And So Pass Our Dreams

[Dirk Zephyrs]

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[Dirk Zephyrs]

And So Pass Our Dreams

Chapter 1:

And Now We Lay Our Heads To Rest

And from the darkest depths of the eve,
They shall rise once more,
And as the world trembles in their fury,
He shall cast down their lords,
And then...
Loosed shall we be, to prepare for their coming."

Dripping water from above was the gift of rain, though for prisoners more of a curse. Cold and earthy, the water seeped through the foundations of the jail, working its way through the cracks in mortar to find itself falling from the ceiling of a cell, plopping downwards onto the face of a sleeping young man. With a start, he wakes, brushing the cold water from his face.

Startled, he stands, his face warped in a curious mixture of fear and hatred and sadness. His eyes in their darkness absorb the cold, emanating with the man's thoughts. His thick brow was furrowed as in thought, and his voice was hoarse when he began to speak.

What is it I have done?

He turns, his eyes peering upward, infinitely black, their dismal and melancholy sorrow echoing through his visage. He brings his hands to his face, cradling himself in his thoughts. His long and shaggy black hair falls over his face, and all sight of the outside is lost. The moaning of prisoners softly wafts through the thick oaken door of his cell, whispers egging on the phantasms of his broken spirit.

Footsteps, like the beat of a monotonous drum pulse through his ears, and he turns toward the door. Metal on stone; a constant unchanging beat; clink, clink, clink, clink. His eyes widen as they finally stop, a light pattering of metal upon metal echoing and reverberating through the cell as the lock clicks, and a voice calls out.

I advise you to close your eyes.

Eager for a taste of light, the prisoner ignores the man, and stares blankly at the opening door and the golden rays of light. Howling, he clutches at his eyes as the brightness tears at his mind, burning his eyes like the glare of the twin suns. The man laughs, moving his torch away from the hissing prisoner. His mailed hand reaches out and like a vice clamps around the man's wrist. With a tug the two begin to walk at an unworldly slow pace, the guard always speaking. He explains things, though the prisoner is no longer listening. He has heard only one word: He is to go free. His face lights up in a sigh of relief and bewilderment, his thin lips curled up in a smile of eternal faith, his eyes glistening thickly with tears of joy.

Golden candlelight greets the pair as they slowly ascend step after step from the bosom of the cold, damp earth. The stone walls here are clad with the brilliant tapestries of elven weavers and the forged masterworks of the East, coated in glorious lights of red and blue and yellow and white shining through the great stained glasses. The prisoner stares in awe at these sights, struck by the beauty of it all after his months in pitch darkness.

The prisoner, a man who was without light or freedom no more that ten minutes ago, cannot walk any further. He falls to his knees, kissing the stone ground and weeping; so taken by his second chance at life. Joy has, for his life, been an absence, and for the first time, his head rushes, inebriated in the glorious thoughts of self-confidence. Death seems so far away, when before it had been a wish, a hope; even over the hope of freedom. Is it that mankind cannot judge the grandeur of life? Is it that we cannot truly think; that when the end comes, we merely wish it all the more?

Sparkling, glistening with a coat of tears, his eyes, obsidian pinpricks amidst a field of snow, peer into those of the guard's, dull, stony; a grey lacking the zest or hope of life. Outside, the glorious lighting of the noonday sun dies out, replaced with grey; and like a crashing symbol, the culling roar of thunder ripples through the world, shaking it to its very foundations in a brilliant display of power. The guard shakes his head, hoisting the prisoner to his feet, whispering to the deadened air, the prisoner's eyes dying in their sockets, his joy turning to sorrow. Is he truly to be free?

His eyes, they no longer leak, but still they glisten, his lips twisted into a slight frown as he hears the single word ring upon the air and reverberate through his aching skull. Brow furrowed, he lets his mind wonder upon the word; upon his fate. This land, his home, is a land he had been imprisoned six months without a crime. This, he thinks, shall be his only chance at a life of freedom, and he smiles, his grin lopsided, his cheek touching his right eye. Exile.

