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Myron Epimethues
Maintaining his grip upon the gem the little man waits while this one named Larry composes himself – to the extent, of course, that Larry has ever been composed. The young are seldom composed, and this one is even more dramatic in his outbursts of spontaneous emotion than most of those who are young. So much energy, so little wisdom and such a foolishly ironic sense of certainty about the world .…. youth really is a troublesome thing. A chill overtakes the little man, a biting chill that lodges itself in his bones, and he shudders a moment. He is always so cold. He mutters softly and moves the fingers of his free hand and a pair of mugs filled with steaming liquid hang suspended in the air between himself and the boy. “Drink,” he says with a gentle firmness, “there is nothing like something warm to drink to bring a bit of comfort against the cold and to return one to his proper senses.”
With his free hand he takes one of the mugs and lifts it to his desiccated lips and sips gratefully from its contents.
“It is time you grew up, boy. And time to stop chasing after shadows. Boys are given to such things, but a boy cannot endure what you must now face and a boy will see his story end here before this empty grave.”
[ 07-29-2006, 10:45 AM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]
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