The Dresden Files / Bob / #42. Wasteland
Title: Toxic Wasteland
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Character: Hrothbert
Prompt: 42. Wasteland
Word Count: 158
Rating: G
Summary: Hrothbert contemplates eternity.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me; just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
The ghost gazed out of the leaded glass window at the winter-barren garden beyond. Brown-boned, skeletal trees stood in stark relief against the wane light of the pale January sun. What once had flourished green and vibrant with life had been laid waste by the turning of the season, felled by winter's icy blade. Yet beneath that brittle crust of frost and autumn's detritus new life lay waiting to spring forth and reclaim what had been wrested from it.
I am like that garden, thought Hrothbert.
Except his was a garden gone fallow with no expectation of ever again feeling the warm breath of Spring. He existed but did not grow or flourish; nor would he do so ever again. His was an existence without love. Without warmth. Without joy.
Was it not Milton who had described eternity as a moment standing still forever?
Milton was wrong. Eternity was a stagnant wasteland of despair, completely devoid of hope.
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Character: Hrothbert
Prompt: 42. Wasteland
Word Count: 158
Rating: G
Summary: Hrothbert contemplates eternity.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me; just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
The ghost gazed out of the leaded glass window at the winter-barren garden beyond. Brown-boned, skeletal trees stood in stark relief against the wane light of the pale January sun. What once had flourished green and vibrant with life had been laid waste by the turning of the season, felled by winter's icy blade. Yet beneath that brittle crust of frost and autumn's detritus new life lay waiting to spring forth and reclaim what had been wrested from it.
I am like that garden, thought Hrothbert.
Except his was a garden gone fallow with no expectation of ever again feeling the warm breath of Spring. He existed but did not grow or flourish; nor would he do so ever again. His was an existence without love. Without warmth. Without joy.
Was it not Milton who had described eternity as a moment standing still forever?
Milton was wrong. Eternity was a stagnant wasteland of despair, completely devoid of hope.