Inspired by the poem, The Wanderer, as well as other things. This will be a story, whether or not anybody reads it, is up to you. If you find it in your time to read it and possibly comment upon it, I will take my time to respond likewise to your comments. This story will be set in a past age, possibly medieval fantasy and will go from there. Enjoy reading it if you take your time to, and if you read it word for word, you might enjoy it. I might enjoy writing it. The greatest tale ever told is still the greatest tale, even if it is never heard, possibly. I'm not saying mine is the greatest, though it can still be good even if no one decides to read it. Maybe someone will. Chapter 1: The Beginning A lone figure walked a empty highway through a dead village. Peace signs had fallen on the ground, a sign of the past protesters that used to stand in the streets. Beggars and all did it, death had not been swayed. It had continued as if a holy man converting barbaric to a newfound religion. When it was over, he would wish for death. What was his name? He had had a name, of that he was sure. Had he ever had a true name, though? Were they all disguises, cleverly forged behind a false barricade of emotions? Possibly. Had he sold his soul long ago, or had his soul sold him? Had he even had a soul? He knew now that being a empty hollow shell would be better then his current situation. For what was inside him was dark, and the night light of his "Heart" had seemed to go out long, long ago. How far had he walked, and how much farther will he walk? He had not known any companion but pain, and sometimes it went to those who came across him, though it always returned. Like a old friend, one who needs company when everyone else has left. The man wore solely black, and his hair contrasted to it by being white. He looked old, but fealt young. On his face was always a smile, one you could tell was fake though he still wore it. If what they say is true and eyes are mirrors for the soul, he had no soul, and if he did, it was pure black. It was eyes that you would try to block out, only to let them haunt you in your dreams. Eyes that made children cry, and mothers believe in the worse of the world. The road was silent except for the steady moan of the wind, but the inside of his head was not. Each voice had a different voice, and a different message. All of them seemed to echo. Still The Wanderer marched on. The Wanderer... What did he seek? He knew, he always knew that piece of the puzzle. Why did it have to be him, though? He knew that, also. He marched on. Soon he would be upon a tavern, he sensed. He could see the lights going down the ways he walked, casting shadows, dividing the Darkness but making it more noticeable for those that had to forever follow it and its sometimes everlasting embrace. With a sigh he dragged his sole weapon into the room, a old sword. Some of the older men seemed to laugh at him, him dragging his sword in like a pathetic weakling. With a start, his hands started to shake. The sword seemed to move in the air, prompting more laughter. Suddenly, the red haze. Always appearing when he broke through... Flames, screams, darkness, and... he was slightly in control again. Slowly he walked through the flames, ignoring the final screams and walked through the flames like one might a patch of flowers on a good day with a lover. --- A young man was left there. He looked haggard, weary, and old. Across his neck was held a single stone, in the fire light looking as if it was in the shape of a key, perhaps it was. tied there by string. The stone shined with its own light even in the fire light. The Wanderer seemed to stop a second in the fire to beckon him, and once he backend, he had no will of his own. Turning a final look when he was some distance away from the tavern, he saw no tavern, only fire which must have been the inspiration for some poets view of Hell and eternal punishment. After looking away, even from this distance the young man, his name was Marcus, could feel the flames trying to scorch him, perhaps drag him into the flames that now looked like a inferno, spiraling into the depths of what some believed no person should face until they were dead, and that was conditionally. Should he have jumped in? Would it have been a better fate then what awaited him? These thoughts would come through his mind in the future, would he ever truly have a answer? Casting all thoughts aside, he caught up with the stranger who had disrupted his life. Who was he kidding? His life was already messed up. The fires glowed in the distance still, making him wonder if they would ever be put out. Whoever the man in black was, the light of compassion in his eyes seemed to have been snuffed out. Though, he couldn't be all bad, could he? He had left him alive, though wasn't his existence punishment enough? Punishment. What a fun word. With the meant at the end, one could believe it was meant for you. Punishment, thy name is ruin. Ruin, thy name is age. Age, thy name is death. Death, thy name is everything. Everything, thy name is nothing. The Wanderer, he said he was called The Wanderer. The name fit him, from Marcus's experiences with him so far. Perhaps he would become his companion. Sorrow is a bitter companion for those alone. Alone. Not a word was like it, and none compared to it. Sometimes the best medicine, sometimes the best poison. --- The Wanderer traveled with his new companion, keeping his thoughts to himself. The companion kept up, and even if he didn't, the Wanderer would not have slowed down. The man was important. Especially the stone key around his neck. Keys unlocked doors, some were real, some were of fate. Some did