The Decaying Diary [Fic]

Sandals crunched on the arid ground. Walking slowly, with his head drooping, a weary traveller moved closer to the Mirror of Lyss. Droplets of sweat dripped from his brow onto the ground below, evaporating almost as soon as they touched it. He was tall, with wide shoulders and a muscular build. As he grimaced with each new difficult step, the shallow wrinkles around his mouth and eyes became deeper. The journey he was on had aged him far more dramatically than he’d have liked; those who’d have known him before he set out would now not recognise the man standing before them, instead seeing a weary man, lost. He sighed, moving a long dark strand of hair from his eyes. He had been walking these lands for years, wandering from place to place, searching - none of his travels had been so hard as this portion of his journey, though.

He kept going, however, because recently he had felt drawn to this place like a moth to a flame, his instincts telling him to come here after his many years of wandering. The man breathed in quickly, pushing his chest outwards, before exhaling, allowing another sigh to leave his body. He stopped, in need of a break. Unbuttoning his white cloak, which had turned brown in many areas due to many years of living wild, he lay it on the hot ground beside a large rock, the traveller himself seeking what little shade he could find. Doing this revealed a large, silver scythe climbing up his back, which shone in the hot Elonian sun. He sat on his cloak, knees up to his chest. Around his waist was a tattered leather belt, from which hung many small bags. He removed this too, though he made sure to keep his precious weapon upon him. He hadn’t taken it off since he began his journey, and would not do so until the very end. From one of his bags, he produced a small, brown container filled with water, from which the traveller took a gulp, the cool liquid rushing down his parched throat.

The sun continued to blaze down on him, forcing him to squint into the distance. Doing this, his eyes caught something a little away from him; a small object lying alone on the ground. Looking harder, the traveller saw what appeared to be faint purple smoke rising from the object. Staring at the mysterious object, he eventually let his curiosity get the better of him and deciding to see what it was – after all, what else was there to do except bake in the heat? He stood up, placing his water container on his cloak, and began to walk forwards to the object.

As he moved closer, it began to take form; a small, leather-bound book lying in the middle of nowhere. The traveller moved closer still, curious as to why such an object would be out here. The purple smoke he had witnessed just moments earlier had appeared to have vanished, leaving no trace behind. Upon reaching it, he found himself bending down to pick up the book, for he was like that – always inquisitive into his surroundings, always wanting to know more of the world in which he lived. Clutching the somewhat tattered book in his hands, he began to walk back to his resting spot, eager to see what was inside.

He sat back down on his cloak, noticing a small spider creep underneath to seek shelter. He had grown used to sharing his things with the creatures of the wilderness, and in some ways he was glad of the company they brought. Though they couldn’t communicate, the presence of another life reassured him that he was not alone in this world. The urge to open the book was growing inside him, like some form of primeval instinct, similar to that which drew him here. His head began to swim, feeling as though this moment was what his whole journey had been building up to. Opening the book, he carefully placed his fingers on the outside cover so he didn’t accidentally ruin whatever may be contained within the pages. Nothing - the pages were blank. Disappointed, he closed the book and threw it beside him. As he did so, his head began to turn wilder and wilder, a sick nauseating feeling coming up within him. Assuming this feeling to be because of too much walking, the traveller readied himself to rest for a few hours, before resuming his journey. He leant backwards on the rock, closed his eyes and slowly drifted off to sleep, before beginning to twist and turn as the nightmare began.

Piercing screams filled the morning air in Kourna.

“NO! PLEASE! HELP! AHHHHH!”
“Dwayna, save our village! Cast these demons out!”
The screams awoke the traveller from his sleep, jumping out of bed and rushing to the door. Monsters not of this world were attacking the small, peaceful village set in the middle of Kourna. Unsure of what to do, the traveller frantically looked around the village, but everywhere he turned all he could see were monsters slaying the cowering villagers, recklessly tearing through them as though it were a game. Bodies lay on the floor, arrows and spears triumphantly sticking out of them with small capillaries of blood beginning to creep along the sand. The monsters themselves were blurred to the traveller; something was preventing him from seeing them clearly. All he could see was bright purple light protruding from each of their bodies and the faint outline of weapons as they took life after life. They were tall, he could see that, and loud; their war cries heard over the screams of his friends.
He began to despair, quickly indentifying bodies of those he had come to know so well. He had not been born in this village, but had stumbled upon it with his partner many years ago and had come to like life here, and now it was being slowly taken from him with each new death. The pain of losing his life here became unbearable, quickly turning to a pure, violent rage. He would not lose everything, not again. Darting quickly back inside his hut, he grabbed his scythe next to where he slept and set out to attack the enemy. Just as he had been taught, he swung his scythe, precisely striking the nearest foe in the abdomen. It fell, wailing. Rage had blinded him, though, and he was not striking to kill instantly, but rather exact a slow and painful death by bleeding. He was going to make them suffer as they were doing to him. He thought, “I will exact my own retribution on these demons which plague us.”

A flash of purple light, brighter than the others, drew his eye to the left. He saw a monster, taller than the rest, carrying a small, frightened girl on its shoulders. Her face had drained of all colour and fear had paralysed her lips, making her unable to scream for help. Black hair covered half of her face, the other half showing an eye filled with tears. The traveller threw his scythe on the ground and ran after this monster, determined not to let such an innocent child die at its hands. It began to move faster, calling the other monsters to its side. They joined it, moving as one in a huddled group. The traveller ran faster, his bare feet pounding the earth, all the while regretting throwing away his only weapon. But no matter how hard he ran, no matter the fact he was not encumbered by weaponry, he could not make the distance. The huddled group moved farther and farther away, edging steadily towards the horizon. Moans of pain could still be heard behind the traveller, yet he had no time for them; he was going to save the girl. And as soon as that thought had left his head, they vanished. Roars came up from the earth and the monsters disappeared from sight in a dark cloud, taking the girl with them. He stopped running, and fell to his knees, sobbing.

The traveller awoke, unshaken by what had just happened inside his head. He had been experiencing the same nightmare over and over again ever since he began his travels and now they no longer affected him as they once did. He had come to expect them every time he went to sleep, and in some ways they had begun to comfort him, much like the wild creatures he met, providing normality in his otherwise so-far chaotic life. But most of all, they reminded him of why he was here, why he had been travelling all these years. “Years,” he thought. “I’ve spent so long searching, so long walking across these lands. What if... No, I cannot think like that. But, just, what if I don’t find what I’m looking for? What then? No, I will, I must. But I’m getting older... in fact, how old am I? I’ve been travelling for so long I can’t remember my age! Maybe it’s time to think of alternatives...”

And with that thought, the traveller decided to leave behind a memory of himself. Although he dared not doubt he would succeed, he wanted to leave behind something just in case all else failed. He grabbed the book he had thrown away. Taking a quill and ink from his belt beside him, he opened the book, touching only the outside cover once more to help preserve the pages. He thought for a moment about what to write, unable to convey everything he wanted to say in mere words. “Perhaps once I begin, it will come to me,” he thought. He set the quill to the paper of the book and began to write.

My beloved H..

The quill was sticking to the paper, making it difficult to write. He placed his thumb on the page, to get a better grip. Immediately, the traveller’s world went black. His eyes were forced shut, limbs becoming instantly limp. His head fell forwards and his hand dropped the quill, the feathered instrument rolling away from his lifeless body, as though it knew what was coming next. Abaddon’s diary had taken him from the Mirror of Lyss, and he would not be coming back.