30
For a long time, the dark was it, all there was. The dark was enveloping, all-encompassing, carnivorous and insatiable. His body disappeared entirely into it's hungering space, first his toes and feet, then his hands and even his arms were gone, leaving him only the dark, and his own impetus against sleep.
Faraji told himself that it could only have been a few hours since he'd entered this pit, but truthfully he feared his grasp on time was deteriorating—it certainly felt like days. He told himself he could end it any time he wanted—this is not real life—but wondered again if this was really true. Was this his last chance? How much more time did they have before They found them? How dire were the consequences if he stayed static?
In this way the dark laid ruthless traps for him, miring him in self-doubt and distraction. And time slipped by of its own accord; the dark had eaten his clock or made him forget it. Now he only felt afraid.
Faraji imagined himself an acrobat, balanced precariously on the point of a massive stationary blade, keeping his balance, just barely. It was this metaphor that saved him.
He saw a glint as he looked into the dark, the smallest line of grey. It was dull, miles away in the dark but in this land of shadow the thread of grey gleamed like mythril. He fought his way toward it, but for all his efforts came no closer to the thing. So he resolved to look harder—he had the impression that it had always been there, that it was only a thread of fabric of the dark. He looked harder, straining his eyes to see more. He followed the edge again and again until he thought he would lose sight of it and have to start over, retracing over and over as if he were the mechanism of a clock.
The grey thread grew longer at his efforts. It was always retreating, always growing, giving him witness to a strange paradox.
He pushed off the blanket of sleep that threatened to cover him. Time passed as insignificantly as before, but now he was awake and struggling for every moment and every millimeter of the thread.
Eventually he noticed the thread was to his right. It was so long he had to turn his head to see it grow. Then it was behind him, and on every side, above and below him. He turned his head again. Somehow he knew that the thread was right there, within his reach.
It was. Inches away from his head. Almost blinding in the contrast it made with the dark around him. He peered at it intently. It was not thread, rather an absence of dark. He could almost see through it.
Suddenly, he knew what to do. He had a clear picture of what would happen in his mind as he put both hands on the something. Digging with his fingernails he pulled the thing wider from its middle. It gave way easily to his touch and grew wider, as the gap grew, glorious sunlight flooding the pit, raiding the dark, and he flew through the gap into the beautiful green and blue of a mountain lake surrounded by fir trees. The thread, the seam, closed itself behind him, narrowed to its previous subtly. It didn't disappear, he saw; it only grew harder to see the less he thought about it.
Faraji was now completely awake. His discovery had exhilarated him and despite all his efforts, he still felt ready for the final task. He caught hold of the seam, telling it where he wanted to go, who he wanted to see, and split reality and stepped into a new world.