Awakening

by Hayden Pearton

  *

  The land after the bog changed very little, aside from a minor temperature drop, as if the crystals ahead were stealing the warmth and returning cold. Barsch barely noticed the chill, his mind still lost in the conversation with Alza. “Her home is a bad place? What does that mean? Exactly how much does she really remember... and how much is she keeping from us?”

  Barsch's mind refused to yield an answer, so he returned to the world -fluctuating temperatures and all- and re-joined Kingston. The hermit had been scouting the path ahead, and had happily reported that no more concealed mass graves or bogs lay in their way. However, he had seen a strange spire in the distance, and wanted to check it out. The suggestion garnered no complaints, so they set out for the structure.

  Barsch's initial observation of the change in temperature seemed to have small-minded, as the cold began to seep into their bones at an alarming speed. Considering they had just been in a desert and scorched canyon, the sudden chill was unannounced and unwelcome. The sullen sun continued to sink deeper, as it's eternal trajectory heralded the coming darkness. Barsch had witnessed the celestial repetition too many times to give it much notice, but something in the sky made him glance upwards.

  For an instant, he thought that there had been a figure floating in the air; a figure cloaked in darkest black, with hair like dried blood and eyes that bore nothing but emptiness. An unseen rock caught his ankle, making him glance down in surprise. By the time his vision returned to the sky, the figure was gone, causing him to question whether it had all been a figment of his imagination.

  Eventually, the fetid landscape gave way to desolate wastes, with stinking pools of foul liquid dotting the fields. Fissures scarred the earth and noxious plumes plagued the heavens, which had grown dark with pollution and smog. A half-buried missile, it's exposed surface covered in a myriad of fist-sized holes -which looked as though they had been designed to emit a vapour of some sort- lay in the centre of the wastes; a tombstone for the dying land.

  Surrounding the wasted earth were bountiful yet dangerous forests, which suggested that the missile had only affected a small area, and that the contamination had not spread far. It was yet another reminder of the atrocities that had once befallen the nearby city, and the world, in the name of greed and preservation. In the distance, the strange spire was a silhouette in the fading light of dusk, reminding the weary travellers that the night was far colder and filled with unseen dangers, and that they should be on their way post-haste.

  After another hour of traversing the decrepit landscape, the group reached the base of the spire. It measured at least fifty feet in height, with a rectangular base which soared upwards before tapering into a triangular point. The base was around ten feet wide, and each side was covered in indecipherable carvings, which had been worn away by decades of exposure and acidic rainfall.

  On the western face there was a carving that was still decipherable, though the writing below it was beyond hope. The carving was of a single, enlarged eye, surrounded by a field of crooked crosses that appeared to have been added on as an afterthought. The iris of the eye had once been painted, but now only smudges of crimson and violet colouring remained, streaking down as if the eye was crying multi-coloured tears. The sight sparked a feeling of recollection in Barsch's mind, but it was vague and fleeting, and was soon gone. Kingston, who had begun circling the spire the moment they arrived, his eyes bright with scientific curiosity, had finally made a revolution and proceeded to explain his findings.

  “Well, It looks like what we have here is a war memorial, and an old one at that. I have seen this kind of architecture before, but only in books about mythology, never in real life. It seems as though the civilization that ruled this land millennia ago bore witness to a great calamity, that in turn sparked a decade-long war that scattered the populace far and wide. Those who remained built this spire as a means of remembrance for what had been lost.”

  “I'm amazed that you figured all of that out from mere scribbles.”

  “Anything is possible with the right tools and skills, and in my studies as a young man I happened to work with a man who loved history. He had travelled the length and breadth of the cultured world and had found many similar relics that all depicted the cataclysm in one way or another. He posited that there was once a single, unified civilization that ruled over the entirety of the planet, and that they were in turn ruled over by divine beings who personified nature itself.”

  It was then that Barsch recalled a vision from one of his many otherworldly dreams: a vision of a man, or god, that had ruled over a nation until his sudden departure, which caused the nation to tear itself apart. The man had looked suspiciously like Terra, which caused a tentative theory to form in Barsch's curious mind. Storing the hypothesis away for a later date, he instead asked a question that had been on his mind since he first saw the ocular carving.

  “Kingston, did any of the relics have any carvings like that?” he said, while pointing to the anomaly in question.

