#gale 'voice break' harold strikes again!!!

[sophsun1]

Queer as Folk – 3.04: Brat-Sitting

[blinkymonster]

The Wastes of Perdition

"Save us!", was the last thing he heard the people say as he stepped into the void.  His last image of that world was their faces, old and young, weathered, worn and desperate.

 He was their last hope. A knight errant against the gathering storm. A final throw of the dice to try and cheat oblivion's chance to snuff them out of existence.

 He had been shown to the portal. A gateway of utter blackness that only fools had entered, and none had ever returned.

 "Find a path to sanctuary!", they had cried. Their tears were imprinted on his memory, their cries echoed in his ears.

 Closing his eyes and remembering his purpose was now the only escape he had from the sandstorm that engulfed him. He remembered falling through the void, then feeling wind rushing past his face. Then there was sand and dust, whipped into a frenzy by a wicked wind.  

 He fought against the gale, he had pressed on, one foot in front of the other for what seemed an eternity before collapsing to the sand. He didn't know where he was or where he was going. He needed rest, he needed shelter from the storm, but there was no shelter, there was nothing.

 He remembered the figure appearing out of the storm. A horned helm, strange armour of blue, silver and gold adorned with strange symbols. A book chained to one side, a staff, a cloak that appeared made of fire and ash. When the figure speaks, the words are soft and gentle, laced with terrible intent. 

 "You are in my realm now traveller. I decide whether you face the storm or find solace. You will pay my price or never find the sanctuary you seek. Where you have come from, where you now are, all is my domain and all is sand and dust."

 Those words were the last thing he remembered before darkness took him.

 Somewhere in the darkness, a phone rang.  Peter woke up and peeled his face from the keyboard...must have dozed off...he thought, and groped about for his mobile. He managed to knock it off the desk into the bin in his dazed state and was well pleased when he fished it out in time to answer the call.

 "H'lo?", he managed to croak into the phone.

"Pete!", replied someone who's enthusiasm appeared entirely unwarranted, "How are you? How's that manuscript going? Not long before that deadline Y'know? How's it all going?"

"Hello Harold", Peter said with a sigh, "Still working on it. It's all coming together, it'll be great."

 Peter looked at the few paragraphs he had written and was thankful that Harold wasn't there to see it.

 "Great to hear Pete my man!", Harold continued, his enthusiasm oozing through the phone, "what's the title of this latest epic?"

 "Um, I was thinking, "Portal of Dust"?" Pete said tentatively.

 "Hm, doesn't really pop for me Y'know?", Harold replied, his enthusiasm refusing to ebb, "Leave you with it, I'll check in tomorrow. Ciao."

 "Bye." Peter finished, but Harold had already hung up.

 Peter sunk back into his chair and let out a long breath...what do I do know?...he thought.

 He stared at the computer screen and hoped inspiration would suddenly strike him.

 "You look like you need help", a voice whispered. 

 Peter gasped and fell backwards out of his chair with fright.  He flailed about trying to right himself, and when he finally had the floor under his hands and knees, he felt like he'd been through a washing machine. Dazed, head spinning, he looked about the room for the source of the voice.

 "I need your help", the voice continued, "I need you to write me a path to sanctuary."

 Peter looked about and saw a strange figure standing in a corner of the room. Long black hair, fine features with piercing hazel eyes. The man wore strange armour of brown leather and green chainmail, adorned with buckles and straps. At his hip he wore a long sword and short blade.

 A strange light surrounded the man, making the colours of his garb somehow brighter than they should be, even though he appeared to be covered in some sort of powder, dust or sand.

 "Sorry?", Peter stammered, "the path to what now?"

 "You started me on this path. The last hope of a desperate people in a dying land,"  the man said sadly, "I have come to a land of sand and dust. There is a presence here cloaked in fire and ash. I know not who or what it is, but I must complete my quest. I cannot let this thing stop me."

 "What can I do?", asked Peter as he edged toward his phone. The police were on speed dial, just in case of home invasion, Peter hoped that included invasion by apparitions.

 "You must name me and complete the story of my journey", said the figure gravely, "give me a name and write me a path out of this land, past this being of malcontent.  I fear I may not have much time."

 Peter's mind reeled...write a path for him, what's that about?...he couldn't think and yet he found found his mouth forming words without his intending, "I, I don’t know you.  You are an adventurer, a questing knight.  I don’t know your name, but I will aid you however I can."

 The strange figure of light smiled," thank you ", was all he said before he faded from view. A covering of sand all that remained to mark his presence.

 "Okay", Peter said to the room, "nothing weird about that!"

 He then righted his chair and sat back at the computer. He reviewed the paragraphs that constituted his manuscript and then set to typing once again.

