A World Undecided

I remember the days before and I remember the days after the Severing. I still remember the triumphant sounds of life that used to clatter on powdery sidewalks, the sun-kissed spirals of leaves that would shake free from their burdened boughs and then float to the ground, where networks of miniature fauna would slum about in idle peace.

It used to be real enough to touch and taste without the frightening condition of peril lingering nearby, so vivid and sparkling that only mere paintings from the past seem to capture the beauty of what was. I remember the affection of words and the litany of colour that used to bombard the universe. They're all gone.

They've been stolen and in their place lay mufflers of joy, skeletons of the past. 

The air is thicker and grimier than it's ever been. I inhale the withering smokiness that is somehow embalmed in the passing breeze, and sit against the doorjamb of my front door, my knees pressed to my chest. Just another day of dreary dormancy, I suppose.

I used to be more than just a relic of an illustrious history, watching the world pass me by, unable to claw my way forward like a fly caught in amber. Watching and waiting, waiting and watching. Listening and looking without purpose, without interruption and chaos to oversee.

The list of people that come and go always change like the seasons. I recall the days of sporadic activity throughout the years, and the way my heart used to gallop toward the frontlines of companionship at every first meeting, without even the necessity of genuine affection at hand. Those days were warm and effervescent, a short-lived indulgence.

In contrast, there have been moments of gut-wrenching grey, where the depressing prominence of dusk has preluded many hours of staring into fogged windowpanes. I used to be vigilant in my war against mental stagnancy and my deteriorating sense of righteousness, but nowadays there is a dullness in me, a blankness that welcomes my innermost unravelling of the soul and all that it encompasses.

Dinners are spent draped in silence. I've gazed into the blood-soaked horizon, both heavy in spirit and hungry for interaction. It's been years of living like this - starved for the menial bones of conversation, desperate to hear the joyousness of people speaking in coloured tones, their features swaddled in polite overtures. I want the nagging and the exaggerated blusters and the rotating wheel of expressions.

If there is one thing I can count on, it is that people will come here eventually, braving the wilderness to get to where no sane man detours of his own volition. And because I am chained to truth, I will answer their uneasiness with aplomb, devouring their unsurety in small, measured bites. I will feast on anything but their façade of kindness.

My own questions are not important enough to disclose. To speculate is to not know something, and my whole existence is rooted in knowing, in sharing what I know with others. My life is not for questioning others. That much I know without being told...

When I crane my head back and take in the vastness of the sky, I casually note the deadness of sound that is to be expected by now, and the lack of lively shapes that give me something to peripherally trace from afar. The birds that drop by are oddly quieter here, almost as if they come in hopes of seclusion. Honestly, I'm surprised there are still birds left in this day and age. 

They are elusive creatures of dainty featheriness. They do not like my cottage and the surrounding brambles and vines of wickedness that snap at wily figures. Still, they come unannounced and perch on overhanging limbs of giant trees. Whether to escape the unflattering dust that is everywhere else or to partake in my forlorn habitation is a constant mantle of curiosity that I undertake.

The sun flares with low-level heat and a waft of reddened dust flashes at the bottom of the hill. My loneliness is put on hold at the first sight of a visitor. I'm not permitted to meet them any closer than my doorstep and so I must wait.

My nails are bitten in the meanwhile. The capricious wind pricks at my neck and slides along my exposed ankles while I sit in heavy silence, surrounded by four cats. I call them by their place of origin. North, East, South and West. They are chattering beasts that gaze in likeminded disinterest at each stirring insect in the yard, their yawns punctuating the hours like clockwork.

All four of them are pretending to be gargoyles at the end of my property. Black and white tails of fur whip back and forth as they roll on tresses of green and chew on flowerheads. Children. That's what the sight reminds me of. They are lazy and disruptive and they treat this place as if it's their own-

The treeline crackles. Thin bodies of trees are swatted and rearranged so that the path to my cottage is clearly visible behind the clutter of foliage. Gloved hands swipe through the air and brush dirt from an ensemble of grey and brown, while tattered clothes hang off a broad set of shoulders. A cloak spills down to the ground, a thick and gnarled fabric that drags heavily with every step. I spy some kind of rucksack tethered to a nickering mare as it climbs up the hill, led by a figure of giant proportions.

There is no rush of movement. No urgency to quicken the gait of the rider or his mount. Both just wander along, becoming one with the flowery landscape that is my home, their quiet trots stifled by the blades of wind amassing in my presence.

I've long since become numb to the enchantments here. The lightning, the thunder and the blizzards and the droughts. I am unmoveable in every extreme. Unchangeable. I was born to chaos and so it is a constant friend in my ear. It feels very much like an immortal companion, and every day it speaks to me in a language that only I can understand, therefore every unruly tempest and scorching heatwave seems as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

Other people, it would seem are harassed by pellets of nature; the swirling air currents gain momentum and embroil fragments of dirt from all over my property. These towers of wind then flit around like an incensed hive of bees, sensitive to the slightest intrusion of movement in my yard. Tiny animals scatter to avoid being upturned and blown away.

West and North are unfazed by the convergence of such energy in one spot, and East pounces on a fieldmouse, ignoring her sisters. South looks up as the rider and his horse come across monstrosities of thorny vines that plunge out of the dirt at breakneck speed. These tentacles of green nearly decapitate the man glaring at my front gates.

