"Boy, pass me those bricks, please."
Nathan nodded, and handled a bundle of red bricks, handing them over to the man.
*Thud*
The bricks fell from his arms onto the ground, and cracked, infinitely multiplying in numbers, infinitely dividing in usefulness. Some turned to red ash, smithereens, blown over by any passing wind that wished to command them.
Overconfidence. Nathan cringed. The man shook his head, sighed, and grabbed the bricks himself.
Why was he here? Nathan wondered.
He probed his surroundings. Destruction, there was only destruction as far as his little eyes could see, rubble, and blood that painted the surroundings a terrifying color.
A blink of an eye ago, he was on his bed, in his home, perhaps preparing for sleep, or preparing dinner, but he didn't recall this scene, he didn't recall destruction or any notable events that led to this cataclysm. He had simply blinked an eye, and now, he was here, in a big world, and in a weak, little body.
Nathan's forehead glistened with sweat. It dripped down his red, steaming face. This body was really weak, he realized.
"A young boy need not see the tragedies of war," A gentle, exhausted voice asserted.
Nathan turned around.
Behind him, an old man held out a cup of water to the boy. Suddenly, the people around frowned even harder than they already did - they glared at the man, then at the young boy, and took slow steps back.
The man had long black hair that reached down to his knees, and black runic symbols were etched on the left side of his face.
Nathan grimaced.
This man was different from other people. When he looked at him, he saw words in his mind, not random sentences, but more shockingly, an overview of the man's life. It did not include the man's meals or an exhaustive list of his thoughts, but it provided Nathan enough information to know who this man was, and why everyone distanced themselves from him.
Right now, the only action he wanted to do was to thank the man profusely, but Nathan restrained himself.
"May peace be upon you." He accepted the cup of water and recited a common, meaningless blessing.
On top of that, it seemed this place needed peace over anything else.
The man stared at the boy through his strange tattoos, and a tear slid down his face, "Thank you."
Nathan didn't feel anything towards the man's tears. It was not that he couldn't empathize, but a lonely feeling had seeped through his mind and heart - a feeling of unfamiliarity, strangeness, and distance.
Now hydrated, he wished to confirm what the man's life had led him to believe.
He ran, and he ran, he bolted through the rubble, the mass of dead bodies, rushed burial sites, and collapsed buildings.
Then, he stopped.
In front of him, there was a building. It was unlike most, and that was beyond the fact that it still stood strong amidst a scene of ruin.
Five years ago, or maybe not. Nathan had opened his laptop, and typed for hours and hours, as the flashing of the screen became more significant to him than the passing of the hours. He wrote about a man, he wrote about a war, he wrote about a building, and today, right now, that building was in front of him, cement and bricks.
"A tall tower loomed upon the city of Azoria, and its people. Its facades were of the finest polished stone, and the dome...don't speak to the residents about the dome, they had given it a million names, though, big was often one of them. It was a big dome, made of a special kind of blue jade that changed color depending on the sun's orientation. It went from a cyan-blue in the noon, to a deep, chilling navy in the sunset. This wasn't the most mundane of buildings, and the people it housed were similarly extraordinary. This was the Council of The Thirty, where all decisions were made, and power emanated on the entire city of Azoria, and the province of the same name," Nathan mumbled to himself, often stopping when he did not remember the exact flow of words, and resuming when his memories came back.
He could not believe it, though he had to.
This world, which formerly, only existed on ink and paper, had now been accorded life.