  Kingston, in turn, approached the relief and spent a few minutes examining it's deteriorated façade, before replying, “It seems as though the eye was carved into the spire fairly recently, possibly in the last fifty years, judging by how much paint still exists. I don't think I've ever seen this symbol in any of my books, which is surprising, as it definitely feels familiar. In addition, the way the crosses are arranged in a circular pattern around the eye makes me think that this was meant to be an omen of some kind; one that brought death and destruction to those who ignored it.”

  Throughout his speech, Kingston had very carefully avoided looking at Alza, or more specifically, her enchanting eyes, and she acted in kind by not mentioning his avoidance. Barsch wanted to think that the carving that heralded destruction and Alza's unique eyes had little to do with each other, but he had seen first-hand what she could do, and the connection was made.

  “I don't want to bother you, but I have finished my scan of the spire, as you instructed earlier.”

  Maloch's voice was a surprise, given that he had said almost nothing all day, save for affirming Kingston's earlier request to scan the structure. Without stopping, he continued his report.

  “After analysing the entire structure, I have come to a similar conclusion regarding the memorial nature of this structure, however, I have uncovered something else. Below the eye, there exists another carving, which has been all but erased. I have been able to partially rebuild it, and will project it with your permission?”

  “Go ahead Maloch, and… you don't have to ask us every-time you want to do something, okay?” said Kingston, with an air of concern.

  “I am afraid that my programming insists on gaining approval for every non-basic action, lest I over-step my bounds and cause harm or discomfort. Coding matters aside, I will now proceed to project the uncovered image.”

  'Image' turned out to be something of a misnomer, as it was mainly text with a small picture below the words. The words in question were arranged in the following way:

  LET THIS SPIRE FOREVER HOLD THIS WARNING, UNTIL THE STARS BURN OUT AND THE LAND LIES IN RUIN.

  ON THIS DAY, IN A SECLUDED PLACE FAR FROM PRYING EYES, THE MOST NOBLE AND INSIGHTFUL SAGE HAS RECEIVED A VISION OF CALAMITY.

  THE WORDS HE SPOKE, AS THE FEROCITY OF THE VISION RACKED HIS BODY, WERE BUT INCOMPREHENSIBLE PORTENTS, WITHOUT MEANING OR REASON.

  HOWEVER, AS THE VISION REACHED ITS CLIMAX AND THE GREAT SAGE THREW HIMSELF TO THE FLOOR, HE CRIED OUT IN A VOICE OF PUREST TERROR.

  HE SAID, WITH TEARS STREAMING DOWN HIS FACE, “HE COMES, HE COMES, AND HIS WRATH SHALL BE WITHOUT END! HIS EYES ARE LIKE WINDOWS INTO HELL, BEREFT OF MERCY AND COMPASSION! HIS HAIR IS FLAME, HIS SKIN THE PALENESS OF THE DEAD! HE SHALL BE CLOAKED IN DARKNESS AND LIGHTNING, AND SHALL SUMMON A STORM THAT WILL WIPE THE WORLD CLEAN! HE COMES, HE COMES, HE COMES TO WELCOME US INTO OBLIVION. HE COMES, HE COMES, AND MAY THERE BE ETERNAL SORROW FOR ANY WHO STAND AGAINST HIS UNRELENTING FURY!”


  AT THIS, THE TERROR-STRICKEN SAGE SLUMPED WHERE HE LAY, HIS STRENGTH DRAINED AND HIS SOUL SCARRED. WITH THE LAST OUNCE OF HIS ENERGY, HE CALLED OUT IN A FEEBLE VOICE, SAYING, “BEFORE HIS RISE, HE WILL SEND A CHAMPION TO CLEAR THE WAY. HIS CHAMPION WILL HAVE BUT AN OUNCE OF HIS STRENGTH, YET HE WILL STILL BURN THE WORLD IF LEFT UNCHALLENGED. HE COMES TO FORGE A PATH OF BLOOD AND DESPAIR FOR HIS MASTER, AND HE WILL BEAR THE SIGN OF THE DAMNED...”

  IT WAS THEN THAT SLEEP FINALLY TOOK THE GREAT SAGE, LETTING HIM REST FROM HIS ORDEAL. ALMOST IMMEDIATELY, WE SENT OUT SOME OF OUR NUMBER TO SPREAD THIS FORETELLING TO THE UNWARY PEOPLES OF THE WORLD, WHILE I WENT TO COMFORT THE FALLEN SAGE. WHEN MOVING HIM TO HIS BED, I NOTICED SOMETHING CARVED INTO THE FLOOR. IT WAS AN EYE, SCRATCHED INTO THE STONE BY THE SAGE'S FINGERS DURING HIS FRENZY. HIS SPILT BLOOD HAD FILLED UP THE EYE TILL IT HAD OVERFLOWN, AND THE BLOOD RAN FROM THE EYE IN WAVES OF CRIMSON TEARS.

