White fog, created
by heavy snowfall, concealed my destination, and my progress. The
numbing cold slid through my thick wool coat, and cruelly sealed
itself within my defences. My identity was made a question by the
snow white hood, but the question was the answer. Vague trees
whispered the legends of the land into my ears. I avoided the
contemplation that would lead to belief. All that I was had to remain
doubtful if I were to survive.
I rode upon my
family's last horse, Agatha. Death had taken her mother through
sickness. Our fathers had attempted the same journey through the land
of rock and snow. Their corpses most likely lay buried under the
suffocating snow, far below the ever rising surface. In my boyhood, I
sought to replace my father, along with Agatha's. When the idea
became impossible, I sought nothing less than to discover him and
rescue him. My uncle had been wise in keeping me on the farm. The
trip would have provided me with no less than the same fate.
The path that I
followed was no more than invisible to the eye. It was rumoured that
ancient tribes once inhabited the snow-consumed land. A road was made
through constant movement, leading from my village to the temple deep
within the blinding woods. Words had been passed down from each
generation, telling of the story of the tribes long gone. War had
destroyed all participants. Legend told that following the war, the
frozen ghosts of the tribes engulfed the land, creating the white fog
of heavy snow. No adventurers returned from the blinding woods. The
great scythe was all that awaited them.
I was unsure what I
intended on finding. The question of survival hung in the air like my
uncle did when he was discovered. Uncertainty whispered the
possibility that I had not intended on returning to the village.
Perhaps I had gone out into the woods searching for the scythe, so
that I could slit my throat and be lost forever. But as I forged a
path, direction came naturally. I soon found that direction is
worthless without proper resources. Agatha grew weak with hunger, and
fatigue. The air was ice, and sliced through the two of us. We fell
from the path and found shelter under one of the many
indistinguishable trees. It was there that crisis found us. It
sneaked within us and pulled a dagger from its waist. Powerless to
calm ourselves, we awaited the blow of panic. However, an idea
sparked and brought us to life. The rations had nearly been finished,
and it seemed certain that we would not make a return trip. My mind
raced with concepts of what may lay before me. I provided Agatha with
the last of her feed, and finished the rations with great haste.
The suggestion of
continuing was not verbalized, for fear of realizing the doubt. The
trip began again, with renewed, but limited, energy. As we made our
way through the blinding forest, guilt overcame me. The attachment
that I shared with Agatha lead me to bring her along with me. It
seemed to me that I had brought her to her death, when it was I who
wished to die. The spark within my heart had not been extinguished,
much to my dismay. No longer could I simply resign to death and allow
him to take us. No, I was bound to do battle with the immortal
killer. To many it would seem insane to only attempt to survive to
protect a mere horse. Sadly, to many the value of life only stretched
so far as to include humans and none else.
As we strove to
complete the path, the world strove to change itself. Her hooves
ceased to be absorbed by the cloud ground. Visibility grew like an
oak alone in a field. Change shattered the redundancy of our journey.
My numb skin came to recognize the world once more, as if I had been
awakened after centuries of rest. Agatha's pace increased in speed as
we came to find that which we had sought for so long.
My lips cracked and
bled warm blood as I attempted to speak. “Agatha, I see it. Gaze
upon the spark on the horizon. It banishes all the snow to the frame
of my vision, and reveals to me the path long hidden by centuries of
concealment! Perhaps there we may sustain ourselves, and perhaps even
manage a return to our warm home!” It was not long before the great
ancient temple entered the material world. Tall stone pillars marked
the entrance, and carried upon themselves the single piece of stone
that constituted the entire ceiling. It was an open temple, with
length and height, but no protection from the wind and snow.
Unwavering flames bled from the torches on the pillars. Heat washed
over us, and permitted us to rest. The Temple of Prometheus had been
found by no else but myself.
------------------------------------
This piece was inspired by one of WriteWorld's Writer's Block posts, where they post a picture or phrase to begin a story with. I very well could have continued for quite some time, but decided against it. I may expand on this story another time, however. I will include a link to the tumblr post that lead me to write this story. I recommend clicking on the photo, as it will redirect you to the Deviant Art original. If you happen to like the illustration, then please let the creator know. I suppose that will be all. Until next time,
-Zero
Writeworld link: http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/51884601358/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words
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