The lands around his mountain home were scorched, desolate, and flat. Trenches scarred the earth. Gutted pillboxes with crumbling walls and abandoned machine gun nests haphazardly littered the terrain. The ground was pockmarked, ravaged by the occasional barrage of artillery fire. High above, the clouds drifted through the sky like glaciers, plowing through the sea of blue with ponderous grace. Ragged streams of golden light fell down from the cracks between the clouds upon the fighting below.
Though he was far away, Niles could still make out the destruction occurring below him. He stood and heard the air shriek with in pain at the howling fury of the artillery. He stood and watched as the earth roared and belched, sending fountains of debris and unfortunate soldiers high into the air. Farther off into the horizon, flashes of light erupted briefly, almost whimsically, like so many fireflies. Nearer to him were countless smaller bursts of lights. There was no pattern to their light show, only chaos and a garbled symphony of cries, tremors, and gunfire.
He never knew what to call what he saw occurring below him. He never knew what to call the madness below though he was a part of it himself. So he continued to watch with a kind of fascination one reserves for train wrecks and other man-made disasters.
Sometimes he felt like he was on a desolate beach with a vast wasteland at his back. He sat on the immaculate white sand and watched the waves beat the vast ocean into froth and foam. There amidst the barren windswept sand, the overwhelming overcast sky, he could be free to unburden himself to the air and water. His hopes, frustrations, anguish, desire, all could be cast exuberantly into the water with reckless passion. Yet the ocean would only swallow them all with barely a ripple and continue its melancholy roar. No matter how much he would give to the ocean, the ocean would continue singing its dirge to him until he was a mere husk. It would erode him away until he was a blade of grass among entire golden field, merely swaying wherever that sighing dismay exhaled. Sitting there, on the cool sand with the breeze blowing sharply and tenderly around him, the endless roar filling his eyes and ears.
Slowly, he felt the fascination ebb away from his body with each crash of the artillery. Weariness entered the gap of his lost interest. The fatigue slipped past his skin and quickly saturated his flesh. Almost at once, he was struck by the biting cold rushing around him and through the hollow cavities of his body. Niles let a hand cover his eyes. That same hand was soon supporting his head from falling forward. Another roar shook the air and he closed his eyes as his hands moved to cover his ears. But the ground underneath him still trembled, and the shrieking in the air passed through his hands effortlessly. He let his head fall forward and his hands grabbed at his hair fiercely. Gently, he let his hair sift between his fingers, caressing locks of hair between fingertips. His hands ran through his hair slowly. But gradually, the pace of his hands grew more frenzied. Fingers morphed into claws and Niles began to paw at his scalp. His right hand however, slowed down. Once again, it went back to caressing locks of hair. This continued for some time, one hand tearing at his scalp, while the other was at peace. Then both hands stopped. Delicately, with trembling care, both hands clutched at the silken onyx strands. His hands did not tug or feel, but instead grasped and held, as if that multitude of hopelessly thin strands could be his anchor.
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