  I HID THIS SYMBOL FROM THE OTHERS, THOUGH I DO NOT KNOW WHY. IT'S MERE EXISTENCE BRINGS ME TO TEARS WHENEVER I THINK OF IT, SO I ERASED IT FROM EXISTENCE, BUT EVEN NOW I FEEL IT CALLING TO ME, UNBIDDEN. I CAN FEEL MY HANDS MOVING AGAINST MY WILL, CARVING THE DREADED SYMBOL INTO THE SPIRE, UNTIL MY HANDS ARE DARK WITH BLOOD.

  LET ANY WHO FIND THIS SPIRE HEED THIS WARNING. IF THE CHAMPION WHO WALKS BENEATH THIS SIGN DOES NOT FALL, HE WILL OPEN THE WAY FOR HIS MASTER, WHO WILL REDUCE ALL THE WORLD TO ASH.

  LET THIS SPIRE FOREVER HOLD THIS WARNING, UNTIL THE LIGHT FADES AND THE SEAS TURN TO FLAME.

  Beneath the blood-chilling words, there lay a single, crudely carved eye. Old blood had once filled it's indentation, until it spilled forth and ran down in crimson tears. Barsch had no doubt this time around, and his mind readily reminded him of all of his crimson-tear infused dreams. In all of those strange dreams, it had been Alza who had brought forth the prophetic tears. Unconsciously, Barsch moved a few feet away from her, even though that meant approaching the eerie words. Kingston appeared to have had the same realisation, as he too kept his distance from their only female companion.

  “I think... I think we should forget about these words for now. Worrying about them won't do anyone any good. Maloch, would you please end the projection? Thank you. Now, I think we should stop here for today. It's been quite an eventful day and I think we'll need all of our strength tomorrow. Maloch, could you go and collect some firewood? Barsch, would you mind searching the area for some clean water, while I find us some food?” Barsch silently thanked Kingston for his understanding. A few words on a spire did not change anything. And there was no proof that the warning had anything to do with Alza… right?

  After everyone had departed to fulfil their assignments, Alza -who had been asked to patiently wait for their return- approached the spire. Placing a slender hand on the memorial, she began to trace the outline of the eye carving with an errant finger. It had been inscribed with so much ferocity, Alza could practically feel destiny and fate warping around it's stone sides. On a whim, she tried to summon forth the power that lay in wait in her sub-conscious.

  A few seconds passed with nothing happening. It was not the first time she had failed to reach it, and she knew that it would not be the last. It was almost as if the power were alive, and was following its own rules of when to be caught and when to elude capture. If she had been in possession of normal emotions, she no doubt would have felt frustration, but she was not and thus did not. Instead, she merely gave a sigh and turned away from the prophecy-covered structure.

  In time, the others returned, each having had varying levels of success with their tasks. Barsch had managed to find water that was not wholly unclean, and which would be safe for consumption after a few minutes of boiling. Maloch, on the other-hand, had had rather more success, as the woods surrounding the spire were rich in branches that just screamed to be made into firewood. Whereas Kingston returned with almost nothing of edibility, he made up for it in his discovery of a path through the forests that wholly circumnavigated the treacherous wastes that had impeded their progress throughout much of the day. Despite not having found any live food, the elderly hermit had managed to gather an abundance of fruits and berries, which he assured the wary party were edible and, while not decadent, would stay down.

  After a healthy yet unfulfilling feast besides the roaring fire, the group decided to turn in. Barsch, trying to show himself and the others that he trusted Alza, deliberately made his bed near to her own, an action that she ignored in its entirety. As they were all readying themselves for the rigours of sleep, an unusual sound broke the silence of the night.

  It was a deep, solitary howl, that seemed to go on for some time, and appeared to have originated from the ruins of the nearby city. It was a dreadful thing, full of anger and bloodlust.

  Somehow Barsch knew that whatever had made the dread-sound was waiting for them. He did not know what it was, but he could almost feel it’s anticipation as they drew closer to its home. They could do nothing but sit there, in the darkness, and listen to the howl of the waiting beast. With confusion in his heart and doubt in his head, Barsch fell asleep, as silence reclaimed the night.