 The knight woke enveloped in sand fine as powder. It set him coughing and spluttering to his feet. His form was so covered in the ashen grey dust that he thought he must look as a shade, drifting across the landscape. There was nothing in any direction to aid in navigation, and so he set himself on a straight line and began to walk.

 He had not gone far when he spotted it from the top of a dune. A township rising out of the desert. He could see twisted spires and strange buildings set at odd angles as though crafted for beings with no sense of up and down.

 He saw people moving about the town...at least he thought they were people, there was a strange jerking spasm to their movements. As he approached, the figures moved quickly away, heading deeper into the town. All was eerily quiet, no sounds of daily life emanated from this strange place.

 He passed by the buildings, set at odd angles, doors and windows out of proportion, as though built for giants or children.  He came to a square, an empty fountain set in its centre. The remains of a sculpture that may once have been beautiful lay at the fountains heart, poised, ever hopeful that water may one day return.

 One of the strange black, ashen figures stood near a cart to one side of the square. The figure moved as though loading the cart, but there was nothing to pick up, the figure was just moving as though from memory.

 "Hello there", he called, "can you help me?"

 The figure didn't respond and kept repeating its actions.

 "Did you not hear me?", he asked, grasping the figure on the shoulder. As soon as the knight made physical contact, it was as though lightning was coursing through his veins and he was rooted to the spot, unable to move. The ashen figure turned its face toward him and he saw with horror that within its ebony visage was the face of some lost soul locked in a perpetual cry of anguish and pain. 

 He struggled to break free of the shocking grasp, but could do nothing but watch as the parody of a living thing began to disintegrate before him. What once was firm and solid became sand, dust and smoke, melting away to nothingness.  When it finally was gone, he was free to move once more.  An ill wind then whipped up around him and he looked about and saw another sandstorm approaching. 

 All around him, buildings were blasted to dust and the town was blown apart.  The knight was forced to cover his face against the grating sand.  He looked about him for shelter, but could find no respite from the storm.  Then he saw, through the maelstrom, a figure walking toward him.  A being in ornate armour of blue, silver and gold, a cloak of smoke and fire enveloping his form, granting the appearance of something immaterial..

 "I do not forgive trespasses", menaced the figure as it strode forward through the storm, "you are in my domain. You're life is forfeit to me, just like those souls who came before".

 The knight acted quickly to draw his sword and blade, it was clear the horn helmed one had not come to talk. Yet, as quickly as the knight moved to strike, the blue armoured form moved to counter with extraordinary speed, evading every blow.  Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. Then the horn helmed being struck swift and true, blasting the knight’s sword and blade to ash with a touch of his staff.

 "Who are you?", he cried as the stranger grabbed his throat.

 "I am the Archon of the Ashen Wastes," seethed the the horn helmed figure, full of fire and rage, "Your essence, your soul will  feed my power as your flesh and bones become so much sand and dust."

 He could feel his life draining from his body and he could hear a strange wailing cry on the wind. It took him a moment to realise, it was he screaming and wailing in the Archon's grasp. Then his struggling ceased and all went black, and silence fell.

 The phone rang again, intruding into the pleasant silence of the night. Peter woke with his face pressed against the keyboard again. He could feel the indentations in his face as he peeled himself away. He found his phone nearby on the desk, the screen read, "Harold", in large friendly letters.

 "Harold, how are you?", he said with as much pleasantly as he could muster.

"Doing well, doing well, my man!" Replied an overly enthusiastic Harold, "How's the script going? How's the piece? Tell me it's done already, there's only two days before the deadline Y'know? We're cutting it a bit fine here."

 "It's almost ready", Pete stated calmly," it would be completely ready, but I keep being interrupted by phone calls."

"Hey, just keeping in touch Pete. How about that title, had any new ideas?"

"Yeah," Pete replied, "how about, "The Sands of Rage"?"

"No dice," Harold quickly replied, "Doesn't sing, doesn't dance, doesn't pop, Y'know? Keep up the good work, my man, I'll call you tomorrow."

Pete went to say, "Bye", but Harold had already hung up.  He was beginning to find that extremely annoying.

 Peter got some snacks and a drink from the kitchen and then returned to his computer and stared at the screen...gods of imagination guide me...he thought, closing his eyes and willing inspiration to take hold and guide his fingers.

 "You're looking for inspiration ," whispered a voice, "I'm looking for my name and the path to salvation. Perhaps we can aid each other in our quests?"

 Peter froze for a second, remembering the voice of the strange figure from the night before.

 "I thought you were writing me a path to sanctuary, a path away from this being called the Archon!" The knight said angrily.

 "I am writing your story," replied Peter, "there are many twists and turns, but in the end you will complete your quest. I just need more time."

 Peter looked up from his computer and found the knightly form standing in a corner of the room. The light that had surrounded him before was much diminished, his garb was faded, cracked and worn. His face had become gaunt and haggard, his once black hair now turned an ashen grey.

