Between the silvered trunks of a mighty, alien forest, I came upon a wounded man. He sat next to a small campfire, one he had built himself. Pensiveness filled his eyes. A heavy, lead-lined cloak dragged at his shoulders, the red and gold hem crusted with mud. He had one hand pressed to his side and a puddle of crimson surrounded him, too much for him to still live.
When I gasped, he looked up at me. “I’m fine,” he said, flashing me a cocky grin.
“You’re not,” I retorted.
But when he pulled his hand away from his side, there was no blood. He showed his clean palm to me. “See? Nothing wrong.”
More blood seeped up from the ground, the puddle growing larger until it lapped at my bare toes. I went away from that place, feeling that I had let the world down somehow. I think he must have been a magician. A tricksy one, who pulled a blindfold down over my eyes.
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