One would think that this place is cursed. They'd be wrong.

My slice of paradise, my humble abode of unerring calamity is merely a reflection of what I am. No, it isn't cursed in the least. Truthfully, I'm the one that's cursed; every biting phenomenon that harasses this biome is therefore crafted in my image.

Unsettled beasts caw in the distance as streaks of silver split the cavernous sky. The howls of distant beasts find their way to my cottage when I finally see the face of my newest inquisitor, the one I've been dreaming about for years and years.

I know him, I know him, I know him. Like the back of my hand, like every stone and blade of grass on my property. I knew every inch of his face before I experienced the Severing. I waited and waited.

A sword is removed from his back scabbard and without any kind of preamble, he cleaves through the vines. They fall at his feet, twitching. He stumbles his way through waist-high concoctions of plant material, pulling a nervous piebald with him. They're so close.

I breathe in and finally feel clear-headed enough to stand up. My slow, unwinding movement draws the only other pair of eyes toward me. Brown eyes, clear eyes, determined eyes. He is tall and his gaze falls flat on my half-covered face.

Everyone wants to see the entirety of it, their blatant stares of sympathy or even horror dropping over me like a weighted net. I don't blame them. It's in their nature to want to see everything, to perceive the planes and angles of what they assume is a marred landscape of skin.

Everyone wants to know what they can't know, but they shouldn't.

My smile is just shy of seeming manic. "I've been waiting for you."

North, East, South and West have decided to run into the house. It's mealtime. For them, it's always mealtime. I can't wait to go inside and feed them. But first, I have to hear his voice.

The man in my yard braces himself with a fortifying breath. Instead of tying his horse to a post, he nods at me. "You're not what I expected."

"Prince of fire, prince of fire. My liege of umber and ash. Come in and see your future, won't you?"

His strong neck turns and reveals a collar of markings, his corded veins pulsing with a curse that only I can see. I bite my lip as the song of death sings from his flesh, as striking to the eye as spilt ink on a page.

"You can do something about this?" These words are almost wooden and yet they pierce the air like a knife, each sharp syllable sawing over my spine. Such an exaltation of inner thoughts; they seem to be ripped straight out of his head and my mind reels with newfound purpose. I have to force myself not to do anything untoward around him. 

Maybe I can fix him, maybe I can't. I only know what I know. I step back into my doorway and beckon him into my foyer.

"Come, prince of fire. Let us see what fate has in store for your ilk."

"My horse. She's exhausted. Both of us need a place to bed for the night."

"North will take her to a stable." Just as I finish speaking, the feline runs through my legs and comes to a stop in front of his mare.

The man grunts. I sense his unease that's as thick as the smog in my yard. He releases the reigns with an unsure brow and stands back. We both anticipate different responses as the horse follows my four-legged roommate to the designated area for horses. They go without further instruction, their compliance swift and to the point.

I don't have to wait for long. With three quick strides, the man is at my side and in my house.

His voice snaps through the room, finding its target: me.

"You're younger than I thought you be."

"And you're exactly what I thought you'd be. You are weary and well-travelled. Your hands are born to privilege and yet they revere the way of the sword. And your distrust for outsiders is as deep as the ocean is wide."

His face withers in brief discontent. "I was told about you. Warned. I heard that you exact a very specific form of payment each time."

"Indeed. A memory for a memory. A scar for a scar... and in some cases, a life for a life."

His shaggy, brown hair gleams like caramelised sugar. Layers of it cocoon his wintery throat and the edges of his face. I graze over his beard with eyes that speak of wanton intent. I like the look of it. It's the colour of firewood and trees and mud by the river-

I must be taking too long to convince him of my authenticity, because he lurches forward with both hands clenched, a snarl so close to unravelling from his mouth.

"What do you want from me, then? My curse is an ever-long spell. Anything of that category is not meant to be so easily surpassed. Is it even possible?" Each word rings like a discordant bell in my ear.

My smile burns bright, fed by his visceral reaction. All of his unruly questions are like healing salves and they lay across my brokenness. My mind is bidden to reforge under his cutting scrutiny. He will talk, he will ask. I can feel it and I know it in my bones.

Once my visitors begin down this road of questioning, it won't be long until they realise that there's no satisfactory end. And queries always turn into statements of accusation. It's not always a bad thing, I suppose.

I turn my back on him and make my way to the kitchenette. East, West and South are knocking over dishes by the sink, pushing them off the counter. I start to boil the kettle when I eventually hear the tell-tale clink of rocks in the background.

My heart stutters.

He's touching something that he shouldn't be.

I look over one shoulder as I begin to pour hot water into a mug. He's found my vision stones.

"Name your price." He repeats, tossing my pouch of stones on the dining table.

Impatient. They're always so impatient.

Something in me rears at his manhandling of my paraphernalia. He doesn't respect it. My craft, my home, even access to my services. My loyalty, my servitude. All of it can be taken away.

But he is the one. I saw him. My dreams had constantly painted him, over and over. I saw golden tendrils of fire clinging to his skin, his hair, his clothes - enveloping him in a cloak of fire that harmed him none. 

I pick up a shard of porcelain from the pile of cracked dishes on the floor. The cats have their own form of prescience that they adhere to. They must have known I'd succumb to his mahogany eyes and forceful attitude.

Slicing my palm, I offer him the shard. "Cut your hand. The stones will tell me if you're worth your weight in blood."