PRELUDE.

Effervescent brush of fingers against war-worn ones marks their goodbye. There's a rueful smile on either of their faces—not exactly tinged with regret (or maybe, a little) but more confrontational than one would expect. It's acceptance of the fact they'd realized long ago, but refused to acknowledge. Of the promises that were shallow and meant to be left incomplete from the very beginning, like most delusions man tricks himself into in order to provide himself with momentary comfort.

But momentary isn't forever, and mirages are meant to vanish the moment one touches them. It isn't sad, however. Somehow it feels like absolution, like a circle coming to an end, like the last page of a book being closed. They stand in silence, the crowd's noise muted—the spectators on either side telling of the differences in both their worlds and how one could only fool themselves for long.

Icarus too had dared to fall for the flights of divinity, and he had to burn. The fire wasn't his death, however. It was salvation for him, salvation comes with completion—and stories need to be completed. All of them.