The fetor of burning timbers hung in the air.
Like a living shadow, swathes of foreboding clouds drew overhead.
Rain drizzled the sodden grass.
Mark looked up from his compass and scanned the terrain. Bleak and empty, the fields stretched out over the horizon. Rain drops rolled off his coat, down his legs. He tucked his arms in. Wind tore at his sides. He jabbed the compass into his pocket, and unrolled a dripping map.
He started down the trail, following his map. Thunder rumbled from the clouds. Ashes from the village scattered across the ground. The trail was worn. He was starved. His arms smelled like fire.
But he'd come here knowing the conditions.
If the town was still smoldering, regardless of the rain, that meant the attack had been recent. Though he had no way of telling exactly how recent.
Rain pattered his coat. Mark flapped his hood on. He studied the map, his brow creased. He had a vague idea of where he was going. He trudged down a grassy slope. His feet sunk into the wet grass. Mud sucked at his ankles.
Suddenly an impassive tower loomed over him. Mark took a long look at it. It was a teetering, rickety old thing. Out in the open, it'd suffered countless seasons of exposure to the land's elements.
But it was untouched by the fire. Which was curious.
Mark rolled his map up.
This was the place.
He entered the tower. The door was stuck, and he'd wrestled it for a good half minute before it came loose. It literally exploded from its hinges in a shower of splinters. Mark crept inside, leveling a torch.
The walls were splattered and dirty. He stroked the mud from one wall... and an engraved face loomed back at him. It had plain features, and startlingly, empty, socket-less eyes.
A twinge of excitement rode up Mark's spine.
Turning away from the face, he swerved his torch to the right, where he spotted a staircase. It led to the upper rooms. Veeeeery interesting.
He started up the stairs. Too late he realized the stairs were probably corroded; in a crack, the stone beneath his foot splintered and broke, and Mark's leg fell through the hole. He struggled not to squeal. Lifting his foot from the hole, he shook loose the fragment clinging to his trousers, and continued on.
Holding the torch level, following its light, he trudged up the silent staircase. Scribblings on the wall drew his attention, and it took a few close inspections to realize they were indecipherable doodles. Mad scribbles. All along the wall. He would have been alarmed, but he was familiar with this sort of thing, and besides, this tower was abandoned.
He carried on, listening to the clang of his boots on the stone.
Finally he reached the top.
There was an opening in the roof, allowing rain to fall through, and a welcomed degree of sunlight. Mark extinguished his torch, then examined the room.
The room was grimy, like the rest of the tower. Lichen clung to the damaged walls, and vines drooped from the cracked roof. Stone was lain about everywhere. There was a flower pot by the window, containing a shriveled flower.
Mark explored the room.
Nothing drew his attention immediately. But after removing a column of rocks, he discovered a hidden chest in the floor. Hurriedly he slung it open. Nothing. Some cobwebs, and dried apples. Disappointed, he slammed the chest shut again and continued looking.
There were markings on the wall. At first he paid the slashes no mind; then, as he approached the window, he noticed some engraves by the sill... faint, light slashes, running through the cobble, too numerous to count. All in a straight line.
Curious, Mark brushed aside some vines. The marks carried on. He cut down more lichen... they ran in a thin line, circling the whole room. Mark's forehead creased, and he realized they were numbering days.
Perhaps, the tower wasn't so abandoned.
He returned to the window. As he sidled next to the gap, he accidently nudged the plant pot, which dropped through the window. He froze, expecting a sudden crash. He became confused as no sound resounded from out the window. Surely the pot should have smashed...?
He peered out the gap.
Looking straight down, he didn't immediately notice the dark figure standing draped in a wet coat outside, peering at him critically. But when he couldn't see the broken fragments of the pot, Mark shifted his gaze up. Then he noticed it. A man covered in a coat, watching him from outside. He didn't sway in the wind... the flaps of his robe didn't even swish. He was completely still, a frozen statue.
Mark blinked, wonderingly dimly if he was hallucinating.
Unsure, he glanced furtively around the room.
The figure vanished.
Mark peered and stared, but he couldn't see the man. He'd vanished straight into the gathering storm.
A shadow-man. A ghost.
Mark didn't initially believe in such things. But watching some dark, robed man appear and then disappear in front of his own eyes was disconcerting, to say the least.
He continued to stare outside, as if he could somehow convince himself the man was still there. No. He'd definitely gone.
Mark turned away.
"You shouldn't be here."
He startled at the voice.
"W-what?" he gasped, staring around.
A shadow in the corner shifted. Mark gazed with widening eyes as the robed figure emerged slowly, tapping on silent feet...
He stopped short. His hood covered his face.
But Mark could feel his eyes trained on him.
"I said, you shouldn't be here." The figure repeated himself. Then he added, "It is a long way from home."
In a blur, Mark unsheathed his sword, and held it pointedly at the ghost. He was dressed distinctly as a priest, Mark conceded, but that didn't make him any less intimidating.
The figure just chuckled.
"Put the weapon away, boy, I am not going to hurt you."
"I bet," Mark said, rounding on the man.
The stranger shrunk away.
"This is not a good place for mortals," he growled.
"So you're a ghost, then?" Mark queried.
"No. No, I am not. However, I am not 'mortal' either."
"Then what are you? A demon?"
He slowly shook his head.
"No. I am a man, like you."
