Sometimes you just know you're getting sick. I knew it the moment I woke up this morning. There was a rough patch at the back of my throat that scraped like sandpaper at every inhaled breath, every sip sip and swallow. I took what precautions I could but as I walked home this evening in the light rain, I felt the shiver, the slight lightheadedness that told me the fever was coming.
My feverish sleep seemed to dilate space-time itself. I felt like Elric of Melniboné, trapped in a place without time, beset by demons so terrible and fell that I dared not name them, kept alive only by a curse almost as horrible as the creatures that attacked me. Surely, if I awoke from this infinite torment, I would find myself in an alabaster sarcophagus, in a forgotten marble tomb. A fine dust would cover me. My name would be forgotten and even my people dead beyond legend. I would wake to find the world thrown upside-down in time. Only Ookla the Mok would stand beside me to take on a world I hadn't made, a world that had forgotten me.
When I did finally awake from the half-sleep, chilled from hot sweat gone cold, and beyond (at least for the moment) fever's ragged touch, I looked at the clock: barely two hours had passed since I had gone abed. How is this possible?
Clearly the Lords of Chaos have plans for me, here, and in this time. Tis a sobering thought. The fever is gone though. At least I can get some sleep.
