His wife smiled and waved, as if at Torva himself. Torva wanted to reach out, to touch her soft cheek one last time, but his arms wouldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t walk. She was calling now, her mouth producing silent words. Torva tried to shout out, to respond. But every word he tried to speak, his throat pounded with burning pain.
The image blurred again, went out of focus.
Now, Torva saw the children that would walk with him. They played together, laughing, enjoying themselves in the black void of nothingness. Unaware that their defenders were dying. That their lives were in more danger than they could ever know. Again, Torva wanted to shout to them, warn them. Tell them he was dead. But in place of words came the same burning, choking pain.
The children went out of focus.
Now, it was as if Torva were floating, high in the black, empty sky, looking down at his village. It wasn’t a large village. Sat atop of a large hill, one could walk to the villages borders and gaze down at the sprawling, endless world below. The trees and streams of the forests below. Every day the sun rose from the low horizon, peaking over the land until it rose high into the sky, far above even Torva’s hill-top village.
Torva felt himself in agonizing pain, but still, looking down at his home, his village; he felt comfort. It was a simple village, typical of the primitive age Torva lived in.
Small, squat homes of stone earth and timber takes from the forests. Rough, dirt roads that the village people walked upon, their simplistic leather shoes getting dusty and roughhewn on the dirt paths.
On the far side of the village, a farm sat. A small field of grains that would be ground into flour to make the hard, crunchy breads that Torva enjoyed. Small chickens clucked and paced around their enclosed pin, scratching at the muddy ground.
02-Apr-2013 13:10:57
- Last edited on
02-Apr-2013 16:41:02
by
Ghondor
