even amusement. During our conversation there were certainly flashes of all three. But it was hard to put any one emotion down as the central, defining point.
My brothers and sisters would chide me for not attacking him on sight, for not trying to blot his stain from the earth. But, it seems impossible for me to not attempt to reach out to him. If he is willing to talk, how can I not at least try? He is not one of them, not wholly lost yet. Oh, I have no illusions that he is some poor soul, duped into a life of evil. The way he spoke, the passion in his voice, no, this man is no one's victim. But, I can't let an opportunity like that pass. I can’t simply destroy someone willing to listen can I? There has to be a second chance. There has to be redemption. We have to keep trying, keep hoping or what is it that we are fighting for?
Fear is an odd, difficult thing to explain. How do you describe something so intimate? How do you tell another about that sudden leap as your heart quickens, that faint little buzz in your ears as the blood serge's. Then, your breath catches. Everything seems to pause, and a battle rages through you. Your mind slips precariously on the edge of desperate, shielding anger or the dizzying slide into madness. It seems to last forever and then you hear this impossible loud thud. You feel the kick in your chest as your heart beats and then the world is racing so fast you can scarcely keep up. There is no past, no future, only that one, endless moment.
Those who don't feel the sharp sting of fear have little patience or understanding for those of us who suffer under its lash. I think they try to be compassionate, but in the end, they really just can't accept except the weakness of fear. I suppose I can't blame them. How can I when I envy their resolve? I covet that ability to face down the hunter that stalks them, to be so unflinchingly in the dark. Sometimes I think I would give anything to not be afraid anymore.
The writing seems to end though further down the page it picks up again.
In my dreams he is wearing red, though he certainly was not wearing red when he gave me his warning. I am sure he wore black. I remember the slick feel of the rock under my hands as I looked at the collapsed tunnel. The smell of rot and desiccation swirled around me, making my throat scratchy as I tried to breathe through the stench. There had been talk of trying to find some new tunnel. A little guarded entrance that might serve as a way into the crypt. It seemed like something I could do, a task I could devote myself to.
The lichen in the cave gave off a sort of pale glow. I admit I was distracted by the effect but even so, I should have heard him. There was no warning however, not even the whisper of cloth. Suddenly, the darkness was given a voice, and the form of a man blocked my retreat. It is an odd feeling, seeing such a relaxed posture, but almost tasting the edge of violence simmering just under the surface. We spoke for a time and though I listed closely to his words, I could not tell you what was in his voice; anger, boredom, maybe even amusement. During our conversation there were certainly flashes of all three. But it was hard to put any one emotion down as the central, defining point.
My brothers and sisters would chide me for not attacking him on sight, for not trying to blot his stain from the earth. But, it seems impossible for me to not attempt to reach out to him. If he is willing to talk, how can I not at least try? He is not one of them, not wholly lost yet. Oh, I have no illusions that he is some poor soul, duped into a life of evil. The way he spoke, the passion in his voice, no, this man is no one's victim. But, I can't let an opportunity like that pass. I can’t simply destroy someone willing to listen can I? There has to be a second chance. There has to be redemption. We have to keep trying, keep hoping or what is it that we are fighting for?