So with some small passage of days he is sent and he arrives, from his home to his fate, with boat and foot and escort. The days grow short, the nights grow long, and from this insomnia comes a bitter chill, but like some pastel of an inebriated Elf, the trees don their garish and gay cloaks of color. Thus, the Summer wanes, and Fall takes on its vivacious life.

Now, as this prisoner, this man newly free, takes in true freedom his first step, he dies, and now, anew, he lives. His eyes now fill with rancorous fires, some endless energy, and with each step of that swaggering limp, he grows. With his past behind, dead, forgotten, he feels like a giant, invincible, among the crowds of thoughtless peasants. His smile uneven and foolish, he steps from the soldiers, machinery, and into his life.

[Dirk Zephyrs]

And So Pass Our Dreams

Chapter 2:

Recollections

"Emotions all shall wax and wane,
But never dims our ire;
Anger and rage will only grow,
Never to be lost, always to be given."

Billowing smoke, thick as the thunderclouds above, drifts about the room, sprouting with vigorous life from the embers of tobacco and dying upon the stale air. Unabashed, a rather beautiful woman dances—half naked—upon a cleared table near to a sill bedecked in all manner of drink, behind which stands an aging man, his brow bedecked in grey and mirth. The men seem split between the bar and the girl, inebriated and proud of it, but most are leaping between. Others, scattered around the edges of the tavern, sit quietly at small, round tables, whispering threats to those daring to sit with them. There is, though, one oddity, here, amidst this joyous provocation of inebriated dance and speeding music, a girl, sitting silently upon a windowsill, staring out into the vehement rainstorm flooding the world.

Her face is blank, her eyes lacking joy or sadness or anger, but she wears a frown as her azure eyes peer out. Music, shouts, whispers, all of it falls deaf upon her short ears, and her eyes consume all before her thought. It is her talent; it is her weakness. She knows all she wants and nothing she needs, here, as she gazes in silence with her ruby lips drawn out in some mimicry of a frown. Suddenly, though, her visage changes, her eyes spring to life in a blossom of vitality, but they are tinted in some far off sadness, a trouble foreseen or remembered. Her lips pull into a half smile, furthering the sorrow upon her visage.

She, she is all he sees. Like her, he knows nothing else. Her face, painted upon his eyes, is all he wants to see. His thoughts die out, his ears go silent, and his hands fall limp. Thoughtlessly, his legs move forward, mechanically pushing him forward, as he loses himself to obsession, until a voice, her voice, breaks his focus, and the world, like a cannonball, surges back into his mind in a wordless roar, blinding him, deafening him, wracking him in pain, and he stumbles, nearly falling over before catching himself. Like some shy boy, he attempts to string together a sentence, but fails horribly, and, to his horror, she laughs, her red lips parting, her eyes closed, her eyebrows raised, her bosom heaving… He rolls his tongue to find words, and she shuts her mouth, clasping a hand over it as she vibrates in a fit of humor.

Finally, though, he finds his words, and he, without either fear nor confidence, asks for her name, to which she replies.

If you promise to give yours… My name is Kayla Aramoun.

Her voice is so sweet, he thinks, and he stumbles before giving his own.

Dirk—Dirk Zephyrs. A—a pleasure to meet you.

She returns his pleasure, and with bolstered bravado he strikes conversation with her, his voice, though trembling from the frigid storm, blissful. Smiling back at the man, Kayla cannot but wonder why he feels such joy, beholding his wretched, soaked garb. At first a forced smile, as this pauper in such exuberant mind continues, she forgets all sorrow, her spirit lifted by the sheer force of the man's naivety.

Heavy, sorrowful, her eyes give empathy past her façade of smiling joy, and he continues with joy and jest, speaking simply because he can. He tells little of himself, rather speaking of the world, ignoring his numb skin and inundated rags, for he has no sorrow in his bone nor room for it. Slowly, her eyes burn away the cold of memories, letting her mind to the present, and now with the warmth of hope she gazes upon him.

