The Feline Oak

There is only void and darkness, the rumbling inevitability of time and the yellow glint of feline eyes. That is all that is certain. Said his father as he turned away and his shoulders grew branches with leafy hands. The field scene was upon him, opening up and welcoming him in. He ran in, charged in, as he always did. There she stood, as she always did, in the middle of the field, beneath the old oak. Her delicate face breaking into a broad grin as he approached. Then fading, first the smile, then the girl, then the meadow. The yellow glint of feline eyes, he heard once more.
Michael awoke. Covered in that familiar cloying, clammy sweat. He began to sit up but the fever made itself known, the room spun, as though his mind could find no calibration with his head. Nothing was where his eyes perceived it to be. Not that there was much in his room to lose track of, the farthest wall being perhaps four feet from him and the room long enough to hold his battered bed. The small desk, with it’s chipped and scarred top, was just about large enough to fit a sheet of paper on and held an inkwell. The small wooden chair nestled beneath it completed the itinerary of furnishings. The mess of scrolls and ragged shirts on the floor by the door completed the decoration. Michael tugged at the sheet by the window and the sun, already low in the sky, flopped into the tiny room.

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