Polymath Redux Annex
Chapter 21 – To chase old ghosts
Before Mordred flowed a gentle and steady stream. A riverbank of black water; an orchestral symphony of tranquil and corrupted peace. It sploshed relentlessly against the polished rocks. They occupied his as though water stuck in his canals- irritating and unshakably distracting. He disliked this kind of tainted serenity. It was the quiet acceptance of one’s fate to an unmoving and stagnant future; there was no progress, only ‘complacency’.
“Tsk,” Mordred clicked his tongue with a soured expression. He turned about, yet what laid behind him was an impenetrable thicket of grey smog. Like nothing existed beyond this thin veil of ill gas. Regardless, he took a few steps forward. However, he understood at that point going further would be fruitless. He retreated and returned to the point of origin at the edge of the black riverbank. If ‘life’ could be summarized, it would be much like this river. They all go along with the flow. The path of least resistance.
He was the same.
That’s why he hated it. Everything about this place reminded him of his own weakness and complacency to an uncaring world. It took real courage and strength to confront one’s inner demons- something he didn’t have. He had no such fortitude. He was the first to give himself to a life of solitude stuck inside that small room. Yet, he never blamed himself for giving up, nor would he reprimand those who do, but at the same time he would never come to like them. “Heh…” he let out a small chuckle of self-loathing. He took a deep breath and stared across the black mire.
This place was as queer as it could get. Isolated, imperceptible, but familiar. The other side was the same. “Hmm…?” yet fog was the only thing in this strange realm. On the other side, someone else stood. Motionlessly staring back at him through a very reminiscent piercing red gaze. Silently, it judged Mordred for every decision made up until this point. “Who?” he wanted to ask, but that figure seemed so familiar that he already had a gist of it.
A rough appearance; messy, uncombed black hair that covered half his face and loose dark themed clothes. His feet were bare and his hands were mostly bones and skin. The figure frowned back, yet mode no remarks outside of a judgmental stare.
Mordred sighed as he averted his gaze, “worthless.”
He took a deep breath.