"You are the only exception for the fact that you are once an emissary, Aleck, and from there you continued forth on establishing the very philosophy of yours that you are indeed one," the voice replied with a shout but sounded not angrily, and Micael fetched up the speed. He ignored the pain coming from his dirt-covered feet and the fear which had ensued from the cold breeze coming from the alien atmosphere he was currently in, and the moon appeared closer, and closer and closer as he walked towards the dead dark tree.
"I was never an emissary. You do not know me as I know myself, so you have no cause to—" Micael replied with an abrupt and loud voice but was interrupted greatly by the voice coming from the tree. It was loud but had put no fright at all inside Micael's curiosity and flesh, and so he continued. "No cause to question you, Aleck? You do not really know who he is, do you?" The voice sounded like one, and Micael started running towards to tree. His feet were gliding across the dingy soil and some of the dirt from the mass had started to stick unto his feet, which were flying around step by step like a chicken digging his very comfortable place to take a quite palaver and rest.
A few yards more, and he would be able to see what, or who, was behind the dead dark tree who had been living in his very nightmare. He knew this was something very irrelevant, but the possible of infinite enlightenments of his were the only thing that would matter, and he suddenly tripped past his knees, of which had led to something much more unthinkable that what he had expected to happen as he approached the obscure tree and the voice beyond it. He did not notice the reaching root from a cut tree beside him, which was an ankle or two above his feet, of which cause his tripping.
He had hit the dirty soil chest-first, and which such force that he concaved the lumpy beneath him, and some swamp water splashed around his perimeter, and his face had no escape, neither. The voice heard the sound from the collision of Micael's chest and the swamp soil as well as his grunt upon hitting, and the voice had seen the dirt around his body and felt the quite pain he was feeling, but Micael was not really able to look back, as the only thing he was able to look into was the pain he was enduring from the wound on his sole up to an excessive thump felt upon his very pristine chest.
"You look someone whom I have seen be killed by my someone who have imprisoned me, Aleck," the voice uttered the last time, before his feet started moving towards Micael through the swamp reaches, which produces shallow splashes and waves which had eventually reached Micael's hand that was sprawled on the most shallow body of the harsh, dark swamp. The voice slowly walked towards Micael's body lying above the lumpy soil with another sound coming from the separation of his lips, which gave Micael his consciousness back, like it was no dream at all.
"You look like someone who quickly bit the dust and became one right after dying, like a trump card, let alone a very magic trick," and Micael raised his head slowly while still grunting from the pain of his dirt-adorned chest. At last, he saw the face of the voice , though his vision was still drowsy and unfocused which ensued on his tripping, but he saw a torn dingy shirt under a dirty white dirt-decorated cape and a dirty blue ripped jeans, which blurredly resembled what was like Jack's outfit, but instead of guns and blades he had something much duller on his hand: a flute. He then tried to focus his eyes into the voice' owner once more, but his face was something unusual of him, let alone could not be seen, and the obscure man in white placed his flute's mouthpiece in front of him very lips, and started playing.
His playing was twangy and practice-lacking, which sent Micael aquiver instead of quite the homeostasis he was wanting to have at the very moment, for being helpless and being after by some who would want to kill you was simply death unto himself, and the only thing that he could have done was to wake up but he was still and just looking at the cape of the man in white, and he continued to play. His playing was something familiar to him, for it was his very song that he wrote while he had isolated himself from his family, Jack and the child, and to the world as a whole. He was also dancing while he was playing, too. Micael could hear and really concurred that it was indeed his song, though the man's playing was screeching to both of his ears, like simply an outcry of beasts coming from the circles of hell beneath the swamp, of which he could hear for the triumphant roars and whimpers were spoken aloud. His dancing was familiar, too.
It looked like the very child's dance when he was playing the piano, way back near the open gates, or perhaps on the open gates' very dimension, but he had his flute and his playing instead of a doll, with a size as same as the child, and Micael's very accompaniment. His dance was graceful, and yet his ears had wanted themselves to be torn off and move on with everything that they had heard at that very moment, but Micael's body was helpless. The man in white continued to walk, creating splashes which oddly suited his twing-twang playing. He was bending his back away for his feet, his body turning about itself, and his cape seemed like it was jumping happily and spontaneously and climbing up into synchronization with his head.
He was approaching Micael with speed, and the last splash from the Swamp had been heard, and droplets of water hit Micael's paralyzed-like hand, and his head had tilted towards his back more, and he saw the face of the man in white, and there was no face but a mask, a bunny mask who was smiling. No. The mask was smirking on whatsoever he decided to look at, and it was Micael.
...