The journey back to my humble abode was daunting, taking up the last vestiges of the afternoon that had remained. What plagued the trek did not lay in the land but what had been born inside my skull. Indeed, I had gotten lost but not by my physical presence, as in wandering the forest or the plains or navigating the river delta back to my abode but rather getting dragged into the depths of my consciousness. It was truly like I could not see, nothing that passed by my eyes I remembered, as nothing was taken into consideration shortly after I left Norvin to his village. Only what remained was the anticipation, yes the anticipation was growing larger, like a fire getting fed more and more fuel to burn. I could feel it as my chest warmed and then seeped out to my distant limbs, eventually even my fingers, right up to the tip must have been hot enough to burn flesh if I had touched it.
I do recall at one point, it must have been an hour or so after my encounter with the huntsman, that I could not walk any further home. At once, I found myself sitting down in the dirt just grasping for my rusted sword. There was little reassurance found by tightening my hand around the grip of the weapon. It seemed so light, lighter than the air it existed in and perhaps if it had become air, I would breathe it in and its metal which comprised it would steel my heart only to be heated and malleable. The sounds of nature suddenly popped back into reality for me and after savoring the suspense of impending conflict bathing my consciousness, I was able to drag myself out into reality. My hand released its grip and transitioned from one realm to another. I burst out into laughter without my true self giving consent.
Oh, how little they know! Don’t they understand what is coming? Of course not, they are necromancers and witches and no-good-doers. In the rapidly oncoming future, the carriage of fate shall crash into them, with me as the driver and my sword as the horses! My self-assertion comes from the individuality of what is to come! This duel between me and them is approaching, and far sooner than later.
Exhaustion came upon me, my body finally having been whittled down by the excitement. Thankfully, my legs recovered, at least enough to carry me onward. God forbid if they had not been able to, I would have forced them. I’d have cut off my hands to save my feet if forced to choose, as long as my mind and mouth remained.
The march onward was spectacularly eventless. Between the infested gorge and my dwelling lay countless trees, shrubs, and rocks all of which accompanied a dozen or so paths I snaked across, leaping horizontally as well as vertically, without even the slightest difficulty in navigation. Yet, the afternoon dragged on and I became especially thirsty but had no waterskin on me. I cursed myself for such foolishness. How could a man who was consistently ensnared by thoughts forget something so obvious? It was the first time I had forgotten water and a feeble vow to never forget my waterskin was the only recourse available. After an hour or so, I had finally managed a roundabout effort to break through the treeline and out to the plains.
Green grass painted itself everywhere, without care or concern with other colors to match besides the streaks of brown paths built by men that other men used to traverse. After venturing to the top of a hill, I managed to get my bearings down as to where I truly was. Indeed the great Horidil River was to my west, but I was farther north than I had imagined. To the north lay some hamlet, the east was the forest (which I had just exited from) and the south was more open prairie land, unsettled but claimed land of the kingdom. I huffed and puffed with indignation as my misadventure and miscalculation further north than I normally had gone. My overconfident navigation of threaded footpaths was not as ironclad as I had believed.
What struck a mighty blow against morale was that I’d also have to pass through the ghost village if I were to follow the road. Down the hill, I went bearing south and keeping the river close by to which it would guide me back to my bed, resentful of my past escapades into my mind which cost me a trip past the town. A few curses were wagged by my tongue, all of which were, of course, inflicted against myself.
Another half-hour passed under the glare of the sun. Nothing alive passed me beside trees and grass, nothing with legs caught up to me or entered my field of view, at least for that little bit of time. It was especially silent, an atmosphere I am more than accustomed to. Man had not fully integrated this part of nature back into the fold where as I walked. Indeed, if it weren’t for the events that were put into play earlier in the day, a pleasant uneventful day perhaps it could have been. Just a man, a wandering man, who took solace in that unbridled and unmolested nature that sobered every one of his senses. Then in front of me, it came into view, the relic of a settlement.
How odd it was to gaze upon such a distant memory of the past yet see it somehow still standing, or at least, of what remained standing. Old stone and marble buildings still managed to remain upright, even after countless years had passed. It would not be unreasonable to believe that many of those buildings were older than the trees and only perhaps a bit younger than the hills and rivers. In between those yawning stone relics were bits of wooden or refurbished structures melted into the ancient ruins. The brown wood easily stood out in comparison to the grey and white, or even black stone. These outposts, which were made of wooden planks and recobbled stone, breathed life if they in turn had not been abandoned themselves. Ruins within ruins, they were but less so, in a way. The stone buildings reach farther back into distant, foggy history occupied by greater men, only recently have lesser men attempted the feat of reoccupation, yet only to be thrown back out as they had no business hopelessly emulating the feats of truly greater men.
I had crossed the outskirts and into the center of the old town when I got a violent chill. Each pace I ventured deeper into the ruins made the air more oppressive, as even though the sky seemed boundless above me, the tower buildings that flanked me felt nearly on top of me, threatening to crush my very body. The dirt path led straight through, nearly in a straight line, with only the most minor of blocks or stones in the way. Old yawning buildings groaned as wind rushed through doorways and window frames. Even though that town could not exceed forty ancient buildings and maybe ten “reconstructed” structures, it felt immense, like walking through history, even if it was a tad bit humiliating and unnerving.