 "Time is something I don't have," the knight said, fatigue showing all the way to his bones, "if I face the Archon again, I am certain he will end me."

 "I will write the story of your victory on this quest," cried Peter earnestly, " and to aid you, I will give you a name. You are a knight, so I shall name you, Sir Bercilak.  A strong name, something to hold onto."

 "I have a name," Sir Bercilak said, repeating it, "Sir Bercilak....", over and over until it seemed a good fit.

 "You have done me one service," Sir Bercilak said, turning to Peter, "Now you must make good on the second.  Without a clear path to salvation, I fear many who are counting on me will perish."

 "I have almost finished the manuscript," Peter replied with a smile, "This night is all I need to complete the writing of your quest. The epic conclusion!"

 Sir Bercilak smiled in return and faded from view. When he had gone, Peter collapsed against the kitchen bench, breathing hard...I've got to stop meeting my stories like this...he thought, wiping sweat from his brow as he returned to his computer to finish the manuscript.

 A city lay sprawled before him.  Twisted spires, strange domes and buildings in various stages of decay. From a distance, it appeared like any other city, but as Sir Bercilak approached, he could see the cracks, the faults, the rubble and ruin clear for what it was.  This was another city of sand, built to lure the unwary traveller to its heart and then destroy him utterly.

 Black ashen figures stalked the streets and ruins. Their disjointed movements and disturbed appearance brought an uneasiness to Sir Bercilak. He had no weapons and had to walk through this grand bazaar of soul forged misery and despair in order to reach his goal, the sanctuary gate.  The goal of his quest, set in the Hall of Perdition, the Archon's monument to his realm.

 He was tired, fatigued to the bone by his journey through the wastelands.  Yet he continued to walk toward his goal, slow yet purposeful.

 The ashen ones watched as he passed, the last images of their horrific past locked in permanent display upon each visage.  Sir Bercilak walked a final parade along a hallway lined with the remnants of despair and sorrow, each one more terrible than the last.

 As he drew closer to his goal, the ashen seemed to stir to action. Some tried to grab him as he passed. Every touch a bolt of pain through the knight’s body as he was jolted from one side of the street to the other. His head spun, the sky seemed to swirl above him, then he was on his hands and knees, collapsed before these uncaring, blighted creatures.

 “You were never going to reach the gate”, a voice snarled from above him, “Just like the others, you fail within sight of your goal.  A hope presented, and dashed in the same breath.”

Sir Bercilak rolled onto his back and saw the Archon’s armoured form standing above him.

 “He will find a way to right this”, the knight managed to say through parched, cracked lips, “He will write me a path to sanctuary.”

 “You are a fool”, the Archon replied with disdain.

 The Archon reached down and grabbed Sir Bercilak and then dragged him through the street, to the Hall of Perdition.

 Inside the Hall stood a series of mirrors, some quite plain, some adorned with great carvings of white marble, horses, men and mythic beasts. The Archon dragged the knight to a mirror mounted on a wall in a far corner of the hall.

 Then the Archon leaned close and whispered something.  Sir Bercilak collapsed once more and wept.

 Peter finished the manuscript, then sat back, quite contented with what he had done…..when Harold rings in the morning, I can tell him to buzz off and quite hassling me, it’s done…he thought.

 Peter got up and went to the bathroom, time for a quick freshen up before heading out to breakfast.  He splashed water on his face and had a quick shave.  He was rinsing the cream from his face when he looked up at the mirror and saw, not his own reflection, but Sir Bercilak staring back at him.

 It felt as though his blood had turned to ice, “You should be gone”, he said to the wraithlike figure.

 “I should”, said the knight, “but you failed me.  I have come to say a final goodbye”.

 Sir Bercilak then told his tale to Peter.

“I’m sorry”, was all Peter could muster to say.

 “So am I”, Sir Bercilak said quietly, “Now place your hands against the glass, one final farewell between us.”

 Sir Bercilak placed his hands against the glass and Peter did the same.

 “I’m sorry it came to this”, the knight said sadly.

 “To what?”, said Peter, unsure of what the knight referred.

 Then Sir Bercilak turned and walked toward the door of Peter’s bathroom. Peter pressed his face against the glass and realised in shock that he was on the other side of the glass, looking back at his own world.

 “Welcome”, snarled a voice from behind Peter.  He spun around and came face to face with the horned helm of the Archon, “You are mine now”, the last words that Peter heard.

 The Archon stood before the mirror.

 “So many more worlds to conquer”, he proclaimed, placing a hand against the glass.  Then, pushing firmly through the veil, the Lord of the Ashen, Master of the Wastes of Perdition, stepped through the gateway to become Lord and Master of another realm.

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