Word Count :: 300+
No drug ran in Caspa's veins: her blood was as empty as her mind. Although she had felt the earth come up to meet her, so she had not been entirely unconscious, she could see nothing but white, as if in a dream of ice and snow. She could have vanished into this stark world. It would be easy to allow herself to shrink away, dwindle to nothing, just a point of light invisible in the gleam. It was the warm presence, something pushing her chin and words and a scent, that tugged her into reality. The feeling of a stranger at her throat was not enough to incite real fear, just an idea that this situation was something that should cause concern. She was vulnerable and had risked everything. But she had not been killed. She was still here. She had another idea, now: that the fact she was not dead was something she should have been glad about. Not this utter neutrality: total acceptance that whatever came came, or had come, or would come, sometime. There was an odd feeling of strength in the resignation to her fate, but not yet a final decision to return to the real world, or at least to try - perhaps it was not possible, perhaps she had walked too far down the path to Heaven.
She did not move, as the white world was still all-encompassing, although now a little tumultuous, shadows moving across it and an echo from faraway of Blind's question. The realisations that had come to her now, were still coming, about the future and the past, and the present which swallowed both, and the nature of existence - utter nonsense, perhaps, if you weren't coming at it from Caspa's rather deeply involved and overwhelmed perspective - seemed so revelatory that she did not want to answer for fear of breaking the spell. She was breathing so deeply as to be barely visible, and the rising sun bathed them both in its misty, lilac-silver light, the wind-and-spray silence the only response to the Dreamer's concern.
Image courtesy of ®DS @ flickr; Table by the Mentors!
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