At length, their talks turn to themselves, and though a more dismal tale, Dirk gives his story without emotion. An orphan and now an exile, his life is that of loss, his mother and now his home; the tragedy of his words strike deep into her thoughts. A priestess, a healer of the goddess Mara, she has seen all the horrors wrought by man and beast, seen the eyes of death, and seen the pain of birth.

Hours pass, and what once was an early and lively eve is now sunk into silence and darkness, and thus with a yawn, the priestess resigns up to her chamber, leaving Dirk to his thought. Where men would be full of ire and rage at their fate, he seems detached, void of care, and like a disease, it festers. His mind wanders to that land of shattered glass, memories fogged and forgotten. His mother's face, gleaming and pure, blurred to a dream, looms before his closed eyes, speaking with a voice, so unmistakably hers, yet he knows it is not. Louder, closer, the voice grows as the silence disappears, until even the blackness of the empty tavern is replaced.

Images flood his head in a torrent, filling his mind with all the joys of his exiled life, his mother, his home, his friends; his childhood and innocence scour his eyes, and then, like lightning, it all burns, the people dying and dead in the streets, screaming and wailing with unimaginable pitch, dying in this tempest of blood and fire to the steel of unnatural phantasms, twisted monstrosities from something far worse than nightmares. His mother stands strong, the only being to resist this terror, but she, at last, falls, but with her vanish the draconic abominations, leaving only blood, death, and destruction in their unholy wake. A single wail, so human, so frail, pierces the now silence of carnage, and from a charred pile of rubble crawls a sobbing child, calling for his mother, only to find her body pierced; her life ebbing away like the ocean's tide. Fire consumes his eyes, wiping away the gruesome memories into a perpetual darkness, his only company the unending dripping, the only human voices the muted, hoarse moans echoing from beyond the darkness. It is true loneliness, not even rats to fight for his single, sparse meal. Before him, on a stone slab, lies a decrepit man, his youth and beauty wiped away by the months in this hopeless abyss. He does not speak, he does not move, but with unending fervor his lips move in silent words, words of vengeance, words of death, promises of justice. Cold, deathly fires burn in this man's ebon eyes, festering wounds of the purest hatred at a world that wronged him. No more does he cry for his mother, no more does he long for his home, but so much he wishes to avenge it all. At last, a single, unintelligible word springs from his tongue in a hushed whisper, barely louder than a breath, and with a jerk, the darkness, the emaciated prisoner; it all disappears. Once more, he is sitting upon the cushioned windowsill of the empty tavern.

Burning, fiery, the undying sun rises over the frigid wood, glaring down upon the muddy earth and ramshackle village. Like a thin curtain, a thick fog strangles the morning, raping the colored leaves of the fall, making the world, the earth, seem ethereal, fake. Raucous, shrill, the screaming of birds rings across the village, endless and echoing on and on, and with a trembling sigh, Dirk shuts his blazing, delirious eyes and lowers his head, his nasty, tangled ebon mane covering his visage like a cerement. He opens his eyes and stares at his pallid flesh, numbed by the cold, damp rags upon his back, and then, shuddering, he stands, his limbs woken by the sheer force of his will. Freedom has helped to repair his decrepit mask, but in his eyes are rekindled the sanguine fires of hatred, of the prisoner's vengeance, the hatred that had festered, forgotten and cast away with his past. Under his breath, he utters a vow.

The night falls away like leaves in a fall gale, and the morning sun brings life and noise to the village. Chirping, singing, the birds call the world to wake as the sun pours down through the thin veil of mist, caressing open bleary eyes to peer upon the glittering trees and shimmering earth. Shivering, she wakes, autumn's breath sharp upon her bared skin, like the caress of a cold hand. As though trying to regain the fading pleasantries of her slumber, her eyes are distant, full of blissful innocence. Her eyes gaze upon the room, wondering as they settle into reality, wondering as they always have, and in silent thought, she dresses, donning again the same white habit.

