Tonight, He Dreams: The Curtain Rises
[=#357EC7]In a faraway world, there is a grand city. In that grand city, there is a series of rooms. Only two people, one a priest and one a doctor, have ever gone in and out of those rooms. The resident came in once, when he was an infant; the plan is, he will never leave.
His name is Taran. His veils are his sacred shields, covering him from head to foot. If anyone saw him, his guardians tell him, it would only bring misery. Even with the veils, only they are pure enough to look upon him. To step beyond the curtain guarding him from the world would only invite disaster. He knows this.
But here he is tonight, standing in a white room, silver in the moonlight. The torches are out, and the only windows, letting in streaks of moonlight, are on the other side of the curtain. In the darkness, only the little glowing beads on the edges of his robes provide him light.
On the curtain before him is the sacred crest of the grand city. On the other side is the world.
“Go,” he whispers to himself. “No force can stop you. Go.” He clutches the velvet curtain in both hands, willing it back with his shoulders and back, but finding his elbows, his weak hands, unable to finish the motion. He’s trembling. Strangely, he feels the azure eyes of the god of the city on him then, wide eyes, ashamed at what he was about to do, asking him if he was willing to risk all his happiness, all this peace, for those streets.
He wasn’t. He can’t. In the end, he’s just too frightened to be outside. The one little step just seems too long, and the thought of the noise of even a quiet city night makes him feel sick.
His veils rustle around him as his figure sinks into his robes and falls to his knees.