"You can teleport," Mark stated.
"I take it you're not familiar with the capabilities of ender pearls."
"I don't believe that. You didn't use 'pearls."
"No, you're right." He sighed.
Mark relaxed slightly.
"Are you going to kill me?" he asked, tilting his head.
"No Mark. I'm not going to kill you."
"How do you know my name?"
"Your tag."
"You can't read my tag from way over there."
"Got me again." He snickered.
Mark lowered his sword, his expression soft.
"What do you want then? And how do you know so much about me?"
"I know many things, Mark. That much I can say. I've been blessed with remarkable foresight."
"Foresight? What do you mean?"
"Well, I suppose it means I can monitor the happenings of many people at once, and their future as well..."
"What?" Mark gaped. "Their future?"
"It is a remarkable gift. And sometimes a curse to my soul."
"You're a god." Mark stated bluntly.
"No. Heavens, no!"
He gave another hearty chuckle.
"How else can you know all this?"
"Pardon me, Mark, but I think I should know what sort of a creature I am." He tilted his head speculatively.
"I guess that's fair," Mark chided. He wavered his sword, pondering.
"I think that whatever you might be, you're the thing I've been searching for all this time."
"I know all about your journeys. I know you've been across the whole world," the man acknowledged.
"Then you also know I'm searching for answers."
"That I know. But Mark, I have to tell you, you're looking at it wrong. I have to tell you... your journeying is dangerous."
Mark stared flatly. "I'm pretty sure I worked that out."
"That's not what I mean. I mean it's dangerous to your soul. Your soul, Mark, is the most treasured thing you own, because it doesn't die and wither away like everything else in this world. Your soul endures, even long after death. Which is why you must learn to defend it."
"This isn't exactly the answer I was looking for."
"No. I know it isn't. But I think it's the one you need to hear."
Mark squinted at him. Suddenly the aspersion was becoming more aggravating than frightening.
"Look. Do you actually have something of importance to tell me here?" he blurted.
"This is important. Are you going to listen to me?"
"Fine," Mark sighed.
"Mark. Your soil is in danger of collapse. You have become obsessed. Your journeys, your treks... they are consuming you. Your flight for answers. It's damaging."
"I don't understand," Mark scowled.
"Mark. Look at me. Do you think I was always this way."
Mark shrugged. "I don't know. No?"
"No. You're right. I've become a reanimated incarnation of my old self. I was human once... a long time ago. But do you know what happened?"
"No."
"I became obsessed. My soul was quenched. I forgot about the things in life that really mattered to me... my family. So now I occupy this land. I am a restless spirit. My soul wanders this world, searching for some kind of stability, though I acknowledged long ago there is no such rest for a wanderer. And I wasn't the first."
Mark stared at the floor.
"Don't you understand yet? Mark, your soul is in the same kind of danger! Your frenzy, your mad quest for answers, it is consuming you! And one day you'll end up like me!"
Mark staggered as a blinding spurt of light emitted from the man; peering behind his arms, he was horrified to realize the man's hood was uncovered, and the same generic, simple face that he'd seen on the wall downstairs, the one with the empty white eyes, was staring out back at him from the fuddle of robes.
The light faded, and Mark bent double, panting like he'd just been running. Cautious, he glanced speculatively again at the figure. He'd recovered. That dark veil covered his eyes again... though Mark felt their fierce intensity boring into him.
"What... do you want with me?!"
He stared plainly at him.
"I want to save you, Mark. Save you from the future I share with countless others, who were too greedy in their mortality to realize what they were doing was wrong."
"I only... want to find the truth," Mark gasped.
"Well, I'm giving it to you. It may not have been the answer you wanted... but I think it's the one you need to hear."
Mark shuddered to his knees.
"I can see her," the figure said, in a distant, detached voice. "I can see your daughter. She is standing by the windowsill, waiting for you to come home."
"Ise...Isabelle?" Mark stammered.
"And I can see Courtney... your wife. She's in the kitchen, baking. She's talking... assuring Isabelle that you'll be home soon, that you'll stay for longer this time."
Mark felt beads of sweat drip off his forehead. They were lost in a long pause.
"Your family, Mark."
"My family."
"They're waiting for you. And they love you."
"I know."
"So go home." There was a blissful note in his dead tone; "Go home. Be with your family. So that when you die, your soul can leave, and rest with theirs forever."
Mark swallowed. He shut his eyes, feeling the pain ebb. The shadows were clearing. He could imagine the sunrise coming over the horizon.
"Not the answer you were searching for." The figure motioned; "But it's the answer you need."
Mark nodded. He glanced up, into the cloaked face that he now trusted, regarded as his liberator.
He stood up shakily. His knees were still bent.
He looked into the cloaked face. His chest tightened uncomfortably.
"I can see it." He felt his breath rasp.
"The sunrise," his companion murmured.
"I see my family."
"Take them, Mark. They are a blessing greater that any I have achieved."
"I will. Thank you," Mark whispered. "You have no idea..."
The figure gave a single, furtive nod.
Mark took a step away. He sidled around the man, afraid he might catch another glimpse of that empty, hopeless face. But he owed him. He knew he owed him.
He stole one glance back, where he saw the man sag in a bodily sigh. Then he turned and went down the stairs.
He didn't need to light another torch, because this time, it was light down the corridor.
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