11-11-2020, 02:19 PM
A trick he'd asked for, and a trick he'd received. The bold young stallion blinked, and blinked again. The shadowy figure had vanished. Gone, as if he'd never been at all. Mikael stood now on the crest of a hill he knew well, knee deep in whispering grasses and looking out over the seemingly endless landscape of home.
No matter how far he traveled, how wide his range, the wildflowers of the Pampas would always be home. Which begged the question: how had he gotten here? Surely he would have remembered traveling home, remembered climbing this hill. His head shook in baffled wonder. He'd dreamed the spectral figure, surely, except... There was something wrong.
Something off about the way the hills unfolded. The way the landscape faded towards the edges of his sight in a misty haze. It was winter, true enough. The world was always bleak this time of year. He stepped cautiously from the hilltop, and paused again at the bottom. Grass. He was walking through grass that swished and rustled with paperthin whispers, and yet he couldn't feel it brush against his legs. Couldn't feel the breeze that seemed to ripple through the field.
And while he knew that there was little color in the land this time of year, it dawned on him that there was a difference between little, and none at all.
He couldn't help the doubt that crept into his voice when he called out: "Mother? Father? Anyone-" He cut himself off. His voice was too loud, when it was the only sound. It landed like a stone in a pond, disrupting the unnatural stillness in a way that seemed almost disrespectful. What he was disrespecting, well that he didn't know. Still, there was an air of disapproval that made him silence his raised voice.
He walked on, trying to ignore the lack of sensation that motion should have brought. He snatched up an experimental mouthful of dry grass, and spit it out just as quick. It had been nothing but ashes on his tongue.
He walked as far as he could. To the edge of home, to where mist began to fade the edges of his sight, to where darkness began to close in. That was where his heart failed him. It was too unsettling to walk into nothingness, without even the ground beneath his feet to reassure him that he still existed. So he turned back to the grayscale replica of his home, empty of all life.
That thought struck him. Empty of all life. Did that make this death? Was he dead? Memory flashed in his mind's eye, the little 'trick' he had played himself. It had been a skull's face he had shown the phantom, hadn't it? A funeral mask. He'd been tempting fate without realizing it, and here was his reward. He groaned, weariness seeping into his bones. If this was the Afterlife, it was a lonely place to spend the rest of eternity.
Or was it? A shape distorted the landscape in the corned of his sight. A shadow that didn't match the rest. Hulking, bulky, it was nearly but not quite hidden in the rolling hills. It had moved ever so slightly, which was the only reason he'd noticed it. It was not curiosity that drove him toward it now, but desperation.
If he was already dead, it didn't matter if it was friend or foe. What mattered was finding out if he was truly alone.
The closer he got to the vale where the shape resided, the stranger things got. Light seemed drawn toward it like water down a hole. The landscape stretched beneath and around him, leeching away into the impossibly dark shape he'd been running towards. Dread clutched him close. He tried to stop and found much to his horror that he couldn't. Like the light, he too was being siphoned towards the growing dark.
The grey world was draining into the hungry void. He couldn't stop it, didn't know what he could do to even begin. He was out of time. That became abundantly clear when the shapeless dark opened its eyes.
They were the only color left in the world. Brilliant, burning embers in the emptiness, they were the eyes of a being that saw his fear, and drank it in like the finest of wines. The endless nothing swallowed him screaming. Like stars dying in distant galaxies, the eyes blinked once, satisfied. Then there was nothing at all.
No matter how far he traveled, how wide his range, the wildflowers of the Pampas would always be home. Which begged the question: how had he gotten here? Surely he would have remembered traveling home, remembered climbing this hill. His head shook in baffled wonder. He'd dreamed the spectral figure, surely, except... There was something wrong.
Something off about the way the hills unfolded. The way the landscape faded towards the edges of his sight in a misty haze. It was winter, true enough. The world was always bleak this time of year. He stepped cautiously from the hilltop, and paused again at the bottom. Grass. He was walking through grass that swished and rustled with paperthin whispers, and yet he couldn't feel it brush against his legs. Couldn't feel the breeze that seemed to ripple through the field.
And while he knew that there was little color in the land this time of year, it dawned on him that there was a difference between little, and none at all.
He couldn't help the doubt that crept into his voice when he called out: "Mother? Father? Anyone-" He cut himself off. His voice was too loud, when it was the only sound. It landed like a stone in a pond, disrupting the unnatural stillness in a way that seemed almost disrespectful. What he was disrespecting, well that he didn't know. Still, there was an air of disapproval that made him silence his raised voice.
He walked on, trying to ignore the lack of sensation that motion should have brought. He snatched up an experimental mouthful of dry grass, and spit it out just as quick. It had been nothing but ashes on his tongue.
He walked as far as he could. To the edge of home, to where mist began to fade the edges of his sight, to where darkness began to close in. That was where his heart failed him. It was too unsettling to walk into nothingness, without even the ground beneath his feet to reassure him that he still existed. So he turned back to the grayscale replica of his home, empty of all life.
That thought struck him. Empty of all life. Did that make this death? Was he dead? Memory flashed in his mind's eye, the little 'trick' he had played himself. It had been a skull's face he had shown the phantom, hadn't it? A funeral mask. He'd been tempting fate without realizing it, and here was his reward. He groaned, weariness seeping into his bones. If this was the Afterlife, it was a lonely place to spend the rest of eternity.
Or was it? A shape distorted the landscape in the corned of his sight. A shadow that didn't match the rest. Hulking, bulky, it was nearly but not quite hidden in the rolling hills. It had moved ever so slightly, which was the only reason he'd noticed it. It was not curiosity that drove him toward it now, but desperation.
If he was already dead, it didn't matter if it was friend or foe. What mattered was finding out if he was truly alone.
The closer he got to the vale where the shape resided, the stranger things got. Light seemed drawn toward it like water down a hole. The landscape stretched beneath and around him, leeching away into the impossibly dark shape he'd been running towards. Dread clutched him close. He tried to stop and found much to his horror that he couldn't. Like the light, he too was being siphoned towards the growing dark.
The grey world was draining into the hungry void. He couldn't stop it, didn't know what he could do to even begin. He was out of time. That became abundantly clear when the shapeless dark opened its eyes.
They were the only color left in the world. Brilliant, burning embers in the emptiness, they were the eyes of a being that saw his fear, and drank it in like the finest of wines. The endless nothing swallowed him screaming. Like stars dying in distant galaxies, the eyes blinked once, satisfied. Then there was nothing at all.