I came upon a land shrouded in dusk with purple skies and hills covered in leafless, grey trees. I took refuge in a fallen church, half sunk into the ground. There would be no nightfall, no setting sun, nor would there be a morning to come.
But my head was heavy and my legs were tired so I stopped to rest.
I collected some fallen branches and made myself a small fire, over which I boiled some water from a nearby stream, adding a few fragrant leaves to make a strong tea.
The fire crackled, the water bubbled, and a man came to join me. His skin was the color crumbling stone, his clothes the rags of a scarecrow.
“Welcome to the valley of the lost,” he said. “It is here that fallen empires come to moulder as they are forgotten by time.”
I bid the man hello and asked where exactly we were, as I have grown accustom.
“Why, we are in the valley of the lost,” he replied.
I gently clarified that I meant what lands this valley bordered. The man’s grin dropped, and anger flashed across his face.
“These are sacred lands that exist unto themselves. There are no neighboring lands to flee to.” He hopped from one foot to another as he spoke.These were not the first sacred lands I have found myself in, and I politely thanked the man for his time and promised to bury myself in the soft loam first thing after my rest was over.
The man’s face returned to its smile, perhaps with a little more life behind it.
“See to it,” he said before a gust of wind blew him away.