Spirit of the King (Khirros Journey Book 2)
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The visions that visited her dreams meant nothing if she did not set them to words on the scroll, left them to be found when the time they were needed came. To ensure her subjects are never again punished for being human. Small gods, perhaps. She bit down hard and fought against the oncoming tears choking her throat.
A louder rumble, and this time the walls trembled. She wiggled her fingers the way she did when she called the water to her bidding and her brother realized her intent. They both stared at its blank surface as another ball of fire struck the building and a shower of sparks spilled through one of the high windows.
The wicked point tore through her flesh, found its way between the bones, and pressed against her heart. He pulled her close, the loose parchment folding between them, and a fresh wave of pain crashed through her, transported along her veins to the tips of her fingers. Actually, Victoria, B. The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of a burlesque diva. He has plans for more Icarus novels, several stand alones, and several more books in the Small Gods series. January 1st, Description A hundred hundred seasons have turned since the Goddess banished the Small Gods to the sky, leaving the land to mankind alone.
Khirro’s Journey: An outstanding novel by a novelist with chops
We deserve it. The Goddess never intended us to live this way.
They raised their heads; their eyes met. About Latest Posts. The third mystery in the series, Collateral Damage, appeared in Saving Raine, the first book in Fred's entirely new series, The Drone Wars, appeared in December , and was followed by its sequel, Inferno, in June A resident of Switzerland, Fred has worked as a teacher, language school manager and school owner.
No indescribable colors. No sky. My arms and legs feel nothing, as though they may not even exist. My mouth makes no sounds, if I have a mouth. I do not breathe. There are only these words in my head and the longing to return to that infinite field.
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The blackness is complete. It surrounds me and fills me, holds me fast, floating in nothing, like a leaf fallen on a lake and frozen in place by a winter wind. All I remember is lush grass, azure sky, the fragrance of blossoms. Nothing before that perfect place, and after it is only this nothing. People, places, events—the things that make a life.
If I have eyes, I close them, concentrating my thoughts to discover what more there might have been.
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But are they my thoughts? Nothing changes. Eyes open or closed, alive or dead, awake or asleep, the dark—my only companion—refusing to answer my questions. After some time, or perhaps no time at all, the shadow lightens. I am only my thoughts floating in a lighter colored nothing.
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My surroundings go from iron gray to silver, and finally white, but this is not the white of noonday sun on the sail of a ship. It is snow too long on the ground, a dress washed too many times. There is nothing bright to this white. It is flat and dead, without color or warmth. It is more nothing. If I could sigh, I would use the breath to release my frustration. What did I do to deserve having the glorious world of green and blue, of flowers and grass and sky, taken from me?
Could there be worse punishment than being ripped from that and banished to this? Black spots appear before me, around me. I reach out to them without reaching out. The first something in The spots swirl and spin like birds wheeling across a distant blank sky, or perhaps they collect like a cloud of black flies waiting to feed. Either is welcome relief. They make me feel like I have eyes again, like I can see.
If I do, I have not the lids to allow me to blink. The spots collide, whirlpooling against the white background and sticking to each other to make larger patches of black.
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More bits of dark nothing are absorbed by the bigger pieces, expanding it, spreading. My fascination turns to apprehension as the bigger patches of black carry with them a feeling of dread. The last few pieces come together in unspectacular fashion leaving a single patch of black before me.
Spirit of the King
It ebbs and flows, a blackened glob that might be tiny as a flea or bigger than the world, for I have no frame of comparison to know which it is or where in between it may fall. Its agitation slows and a shape forms.
https://pt.aqinerofah.tk Or perhaps a cloak shaped like a person. It lifts an arm toward me and the sleeve falls away to reveal a white hand, though not so white as my world. I gasp if I can gasp and feel something I recognize as hope. I cannot name the colors, but they are such contrast to where I have been. A tear spills from my eye leaving a trail down my cheek. It touches my lip, my tongue, and I taste the saltiness of my joy.
This brings more tears. The figure floats closer as I smile and cry and laugh without sound. Maybe this thing, this person, was sent to take me back to my perfect expanse, or to whatever came before. I reach toward it, wanting to touch the cloth of its cloak, wanting to feel something, but I am still without arms, without body, despite the feel of the tear on my cheek, the taste of it on my tongue. The black apparition comes closer. I search beneath its hood, my new found vision blurred by welcome tears, but see nothing.