The towers had always been there, as much a part of his world as trees or rivers or sky. At night he would sit upon the crest of the hills and watch them dance, petals drifting against dark skies, the light of stars gleaming upon their edges. When he rose to dawn’s crimson caress, they were still there, constant and changing, always moving and yet never moving.
He had come close to them once. They were high in the far hills, above cliffs and crumbling slopes, but he had braved the treacherous path, hoping for just one look, one touch, one brush with the beautifully divine.
But he had turned back. He was afraid of what he might have seen. More than that, he was afraid of what he might not have seen.
Past the towers, beyond the valley, were the Outer Lands, the poison-touched, where nothing grew but the crawling black vines and the skies were orange with dust. Sometimes he looked out over the Outer Lands, staring into the face of death, and wondered if there were other valleys, other towers.
He wondered if maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the last one left after all.
Word Count: 197
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to Jules Paige for the prompt photo!