It was this period of time that Kogure would later note in his records, as one of the longest and darkest days of his life. Dawn was passing seamlessly into nights, and it had come to the point where Kogure no longer could differentiate between sunrise and sunset. Days that passed like years.

By this point, Kogure couldn’t stop writing. Writing feverishly, his mind was filled with that howling chorus again. Like a new born babe crying desperately for food, the voice would not let him rest. He sat, back hunched over the wooden table, his hand writing non-stop for days. He ate little, stopping only for a few minutes, for the food that Mitsui brought or when his body needed relief. Sleep was out of the question. It only gave the dreadful voice a body...

Kogure was sick of it. He knew he was close to collapsing again, under the pressure of the growing tension. But this time, he was determined to let the thing out. He was filled with a sense of urgency that even he himself would not be able to explain rationally. What mattered now was the prophecy.

The prophecy. Did that mean that he was a prophet?

Kogure gave a short hysterical laugh. Mitsui looked up sharply, concern written all over his face. He was sitting on the bed, his eyes constantly on Kogure.

Kogure gave no indication that he knew Mitsui was there. It has been like that for the past few days. He knew he was slipping away into that swirling mad world. There was never any choice. He knew that now. All his life, he had running away. Now, he faced the gates. The gates of madness.

"Maybe you should take a rest, Kogure. There is no point pushing yourself so hard.." Mitsui’s voice was strained.

Silence. Only the soft scratching sound of a pen abusing paper, and paper bleeding with ink.

Only his worthless visions mattered now..

They taunted him. Dark, bloody fragments of a battle. The haunting sigh of the wind. The smell of dried blood. Bodies lying everywhere.

One man stood. Amongst all, he stood with such proud bearing that Kogure’s eyes had to look away in case the brilliance of that young man seared him. His entire being shone with such brightness that Kogure instinctively reached for him.

But it didn’t happen. His salvation was far, far away. No matter how long and fast Kogure ran after that fiery figure, he never managed to reach him. Kogure yearned to stay under his protection, for the darkness was catching up with him. The battle didn’t satisfy them. They wanted more..

Kogure HAD to get to him. He was the only hope. The ONLY light in the dark... ...

The scene changed.

Kogure stumbled around blindly. A prophet’s visions were ever-changing and unpredictable. He now stood in the middle of a stone room. His hands were chained and he could feel the cold sharpness of a blade against his neck. He was going to be executed. Again.

This was a crazy dream that was repeated as often as people taunted him in the real world. Each time, before the sword fell, a dagger would appear in his grip. And each time, Kogure tried to stab the dark figure behind him but he never succeeded. Most of the times, he didn’t even try. It was a vision that always signified the end of the other visions. And it always ended with the cold blade slashing into his neck...

But this time; this time it was different. There was a different purpose in the visions now. Kogure and the dark executioner were in the same position as before but the dagger wasn’t there in his hands. Instead, Kogure noted with an almost detached horror at the sight of the dagger emerging painlessly from his heart. As usual, the executioner’s blade rose and prepared to fall, but in this particular vision, Kogure grasped the dagger desperately and stabbed backwards.

Flesh. Bone. A sticky liquid. Kogure face twisted in horror as he turned to look at his own handiwork. Was this the only way to open the gates? A voice resounded around him in anger at his escape....

Kogure awoke with a start. Wiping off his sweat with one hand, he looked down the paper in front of him. The prophecy. What a lie. It was nothing but a record of his mad dreams.

Yet --- this time; it WAS different. It even FELT different. Was it because of the last scene? The dagger that floated effortlessly out of his heart? Kogure frowned.

Lord, even his own thoughts seemed to feel strange.

I should be despairing by now, or dropping into incoherent hysterics. Or crouching down on the floor, whining pathetically. Kogure always had fits of trauma after each vision. But this time -

Why? What is going on? Kogure cursed silently. he glanced around the room and stopped to rest on the sleeping Mitsui. He was nodding off in a chair that he had pulled near Kogure’s table. Kogure sighed. He no longer understood what was happening. It was as if he was being shepherded into some unknown fate ...

Fate. A young man who stood tall on the battleground.

Kogure shot up. This strange feeling was getting stronger. The young man’s hair -

Brilliant red, shining like burnished copper. It even shot the sun’s rays back at the sun, as if challenging the giver of all life with all its defiance. It declared its royalty just by its hue alone.

Kogure slowly opened up his hands and stared at the complex lines on his palm. Eyes half-shut, one hand rose and fingered the place where the dagger had emerged from his heart in his vision. Somehow this time, he had managed to defeat his demons. They might come back.

This feeling ...

He knew what was different now.

He had direction.

And the winged creature called hope...

Note: i wrote this chapter while i was feeling really unwell. had a headache and something like gastric. erm maybe that's why this chapter turned out rather dark? *sheesh* i had the creeps myself while i was writing it at 3 something a.m in the night *shiver*