The Only Path Between Sea and Sky

[politestpirate]

To the right was the ocean, stretching to the horizon.

To the left was sand dunes, as far as he could see.

(The sky, blazing and blue, spread all around without a cloud to relieve the monotony.)

The only thing that could be kept track of, to follow, was the shore line winding its way out in front of him.

He lost track of how long it had been since he arrived here- there really was not any way to keep track of the time aside from the relentless crashing of the waves.

(Wellard glanced behind him, once, to see his footsteps washed away by the water, leaving no trace that he had ever been there. He did not look back again.)

There was not any place to go but forwards.

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[bringmethatnpc]

The click of flint striking steel is all but inaudible.

The blast that follows not a split-second afterwards is anything but.




The shot seems to ring out for an interminable period of time, fragmented echoes sharp and jagged against the now-muted sound of the ocean. The acrid scent of burnt powder lingers even longer in the damp salty air.

[bringmethatnpc]

Neither Wellard nor Sawyer have moved -- they stand facing each other in a frozen tableau.

The pistol is still in Wellard's hand, and a thin coil of smoke drifts upwards from the flash pan. But instead of being aimed at Sawyer's eyes, it is now aimed just slightly wide of the mark.

Sawyer's hands are empty.

[politestpirate.livejournal.com]

Wellard lowers the pistol, the smoke wreathing around his hand and up his arm.

"Without honor or mercy, justice is nothing." Quietly, dark eyes looking straight at Sawyer. "I didn't kill you then, even when you had my hate- and I won't kill you now."

He takes a deep breath.

"It's not justice."

[bringmethatnpc]

The atmosphere is no longer quite as oppressive as it had been merely moments before. Something has changed, however imperceptibly.



There is nothing in Sawyer's expression to give any hint of his thoughts. He merely gazes at Wellard, as Time seems to stretch --

(the hour is come)

-- and the air shivers, blurring like heat haze on a blistering day in high summer --

(but not the man)

-- and when it clears, Henry Wellard stands alone on the endless shore.