She smiles when she sees him, a small smile of friendly joy, little more than a thankful nod for a good conversation. He returns her smile with a lopsided grin, his black eyes warm, full of a zealous wish. Bidding him a good morn, she walks past, her hips swaying like a flower in a breeze, slowly rocking back and forth with every step she takes, her robe rippling like the water, flowing with her stance. He wobbles as he stands from his seat upon the window, an insomniac weight pulling him from balance, and he stumbles before righting himself. Intoxicated by her image, his eyes follow her as she orders her morning meal, her voice like a ripple of a dream resonating through his mind. Her silken brown hair shimmers in the morning light as it cascades down to her shoulders, swaying ever so slightly with her movements. Confusion washes over him, his eyes filled with wonder at the sight, enraptured by her perfection, for he has never felt this way before. Blood racing, heart pounding, he walks to her as she takes her seat. She greets him with a friendly smile, which he returns threefold, lost in this joyous emotion. But then she frowns, and tells him that she is leaving upon the hour, to finish her journey, her pilgrimage. Struck by the news, he gives her a curious glance, and then he tells her the question that has run through his blood for the last hour.

You know that I am here, cast from my home, and that I have little more than a mark to my person in my exile. I have nowhere to go, no family nor friends, and save you, I know no one. Please, miss, allow me to travel with you.

Kayla hesitates before giving him her answer, mixed ideas playing across her face, duty and want, pride and vanity, fear and excitement. She is a priestess of the healing Goddess, sworn by oath to save the downtrodden and sickly, yet she is a noble, her family pompous and without pity for the paupers, and she is a woman, and he a man. Her voice trembles with indecision when she finally speaks, and with her answer dies the repetition of her life.

[Dirk Zephyrs]

And So Pass Our Dreams

Chapter 3:

Repent

"Shame guided his words into the winds,
But that did not sway the brother's blade.
In death he saw not paradise,
Only in his mind."

Swaying lightly in the breeze, the boughs of the forest play their silhouettes upon the earth, casting a cool shade down upon the two travelers. Breathing in the crisp, clean, autumn air, Dirk gives his companion a smile of thanks as he plods along beside her. The earth is soft, grasping and squelching at his steps, reborn from the night's storm, and he splashes through the puddles that form at the bases of the hills. Invigorated by the woodlands, he runs along, filled with the joy of his childhood, remembering once more the forests near his home long ago. While he laughs and runs, Kayla walks in silence, her ears attuned to the winds. A gust of wind shakes the trees around them with a roar like a thousand flags flapping in the wind, and it strikes her worries that the birds lie silent this morning. Springing to his side, she hushes him with a whisper, her voice tense with worry, her thin brow shaking as she tells him her fears. Nodding, Dirk gazes at the woods around him, silently wishing that he had the means to defend himself while Kayla slowly withdraws her weapon from her cloak. Fear gnaws at him and the shadows play tricks on his eyes, while she silently pulls the wood casing from her weapon, revealing its shining steel blade. The sword is simple, untainted by ornate swirls or designs, only wrapped in well-worn leather from cross-guard to pommel counterweight, with a long and slender blade, curving slowly from the base to the point along a single dull edge.

They continue on at a snail's pace, taking each step with the fear that it may be their last, peering cautiously at every bush and bramble. Terror gripping at his senses, his breaths come in short, quick pulls, hoping that it would make less noise, while it served the opposite. Holding the scabbard in her left hand and the sword in her right, Kayla inched along, her eyes flashing from motion to motion, her ears strained for the sound of any attacker. They crawl forward this way for an hour, and to Dirk's relief, the forest came to an end at the edge of a long plain. The knee-high grasses flow in the light breeze coming off the wooded ridge to the west, shimmering in the warm light of the golden sun overhead. The silence ends with the deep, loud roar of water, a cascade hidden just out of sight by the steady westward turn of the ridge. Crouching, Kayla ponders the situation, her azure eyes tense and sharp, her lips drawn out in a frown. She watches the ridge and listens, but the roaring of the waterfall drowns out any noise she might hear, and so, cautiously, she motions to Dirk to continue. Edging out into the plain, she holds her sword at the ready, uttering a prayer under her breath. The thistles and brambles grasp at her robes, and she turns with a terrified expression and swings her weapon, severing them before sighing and continuing on, until at last they reach a small stream, cutting the plains in half from the cliffs in the southwest to the horizon in the north. Greedily, Dirk drops to his knees and takes a drink of the cool water. Hesitating, Kayla glances towards the stream's source, a tall waterfall gushing down from the cliffs unto a bed of jagged rocks in a large pool full of water lilies and bulrushes. The scene is so pristine that she forgets her worries for merely a second as she drops her head to take a drink. A shout from Dirk brings her to her feet, with her sword in both hands and the scabbard lying forgotten on the bank.

