Drifting fate

A new short story from the cursed realm of Tenehu is here:

Drifting fate

The wind howled in his ears and the snow assailed his face like a storm of arrows and spears he had just fled. The forming drifts of snow made going tough, and with his face hunkered down, it was hard to see where he should place his foot next. He had been stumbling around for a while now, and it was clear to him that he was completely lost. The pine trees had become sparse, only small birch trees remaining in the landscape. He must have been ascending without really noticing. The thought filled him with despair; he knew that the higher he got, the harder it would be to survive. If he did not find shelter for the fast-approaching night, that would be the end of it.

Why had he fled? What use was fleeing spears and arrows if he was to succumb to the cold instead, without any of the honors that would have followed a death on the battlefield? Without even a grave for his kin to pour the needed libations on? He would be a wandering, formless spirit in the land of ash and dust, his remains torn to shreds by birds and beasts. Was there a worse fate than that? To slowly dissolve into nothing, as if there was no one to utter his dishonored name? No beer poured on the ground to quench his unyielding thirst in the land of death? If he would even reach that far. Surely, the centipede daemon, Unuru, the devouring tongue of the lord of lords, would feast on his soul as he stood before the buried head to receive his judgment upon death. For had he not committed the greatest sin possible? That of breaking his oath, abandoning his elven liege in his hour of need. His prince, who was of divine kin, to serve whom was the sacred sacrament of his kin. If this structure was not upheld, then all of society would falter. It was the sacred sacrament, the pillar of his fate, and now that he had broken it, now that he had sundered the pillar, even the heavens might come collapsing down on him.

No! He could not allow this to happen. He had to survive. He had to make it back.

He would prostrate himself at the feet of his lord, not even asking forgiveness, only that he should get his just due. Then, perhaps, he could wash away his sin, and meet the head of his lord of lords without fearing his devouring tongue, and he would at least live on in the realm of ash and dust.

Just as he had completed this thought, his foot got lodged into something hidden under the snow. He dived forward, twisting his stuck foot as he fell.

His scream rang out, echoing among the surrounding mountaintops. It was almost as if the wind had stopped to let his scream ring out in solitude. This sudden stop of wind filled him with an eerie feeling. And as he shook off the snow, he saw a towering figure in front of him. It loomed over him, its stare piercing him, judging him as he crouched at its feet.

"Oh lord of lords, spare me, forgive my sins," he spoke, but no answer returned, not even his echo. Just the drone of the wind and snow as it picked up again was to be heard, and its call was unforgiving.

The dark figure in front was that of an elf prince, standing straight with arms stretched and ready at his sides, and one foot in front of the other as if he was ready to pounce at any moment. The great prince was at least three times his height, carved from dark basalt.

"Oh lord of lords, spare, forgive my sins," he spoke again. Still no answer. But as he looked around, he saw that he was among a ruined village. The great statue was the sole guardian, still standing tall among the ruins. But there was not much time to look around; darkness comes fast in winter, and the landscape that was completely white just moments ago was now a myriad of shades of blue.

Further inside among the ruins, he saw the remains of a tower, its entrance black against the surrounding blue. Had his prayers been heard, and shelter provided? Warm tears melted the snow on his cheeks as he thanked the mercy of his god, and of the great protector still doing his duty even if his realm was now mere ruins.

He got his foot loose, but it was badly sprained, and he could barely limp as he struggled towards the entrance in front.

It was with great pain that he reached it. Now, if only he could find some kindling and get his rest, then the journey home should be possible, sprained leg or not.

Warily, he stepped inside, treading with great care as not to stumble again. It cracked and snapped underfoot as he gingerly made his way further in, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dark. Behind him, the wind howled, and gusts of snow blew in like dancing figures, playing tricks on his adjusting eyes.

Something snapped underneath as he adjusted his footing on the uneven ground. Again, he offered thanks. Was he blessed with both shelter and kindling?

He knelt down to gather it up, adjusting his weight to his good foot. He would survive, he would return home and offer himself up; then, come what may, his soul would be saved.

But what he found underfoot was not like any firewood he had seen. It was white and smooth, like driftwood. That could not be! He looked closer, now nearer to the ground. Again, it snapped as he crouched, and he saw that what he held in his hands was not wood, but a broken leg bone. Around him lay strewn broken bones, the marrow sucked out, ribs open to the vaulted ceiling, and leering skulls with sockets as dark as the entrance from which he had just passed. Then, just as dread seized his heart, the wind gave way, as if to bear witness to his face as he saw outside a figure dance. Not shifting snow nor blowing wind, but a pale figure draped in flayed skin. Slow was his movement, with twice the arms and twice the legs, and on his face, a twisted smile, for he knew well his victim's fate.