both. They passed people when they went into the town. The tavern had been like a sign that read it was the borderline for it. As a matter of fact, that black stuff in the sky might of been the smoke. Might of been some other fire, though. With the way people were today, you could never tell. Never tell. These thoughts might of brought a smile to his face if he didn't already have a fake one. Smile. His smile was a parody of a happy smile, showing just how see through the happiness of today's world. Was there a today's world? Today was but time, and time but numbers. Numbers and memories. Eternity is nothing but a man laughing at you, clocked in memories and beckoning at you with the false light of hope. Did hope have light, or was it darkness? The evil that men do. Did men do these evils, or were men evil themselves? Was there no difference? If you compared man to the most barbaric beast, would he be that different? Both of them savage, both possibly without purpose but to cause pain. Pain, the last sense to fade even in the cold of Darkness before it numbs you into acceptance of itself. Was it the last, though? Perhaps the last was hatred, which gave the wounded resolve and the cold heat. They made camp that night, under the stars that would shine upon him, if there were any. Using some magic, the Wonderer once again called forth flame and began to talk while staring into the fire. The fire stayed like a old friend, patiently burning and sending out smoke to block out the stars that shined. --- When Marcus awoke, he could see that the Wonderer had not slept. Looked as if he hadn't had any sleep in some time, actually. Shaking off the remnants of sleepiness, he obeyed when the Wonderer said, "Come." So he went and followed the Wonderer, becoming his "companion." The stone key seemed to lay heavily upon him. --- More to be written later. Anyone have any thoughts on this?
I suggest you take out the bold since that is only supposed to be used for emphasis in writing and though there is nothing technically wrong with the red it just distracts from the fact that there is actually something you want taken seriously.
Thanks, will do. Chapter might be short, next one will be longer. Chapter 2: Still the Gods Bleed The pair had traveled for a week upon an empty highway they had soon encountered. It seemed to go through an empty desert, nearby the lights of a town shined. Marcus soon observed the farther he went with the wanderer, the farther time seemed to spiral. Everything was one big walk. Silently, he wondered if the Wanderer even knew he was still there. It was night now, and the Wonderer began to speak for the first time in what could of been days or the entire week. Did it even matter? Not anymore. In the distance, a raven flew. Nevermore, heh. He still had some humor. Laying their packs down, Marcus observed the Wanderer and awaited the words. "Do you know why I walk?" Marcus gave the same answer as always, a simple "No." and usually this would be where it all fell silent once more. Not tonight, though. Later he would think he should of savored those last few moments of silence. Later was not now though, and the story must go on. "The stars always shine, and the gods always bleed. They have bleed since the end. A long time ago... Yes, or should I say a long time from now? Anyway, I was bathed in that blood. The stars, they are the cells of the gods' blood. I wish to... unite them, in a way. I think that is it." Marcus listened silently, not daring to look at the other. Instead he looked at the smoke from their campfire, as it spiraled upwards. Seeming to be called out by his "friend's" tale the stars shined brightly through it. Images seemed to come out of the smoke and reveal the past and future to those who would merge with the flames. In a way, he was already burning, and already falling. He already had the mental cracks to become someone like the one next to him, all he needed was the proper push. The world was his stage. Continuing, the Wanderer said, "That key you carry, it will help me reach the final mile. Once I have walked every inch, the voices will stop. I know they will. Though, can nothing feel pain and can pain feel nothing? I am hungry, so hungry. Soon we will feed...," Wanderer did not look at him, but instead seemed to be talking to himself. "Split personality disorder... or more?" Marcus was afraid he'd end up like that, taking strangers to deserts and telling them they are hungry Wanderer turned to the flames as if they were a mirror. Muttering words best forgotten and with a bow of the head, the flames died out. With a sigh, Marcus picked up his bag only to look at the key on his stomach and almost scream. Had it been... glowing? More of the old man's tricks, possibly. Was the abomination in front of him even a man, though? Was he guilty by association, then? He had been a condemned man before, though. His whole existence was a joke, best dropped for a raving man on the highway he met in a bar, hardly sober. What had happened to that bar, anyway? Was he already becoming loopy? It no longer mattered. He was saying that a great deal lately. Is that what the traveler would say about him? He felt like by the end of this journey, some part of him would be dead if not all. Already his care had died. Silently, they marched onward to the city. It no longer shined with lights, and instead seemed abandoned. Why? Why did their travels go through oblivion if their cause was to unite something? Were they meant to tie together all the ruins in a pretty covering? Who was he kidding, of course they did. The gods bleed and the stars shined, and the Wanderer and his companion bathed in it. They walked onward.