Walking towards them is a thin, short man, his skin a dull and deathly gray, painted with ash and charcoal. In his matted black hair is a circlet of thorns, biting his forehead; the blood falls down his face, washing away the grey with red, circling around his eyes and dripping around his mouth to the base of his chin. His eyes are a maddened green, so bloodshot they appear almost as red as his bloodstained face, and as he stares towards them and the sun, his pupils shrink to pinpricks. His tongue flicks out of his mouth, glistening and red, before he opens his mouth, revealing his filed teeth. Dirk cringes as the man begins to speak, for it is not with one voice, but a thousand whispers in his mind, each screeching in some foreign tongue, and he falls over, clawing at his ears. Kayla shouts and shuts her eyes, drawing at the air with her left hand, nearly dropping her blade. A gust of warm air rushes across the plains, rippling out from her hand, leaving a glowing mark, pulsating in flashes of existence. In her mind, she can hear it, strumming like the haunting echo of a violin, glowing bright as it reaches a scream and plunging out of existence when the notes dropped. Focusing on the sound, she drew a series of symbols upon her blade as her enemy advances upon her. He moves in leaps and bounds like lightning between the clouds, each thunderclap his landing and the lightning bolt his body sailing through the air, sword held in a single hand at an impossible angle. A second wave of heat erupts from her sword, and it twists like a lump of living flesh, glowing white-hot as it reshapes itself. The weightless weapon sings in her mind as she holds it aloft, blocking as he opens the battle with a leaping arc.

She shifts her weight to take the force through the weightless weapon, recoiling before pushing him off, but he catches his balance before he hits the ground, stepping backward and bending backward to avoid her swing. He falls back, his body turning over in midair as though he had no bones in his back, quickly below her weapon and too close for her to repel him. With a quick thrust, he plants his blade through her abdomen. Staggering forward, she gurgles, surprised, and then screams in pain, a long, high pitched wail that echoes on in Dirk's mind long after she falls silent upon the earth. Yet through it comes a second sound, a pulsing beat like the chaos of war, the clashing of swords locked in combat, the screams and shouts of the dying and wounded. As he focuses upon it, it grows louder, until the millions of voices that had torn at his ears are all but a whisper in the back of his mind, and he slowly rises to his feet to stare down his opponent. The gray man's voice came now in a human laugh, and though it came in an alien tongue, Dirk understood it all the same.

I take it that you are the one I am to kill, the great enemy, the prophesized one, the champion of nothingness. Yet here you stand, helpless to save her, and I doubt enough to save yourself. You don't even know who you are, nor what you could do. I shan't tell you. That is not my purpose in existing. I am the Harbinger of Four. I am your executioner. I am the end of hope.

He walks to Dirk as the executioner to the gallows, merciless towards his helpless victim, his sword lowered, purposely showing him that he does not fear him. Dirk looks on through his mat of black hair, staring at the blood-coated face, his eyes burning with malice, the beat in his ears roaring faster and faster as his hatred grows, and then as an unshackled beast, Dirk roars, a wave of heat echoing from his body, while his memories replay themselves. The world twists and rips itself apart before his opponent's eyes, the light dying before the darkness and the plains turning to fire, and the man before him grows into a massive raven, cawing with a thousand voices, flapping its ebon wings as it takes to the sky and crashes down upon him. The sword clatters from his hands as he quakes in fear, not for the cold flames that merely existed for his eyes, not for the darkness in which he could see, but for the bird before him. Then a wave of heat ripples across his body, tearing the scene asunder in a ripple of light, a ripple of madness across his mind, and like a candle, his mind blows out, and he slumps to the earth, unconscious.