Twilight

The evening is softly radiant; wispy clouds, dusted ginger by the crimson of the westering sun, hang serenely in the placid skies, rest upon crisp drafts of air. There is a rolling field, gilded gently by those penultimate rays of light, and the trees that ring it in calmed silence need no evening light cast upon them to bestow them their autumn hues of scarlet, crimson, and gold. All that lives is in slumber; nothing stirs. The summer denizens have left; no birds mill about in the skies.

Then comes an interruption, scarcely perceptible, as the figure of a man crests a grassy knoll. It too glows faintly in the gentle light, its stooped, weary shadow falling across blades of grass lit to an immaculate texture. And the figure trudges onward, head bowed, limping perceptibly.

Just a figure, nothing greater, lit in soft fire by the sun, traipsing ever forth. His raiment, once proud and befitting of the Guards of Calleria, is tattered, ripped, tarnished, his bare skin rubbed raw and tender by the chill. Already he is lesser in build than is wont of men, but the aura of loss that pervades his very being, that hangs in the still airs around his bent frame, diminishes his stature yet more. There are wounds opened in him that he may never better; his garments are sodden with blood that blends red with the dusk itself. But there are other wounds also, that go far deeper; wounds etched vividly into his being, wounds that no time will heal.

Whither, now, is he headed? Does he tramp so resolutely forth in anticipation of healing, or of comfort of some fashion? These, the observer may only guess at. But certain it is that he seeks something, situated in a place he remembers but vaguely... or perhaps not at all, anymore. At any rate, he cares little. He will find it, if it claims his life.

At last, then, as the sun prepares to slip away into the horizon, taking with it those final, receding shafts of light – light which may well prove to be the last he ever glimpses – and shrouding the world in chilly, hushed darkness… he looks up, and there it stands at the eaves of a wood, before trees which are naught now but a wall of gloom.

Just as memory allows him to remember.

Bay windows aglow with light (strong yellow light, scarcely a flicker) from the blazing hearth. A chimney of red brick, from which issues an ethereal column of greeting. A gate one can merely step over, and a little picket fence.

A sleepy cottage at the edge of the woods.

The light beckons with its warmth, falls through the windows and across the lawn in dazzling resolution; as if a carpet of welcome. And gingerly he steps forth onto that carpet, stoops to open that quaint little gate, enters the compound. Tears are streaming down his cheeks now, tears of relief, of joyous anticipation, as he traverses that lawn that he knows so well... he wheezes no more, his breath coming hushed but steady, misting in the air; no more does he wince from the torment of his wounds, or cringe from the cold.

Then the oaken doorway opens, and the light that surges forth blinds him momentarily. Slowly, gradually, he perceives a figure standing at the door, a figure swathed in that wondrous radiant glow that pours forth so generously into the night. She is high and fair, queenly in stature and bearing. Soon he can distinguish her features, can look upon her; she has filled his dreams, given him hope, furnished his spent frame with the will to press on. Her eyes, so bright and apt to mirth, but yet tinged so often with melancholy, meet his – no words are required. He reaches her, stumbles forth into her arms. And he shuts his eyes.

The darkness, then, is vanquished, and the world at peace.