Status: First story on here
Etched in Stone
Reflection of a memory
It was that calm type of night, where the dust seems to hang in the air, and no one wants to be outside. It was cool, but not unpleasantly so. The only sounds in this part of the city were the soft murmur of trees in the light breeze and the very distant buzz of traffic, quiet horns blaring without urgency and wheels churning to escape. The dust seemed to muffle all sound, making a tired world seem exhausted. A church was lit up with floodlights in the distance, but that was a cold, white light, sterile and unyielding. Much more pleasant were the soft amber lights lining the gravel paths of the large, slumbering park. Somewhere in the shadows, a fountain trickled softly, it's pipes leaking into the ground, making it loose pressure. A couple birds sat on electric wires, heads bowed in sleep. Lovers and hobos occupied scattered benches, and a couple feral dogs padded their way through the darkness just outside the ornate fence, most of its details flattened by the shifting shadows.
Etch was alone. His feet made crisp shifting noises in the gravel, strange because of their clarity in the dull, inattentive night surrounding him.
-I'm so tired-
And he was. But it wasn't visible in a sag in his shoulders, or in a knitting of his brow, or in a limpness of the hands, but in his eyes. His eyes were old old old and they held the universe, or an echo of the universe. Or an echo of an echo. A reflection of a memory. It was etched into his head, like a chisel etches an image into stone, only this image was stone, and the stone whispered. It whispered with many voices and one voice, undulating, terrifying cryptic, but at the same time clear as crystal.
-I'm so damn tired-
A bird shifted on its line, sleep weighing down its movements, and the stone gods rustled in reply. They were sleeping, too. He feared what would happen if they ever woke up.
Everything in this place slept. Anywhere else, morning would come and life would bloom again, but not here. This was the land of sleep, the land that Hypnos walked, his own eyes half closed, half ton lids held open only by a cursed insomnia. His eyes, too, held an echo. An echo of a different world, a different time. An echo of greatness, overshadowed, as always, by sleep.
Hypnos might walk this land, but he did not control it.
Etch sighed, moved his bleary eyes from the passing giant, and kept walking. He had something to do before he left this place.
The stone gods cracked and ground their basalt teeth and granite eyes, landslides and boulders flowing down their skin, hooked fingers creaking and shifting, dust floating down from crumbling digits. They slept, and yet, they saw everything he saw, felt everything he felt.
Etch hated it. He'd touched that cursed book and this was his curse, his punishment, and his reward.
Dust settled, was blown into the air by a soft breath of air, and settled again, only to repeat the cycle. Etch laughed. It was a harsh, grinding sound. The world, no, the universe, was a cosmic joke. Etch knew he wasn't quite all there.
His slow walk sped up and turned into a sprint, the breeze turning into a gale in his face. He knew his destination before he saw it, the stone gods whispering it in his mind. At least they had their uses.
It was an old old old house, proportions all off, giant windows, and yet seeming tiny on the wall on which they were anchored, and yet still surrounded by wooden siding, floated over a large metal door, on which a knocker, shaped like a half closed eye, the pupil a globe of tarnished metal floating in the emptiness of the sclera, the lid weighing tons, was the only decoration.
Etch sighed again. This was the hard part. In the sleep lands, no one could enter land claimed by another. Etch could. At a price.
Well, the stone gods could. That was another useful thing about the sleeping monsters. Etch reached into a pocket of his coat, the lapels flapping slightly in the breeze. He pulled a bronze dagger out, hilt first.
The sharp blade broke his skin in a series of parallel lines, traveling from just under his elbow to the palm of his hand, where it ended in a circle. The stone gods crackled and splintered, their mouths hanging open greedily, sucking his blood, energy pouring out in return. The cuts on Etch's arm poured that same energy, which streamed down the length of his arm to engulf his hand in a blinding aura. He smiled, more a rictus formed from suffering than joy. It hurt like hell.
He put his hand into the knocker and wrapped his fingers around the globe. It hurt like hell.
He pulled. It hurt like hell.
Etch was alone. His feet made crisp shifting noises in the gravel, strange because of their clarity in the dull, inattentive night surrounding him.
-I'm so tired-
And he was. But it wasn't visible in a sag in his shoulders, or in a knitting of his brow, or in a limpness of the hands, but in his eyes. His eyes were old old old and they held the universe, or an echo of the universe. Or an echo of an echo. A reflection of a memory. It was etched into his head, like a chisel etches an image into stone, only this image was stone, and the stone whispered. It whispered with many voices and one voice, undulating, terrifying cryptic, but at the same time clear as crystal.
-I'm so damn tired-
A bird shifted on its line, sleep weighing down its movements, and the stone gods rustled in reply. They were sleeping, too. He feared what would happen if they ever woke up.
Everything in this place slept. Anywhere else, morning would come and life would bloom again, but not here. This was the land of sleep, the land that Hypnos walked, his own eyes half closed, half ton lids held open only by a cursed insomnia. His eyes, too, held an echo. An echo of a different world, a different time. An echo of greatness, overshadowed, as always, by sleep.
Hypnos might walk this land, but he did not control it.
Etch sighed, moved his bleary eyes from the passing giant, and kept walking. He had something to do before he left this place.
The stone gods cracked and ground their basalt teeth and granite eyes, landslides and boulders flowing down their skin, hooked fingers creaking and shifting, dust floating down from crumbling digits. They slept, and yet, they saw everything he saw, felt everything he felt.
Etch hated it. He'd touched that cursed book and this was his curse, his punishment, and his reward.
Dust settled, was blown into the air by a soft breath of air, and settled again, only to repeat the cycle. Etch laughed. It was a harsh, grinding sound. The world, no, the universe, was a cosmic joke. Etch knew he wasn't quite all there.
His slow walk sped up and turned into a sprint, the breeze turning into a gale in his face. He knew his destination before he saw it, the stone gods whispering it in his mind. At least they had their uses.
It was an old old old house, proportions all off, giant windows, and yet seeming tiny on the wall on which they were anchored, and yet still surrounded by wooden siding, floated over a large metal door, on which a knocker, shaped like a half closed eye, the pupil a globe of tarnished metal floating in the emptiness of the sclera, the lid weighing tons, was the only decoration.
Etch sighed again. This was the hard part. In the sleep lands, no one could enter land claimed by another. Etch could. At a price.
Well, the stone gods could. That was another useful thing about the sleeping monsters. Etch reached into a pocket of his coat, the lapels flapping slightly in the breeze. He pulled a bronze dagger out, hilt first.
The sharp blade broke his skin in a series of parallel lines, traveling from just under his elbow to the palm of his hand, where it ended in a circle. The stone gods crackled and splintered, their mouths hanging open greedily, sucking his blood, energy pouring out in return. The cuts on Etch's arm poured that same energy, which streamed down the length of his arm to engulf his hand in a blinding aura. He smiled, more a rictus formed from suffering than joy. It hurt like hell.
He put his hand into the knocker and wrapped his fingers around the globe. It hurt like hell.
He pulled. It hurt like hell.