The Body and Mind

Harold slashed and stabbed at the mighty beasts within his dream. He had been a hero in many, defeating all forms of villains and mythical beasts. He had been a sheriff shooting up outlaws, a superhero defeating criminals and supervillains, and a kid coming back at his bullies.

This time, he was a wondrous knight, armor of bright steel , sword and shield in hand, slaying hundreds of goblins, orcs, ravenous wolves and beasts that were unleashed. He fought his way to the castle to save the princess. Through the brambles and harsh terrain to the tower, he encountered the mightiest of enemies, the dragon king, Hazras.

“You cannot defeat me, foolish Harold! Fight me, and die!” Hazras yelled, scorching the land around him, brambles, trees and all as he evaded the flame breath. I must not give up, I must save the princess! He played along, knowing it was simply a dream. He dodged and slashed, slicing the dragon’s heels and belly, guarding against his meat hook-like claws. Hazras’ fire blackened Harold’s shield, but did not melt it. Harold ran in for the final blow. I must save the princess, anything for her! He thought, running to strike the final blow to the dragon’s chest. He thrusted his sword deep beneath the beast’s scales. Hazras roared in pain, falling dead to the ground, causing Harold to jump out of the way.

With Hazras’ body as silent as the night, Harold stood victorious. He walked closer, attempting to stand upon the beast, to raise his sword to victory. In the corner of his eye, he saw a black-robed figure in the distance, walking closer. He carried a scythe, seven feet tall, arms as long as could be. His hands were absent of flesh. His hood was pitch black within, face unseen. Who is that? He had heard stories of death, the one robed in black who carried a scythe.

“Are you death?”

“Yes, child.” The figure replied, in a hallowed voice.
    “Why are you here?”

The figure stood still.

Harold looked back to the beast, roaring of victory over it in his dream. The beast came alive once more, throwing Harold off. Harold was too slow to react, as the beast’s maw overtook him, biting into his flesh. He writhed in pain more than ever before, he had never felt pain in a dream like this, never suffered nor died.

Harold awoke in his small bed at home, seven years old once more. Heart racing, breathing quickly. “Phew,” he said. He got out of bed, feeling a little groggy, and cold, so cold. He shivered, looking to the corner of his room by the window. The hooded, skeletal figure stood with his scythe in hand.

“Why are you here?” Harold asked.

“I am here for you, child.” Death replied.

“But I was dreaming, I am not dead.” Harold poised, he was muddled at the thought.

“Dreams are more real than one would think.”

“But It was a dream. My body is fine.” Harold glanced back to his bed, seeing his body laying still, unmoving. What is this? He thought. How could this happen?

“The body cannot live without the mind.”