Bathsheba by Toys de Guzman

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The whirring sounds of the Omega Flyers thundered below as they trudged through the heavens, the rhythms of their metal blades in constant synchrony – vessels of destruction laying waste to every morsel of landscape dawned by their foreboding shadows. And the dissonant chords of the rifles – perhaps humanity's greatest invention against a world that exploited their mortality – served as heralds of the Death herself, flooding her gates with a thousand waiting souls. Even the silent cackles of flames contributed to this symphony as they licked the vastness of the world under the blood red skies.

They were pieces of Death's repertoire of sorrows. Arias played by humans pretending to be gods. Aggressive tunes that can neither sway heads nor make feet tap. But they were music nonetheless, and the cries of anguished victims only heightened the performance.

Still they were vague thoughts. A collage of sounds and images that played endlessly inside a tortured mind. Fragments of some nightmare, they were. A nightmare unleashed in reality. Morgan knew it was all real for he was there.

He was there.

With that thought, everything faded to black.


Morgan dreamt a thousand dreams. Of nymphs, of dragons, of knights. Of magic, and even of life itself. It was a feverish dream, pitting his mind's concoctions with reality. Dreams of the sick, he heard. He didn't know where he got the notion, but it was true. He felt weak, and his thoughts were scattered – playing amongst themselves as they await the recovery of their master.

But everything in his dreams appeared familiar. Even the nymphs, the dragons and the knights.

And at the exact moment before he lost again to the void of peaceful slumber, a great conqueror would emerge. A demon in full battle armor, consumed by icy blue flames with eyes made only to pierce. Through its armored mask, he saw its maniacal smile as gushes of white heat flowed from its mechanical arms and drowned the nymph, the dragon and the knight in an eternity of suffering.

It was the Baphomet.

And as he succumbed to deep sleep, he heard the demon's enthusiastic laughter against Death's aria.

But these weren't all he dreamt of. On other times, he would see a lady. He would always be entranced by her beauty. Never had he seen such paragon of a goddess. Those eyes! An amalgam of an unending luster of silver and the ardent longing of black. And those lips, made only to kiss. How he wished to put his own lips to those scarlet petals that could shame a blushing rose.

And then the lady would always sing to him. A lullaby that would whisk him away from the world of nymphs, dragons and knights. And most of all, away from the demon that ruled with fire.

But just like all dreams, the lady would fade away, leaving him with a lark's song that would ease him to sleep. It was his beacon of hope that somewhere along this path of empty slumber and taunting nightmares was an exit that would make him see the world again.

And he did.

He rose from his bunk one day, healthy and in high spirits.