Forlorn days of nihility stretch beyond me, broken only by brief moments in time when I would briskly walk from the fountain to the King’s Foil, cupping a small amount of quickly draining water within my hands. I have since staved off the browning of death—but that is all. The browning does not seem to recede, and the King’s Foil does not seem to repair, nor does it grow or flourish, and instead—like all that is ill-fated to be here—remains stuck in some form of perpetual quiescence. I have considered starving it of water if only to grant it a pitiful release, but alas, my own selfish need for company forces my hand to continue its existence. And so, once watered, I sit. And I sit for days, or perhaps weeks at a time, until the King’s Foil is in need of my service once more; or, more accurately, until I am in need of its.
I have since found the looming ennui to be inescapable. Its riddling fingers slick deeper and deeper into my mind, reworking my thoughts into a foreboding listlessness that has since amassed itself into a palpable weight on my shoulders. I do not, and cannot, sleep—although, I yearn for its escape. While staring aimlessly into a horizon that is forever, and only ever, near, eventually one’s cognition begins to decay; a half-life of null expelling reason to be replaced by an indefinite static. I form no memories during these periods, and I suppose they are the closest approximation to sleep that I can experience—but I never return from them feeling well-rested, only weaker, as if I have withered or diminished in some way. I have dubbed these periods as the Lull of the Lacuna.
A moment of solace has come upon me again where I must attend to my solemnly duties. How long has it been since I have last stirred from my sleepless slumber? I feel as if the lull of the lacuna was deeply enduring this time. My gaze settles upon the opalescent water cupped within my marrow hands—and I look back at myself; a pallid face of marbled skull, with two yawning black pits for eyes, and a row of teeth forever locked in a sardonic grin—which, there is a strange, wry humour to be found in this fact, I am sure.
I must move with haste less this gelid water all but trickles out from my hands, yet my mind remains loath to do so—for it yearns for these brisk moments of activity and wishes them to be never-ending. But alas, I must prevail against these urges, for it is the scarcity of these actions that makes them so riveting. And for them to be as all is in this idyllic prison—that is, unceasingly monotonous—then I will just as quickly succumb to a permanent lull of the lacuna.
It was then, during my inner struggle, as I repeated the same steps and followed the same path towards the King’s Foil, as I have done an innumerable number of times before, that I felt a new sensation under my foot. It was not like that of the boundless blades of grass that I have felt underfoot to the point of numbness, but instead, as I tentatively lifted my foot, I saw what I thought I would never see again—something new.
For you see, what I had so carelessly stepped on was a modest green shoot, sprouting defiantly in this timeless void, welcoming the world with a single unfurled leaf.
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