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I could hear old whispers when I passed what looked to be an old palace, or perhaps some noble’s residence. It was larger than the rest, with a courtyard hidden behind a wall that bordered the road. Shrubs and vines occupied the vast expanse with none of the gardening or statues or fountains that likely once were there. My eyes peeked past the entrance, with its gate long since missing. There was not a soul in the courtyard or in the stairs which lay beyond that led up to a grand entrance. A flash of curiosity and terror struck me. Still, I could hear whispering, so I stopped and tried to listen. It was no doubt coming from that courtyard.
I could not make out a word. It was indecipherable because each “syllable” and “word” flowed too quickly and unevenly for me to understand. The sound was broad, grumbling and flowing, in a sense as it was likely only the sound of wind gusts. But no doubt it sounded like language. I felt suddenly horrified as I stared down the expanse. Far too much had happened that day and my mind was already quite scrambled! My jaw clenched, my eyes narrowed, and my hand rested on my rusty sword. The whispering ceased as if offended by my presence. In an instant, I peeled myself away from the entrance of the courtyard and continued on. As the distance between me and the courtyard grew, the whispering died down. Not for one more moment, not one more moment, could I stand for derision from old whispering ghosts! Those figures had eclipsed the men of today who in turn were on the verge of eclipsing me. Burning hatred coursed through my veins which battled terror and humiliation.
God had punished these great men, as they slipped into obscurity brought on by arrogance and stagnation. I left that “old glorious village” as quickly as I could. Once more, I nearly slipped back into my mind, to cope with the eerie atmosphere but I escaped that trap too! For when I had exited by a straight path through, I sighed and dared not look back, better let sleeping ghosts rest and not feed the fire inside my heart.
After that short escapade (of which I was most sincerely glad for it to have ended) another two hours of monotonous marching followed but I could not shake that damned village! I could only imagine (yes within those two hours my consciousness had triumphed for at least a moment!) great knights and modern men-at-arms posting themselves and defiling the ruins. Old whispers must have poisoned them too akin to how the sounds were like to me. The difference did lie in that I merely brushed past the ruins rather than dwell in them. “Shame on them!” I suddenly cried to myself.
They squalor in wars, pointless and unjustly, satiate themselves to the point of anxiety and thoughtlessness, distract themselves with horrid pieces of “art” and so, dukes and kings and counts alike, try to force themselves within the lost great men of old. Even if these great men had descended into barbarity and wickedness, their greatness still did remain, even in the souls that dwell on the grounds of today. I dared not to contest with those ancient folk first. Instead, what lay before me (by my calculation of course!) that it is these modern men, sulking, brooding and arrogant men, that I ought to triumph over first. It lay almost logically, as in a sequence that was perfectly mapped out in my mind. Those necromancers had to fall by my hand!
Nevertheless, at some point, when the sun had nearly touched the ground and began to turn glowing red hot, the plains became a marsh. Indeed, the road swung eastward rather than southward. The sight brought much needed respite to my weary soul. Home was near! Seeking direction, I darted hard west to reach the bank of the river, completely abandoning the road which I had traversed on. Trees, both dead and alive, hugged much of the bank and tall shrubs competed with those trees. Once the bank was almost reached, I made due southward bound. Mud stuck to the soles of my feet but I cared little. I even had a bit of pride, or perhaps boredom, yet likely a mixture of both, to begin whistling a merry little tune. No man was around for miles, so it was my merry little tune. It was the merry little tune that reached no other man’s ears and was also created on the spot. That realization soothed me and finally shook that eerie feeling from prior like the cold leaving the body when resting near a roaring campfire.
Then, not half an hour later and dusk surging on, I had hit the landmark. An old stone statue of a man with both his arms extended as if he were preaching. It was a rather detailed statue, as he wore robes and a rope around his waist. The cloak was down and what remained was a strong face, even though much of the stone that made up his jaw had been chipped or disintegrated. And even despite it being located on the bank of a river and in a swamp, it remained in remarkable condition, considering the circumstances in location and the complete lack of organized maintenance. Plant life refused to colonize the statue but I cared for it anyway, by at least checking that indeed nothing dared to touch it and nothing ever did, not even my hand directly. If plants had refused to brush along the statue, I refused my hand to make contact as a rather crude mode of respect.
I rested for a moment near the statue, allowing my legs to finally stop marching. Then, rather than get too lazy, I trudged into the river to ford it. It was no longer than twenty yards wide. The clear water was somewhat treacherous, as the bottom was slippery mud. The cool water reached up to my mid-chest and my desire to quench my thirst burst into relevance. But I cleared it, methodically and without issue. When I had crossed, I turned back just to admire the lonely statue along the river bank. Home was just two shallow rivers away and so I turned to make the final leg. A waterskin was in order, that much urged me to make the final trek.
The last two rivers were much easier to cross since their depth was shallow and the length to cross much shorter. All three rivers share the same mother source, of course. The Horidil is quite the giver of life, with fish and plants and hermits such as myself.
Finally, my house was in view giving me a round of fresh joy. To be honest, I was thoroughly exhausted, having marched for hours. Tomorrow was to be another fresh advance back to the cavern. What I had figured that lay between myself and the confrontation, was merely night’s rest.
Instead, as I made my way closer, I managed to witness something that I had never seen throughout the entirety of my voluntary exile.
A visitor.