Chapter 3: The Lone Exile seeks the Lone Wanderer - The desert screamed its hunger. Traveling steadily, the man rode on horse back. Yes, he could still smell it. The smoke. Smoke that could only be caused by demons. Only a demon, or something worse. The exile, for that was what he was, had a name. Only one true name, unlike the Wanderer. The Jester. Whatever you called him. Still the dry winds of this barren land carried that smoke, over this dead world. Death had come, and death was a wanderer. The man’s name was not but Masquerade. Seeking redemption as well as the final damnation, he carried on. The wanderer and he, like it or not, were very much alike. The wanderer was the jester, the timeless joker, and he was the purser. Going the final distance to hear the punch line, to hear why the world had died. Died it had. Everything had stopped, most machinery had stopped working, and only the laughter could be heard. Civilization failed, and most of the machinery that was savaged was dangerous and overtime most was forgotten how to be used. Only he had answered the call and lived to follow it. Laughing it had come, along with the bandits. The robbers. The corrupters. Yes, they had come to corrupt and they had done quite a nice job. The seeds had been planted by a clown in a spiral-shaped pattern. They had only given them water. Quickly they had grown indeed, for few things were stopping them. Many had died, and many more had gone insane. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but this Rome burned in a day. He set it on fire. Such an abomination which was so great should be put out of its misery. Yes. ‘Twas proper and it was right. What one might have been great towns were reduced to bars overnight, what was once great monuments became a funeral pyre for humanity. How it had burned! Yes, still he heard tales when he stopped at these bars of the Great Fire. The fire that has eaten all, both righteous and not righteous. It had come down in the form of God’s Judgment. God’s Judgment hadn’t been made by God, no. It had been made by man. Judging the population to be a cancer, they finally killed a good bit of themselves off. With radiation. All of it had died away by now, yet traces remained. Mutations. He was the greatest mutation of all, the greatest abomination. Maybe when his quest was through he’d set himself on fire. Until then though, he would seek the wanderer. Seek his punch line. Follow the laughter. Follow the smoke. Follow destiny. Every now and then, creatures thought only to exist in the shadows of man’s mind peeped out of him from the corners of man’s ruins. Maybe man’s mind was his ruins. A fortress, constructed brick by beloved brick and oppression by oppression. Sole patient beyond cure, sole doctor gone fishing. Couldn’t go fishing anymore, though. Not enough time. Only enough time to wander after the wanderer, and seek him. For, he was the cause of all. He had laid the insane spiral, and he had led them spiraling down and down and down until his previous life of calm and peace had gone… crooked. Yes, that was the word they used to describe it now. Crooked. Letting out the last breath, the horse had ridden out of his hometown died. No grace, no dramatic death, just died. So ends another life. So laughs another laugh. Shadows stirred, and h e sighed. They would come soon, the horrible Mutant survivors. They would come and try to kill him all for the simple food his dead horse provided. If anything it had eaten had caused it to die, they would want that, too. Radiation had eradicated what little brains that could have been passed down to them and they had forgotten that there were quite many a way to commit the gentleman’s final act if one had a mind to do so. Yet, maybe it had killed off some of his mind, too. Maybe that was better.
