Within the Void: When the Air is a Song of Water and Diversion.

[Kylerryth]

His every step rang softly on the corridor floor, a steady, easy rhythm that spoke of a natural, mellifluous grace. It was like the blacksmith's hammer striking the anvil, but subdued by a kind of holy hush; and each time the hammer fell, incandescent sparks, like tiny stars erupting into existence, rose from the sudden impact, fluttered in its wake -- and died as abruptly, vanishing without a trace. The floor was black, as were the walls, and both seemed of a piece, as if formed rather than carved; and they were devoid of ornamentation, of opulence, for such things were unnecessary here.

Here in the Void, where the sky was as black as those floors and walls, as black as the death of hope. Where the soil itself was the color of despair and had the texture of broken dreams. Where the air carried a scent like loneliness and longing, and seemed to whisper a lullaby of subconscious memories. Black, and empty, and forever. It was the eternal absence. It was the perpetual lack.

It was home.

A dim, silvery light trickled through the surrounding darkness, but it was cold and unnatural -- there were no twinkling stars in that inky space above, and no pockmarked moon to gently drip its solemn cosmic dew on what was below. The light simply was, because he wished it to be; therefore it required no actual source but his desire for it to exist. A song, ethereal and wordless, thrilled him; it cast unseen vibrations, electric and explosive, and inspired a volatile warp of the fabric of the Void. The corridor suddenly expanded, stretching in every direction, twisting at the edges of perception so that no matter what direction he looked, it was always the same hallways, always those same hallways, always, and they were layered in veils of obscurity.

As the song reached its crescendo, its feathery soprano resonating from an unknown source (was it, like the light, a product of him? Possibly -- but we will never truly know, will we), the Void trembled as if in anticipation of a tremendous event -- a cacophony of cataclysm, a prayer of purgation, a rape of reality. Yet he continued to walk slowly, casually, unperturbed by the skewed disaster of his environment. These happenings were strange, surely, but only to an outsider. Strange occurrences for a strange place, yet commonplace to all but those unfamiliar with its depthless echoes of eternity, the way it bent, its torrential downpour of hollow thoughts and vivid vacancy; they did not intrude upon the maelstrom of thought within him.

Eventually, after a minute or an eon, they dwindled to a semblance of normalcy -- as normal as the Void could be, anyway. The corridor was again as it was before, and yet was as infinite as it had been a moment earlier, lacking a beginning and an end, and never deviating from its straight course. The air moved in a faint swirl about him, twisted its hidden fingers over the smooth lines of his naked body, its delineated muscles; caressed the silky black hair that framed his impossibly beautiful face, a face that invoked awe and terror in the same glimpse; and burned itself upon reaching the liquid emerald fire of his eyes, just before it was consumed wholly by the hungry black pinpoints of his pupils -- these awful yet wondrous eyes were mirrors of the Void, not the soul.

Suddenly, he stopped -- and everything else ceased to be. He was alone, utterly alone, surrounded by an impenetrable shadow that lived and breathed in complete silence; its slick, oily film covered him, and his white skin glistened imperceptibly. There was no hallway, no noise, no song, no air -- gone, all of it, as if it had never been and never would be; as if the thought of it, the comprehension of it, were erased like a mistake on an artist's sketchpad.

Then he lifted his hand, slowly, and unfurled his fingers, slowly; their lacquered nails shone like knives of ice, like chips of glass. He touched the air, or lack thereof, with his forefinger, and traced an eerie design in the molten darkness -- and it rippled like water, and began to hum a subtle, svelte droning sound, like the drawn-out tolling of a particularly sexy gong. Softly, almost hesitantly, the invisible soprano raised its voice once more; and when he took a step, it was onto a road of black gravel that sounded like falling rain beneath his feet, or perhaps the rusted shrapnel of a resigned fury sliding across a dry creek bed of failed faith.

"Again?" Kylerryth sighed. His voice kept close, afraid to venture too far, afraid it might be lost.

He clenched his hands into fists and once more started down the road of perdition, his steps accentuated by the crunchy rush of stones made of sorrow and what could have been.