We Solemn Few

Chapter Nine : The Night of Beginnings and Ends

Zenrin wasn't awake, he knew that much. Sweat coated his back, his hair drenched in it, his face slick with the salt-scent, but he was not awake. He could feel heat like no other, blazing everywhere yet visible nowhere; he almost swore it burned within him, but swore that that, at least, was foolish, though he swore a moment later that supposing a dream had any sense was foolishness itself. He swallowed dryly, shifting uneasily in the leathers he wore, straightening his shirt as if it'd change anything at all. It didn't. He stared into the horizon uneasily.

A clock hung where the sun should be, tick-tocking as loudly as a thunder's boom, the smallest of the gold-scrolled silver hands as long as fifty carriages and nearly as wide as three, the thin line - if it could be called "thin" - coming to an arrow-like point that shone like ruby. The other hands were shorter but wider, each more so than the previous, marking the minutes and hours as the first marked the seconds. Gears whirred with the volume of a symphony of bullhorns, perfectly shaped cogs that fit together like a puzzle, one which Zenrin could only hope to understand. The numbers were pure marble, streaked with crimson, and the round casing was of gorgeous mithril. Light rimmed the edges of it; Zenrin thought it must be eclipsing the sun.

The second hand struck home and the minute hand shifted with a booming click; the time sat at nine forty-six. All hands ceased motion, the gears sputtering and groaning against one another before locking into stillness. Suddenly the world around him trembled - a world of darkness, he realized, there were many shapes such as trees and homes but all cascaded in black - the ground tremoring as if to split entirely in half. The clock shook, near swinging in place, gears began to shift again, but awkwardly, poorly. One slid out of place suddenly with a loud whir that shrieked with the pain of a thousand screams, forcing Zenrin to his knees as all the gears were set into imperfect motion. The ground stirred, cracked, and began to tear at the seams, the large gear falling from its place. Towards him. Upon him. Seeking to crush him. He braced his arms above his head as if he truly expected them to protect them, closing his eyes, accepting.

"Time is a futile thing..." whispered a voice of old age, if Zenrin were to guess, though the silhouette suddenly before him stood tall and proud, cascaded in pure black like everything else. The huge gear - three times the size of his home, he realized in horror - hung idly above him as if it was supposed to be suspended there. He swallowed dryly, yet the ageless voice of old age spoke, "I believe it is time you wake up, Bound One. Many seek to converge upon you. Yes, many."

Zenrin tried to ask a question but felt his throat tighten. He swallowed and tried again, but he could not find the words. Instead, he said, "W-what does everyone mean by 'bound?' I'm not bound to anything! I'm just a mere-"

"-cartographer?" Zenrin gaped at the figure. How did they...? Mythos, it's only a dream! "And I suppose Asnorath is only a man. Perhaps both are correct. Perhaps." The figure seemed to ponder a moment, and Zenrin was sure he felt them smirk, "Wake up. Time runs short."

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Zenrin gasped as he jolted up in his bed. Sweat coated him all the same as in the dream, but the heat was gone, replaced by an odd cold. The chill of early autumn, he reminded himself. And nothing more. Mythos, what are these dreams! He swallowed and through himself from his bed, heaving himself on oddly aching legs, his eyes of verdant-ringed ocean looking directly upon the odd sphere that sat upon his desk. It was humming, now. Nearly silent, but it was humming, he was sure of it. Zenrin reached out to touch it and flinched when he felt a jolt run through his body. A refreshing jolt; the aching was gone and his breath went calm. He shuddered and palmed the orb. For the slightest moment one of the odd symbols upon its face - a curled eye-like shape with a slit pupil - seemed to pulse a faint red.