Allurement of the Meadow

     The thief ran, as fast as he could, bolting for the forest that is southwest of the famed city of royals. Masked in a night-blue cloak and wielding twin daggers, the youthful man is on the run from the shining silver cavalry, who all had been instructed to bring his body back for quartering. The panicked thief would admit of his petty crimes any day. After all, plundering and mugging is his profession. But in this instance, he is the new victim. Luckily, for his head, he learned of his warrant before the cavalry did.

     “Don’t let him out-maneuver us!” raves the captain leading the troops. The presence of the cavalry is seen and felt by all life and spirits between the forest and the great city they charged from. Silver armor and tempered-steel weaponry reflects the light of the morning sun as determined horses stampede into the forest after the trail of their blue-cloaked prey.

     I can’t keep this pace, the thief thinks to himself as he pedals, jumps, and branches through the woods. His fears concur with reality, as the woods are heavy with the remains of those who had lost to the cold brutality of nature or to their own psyche. But those macabre signs are the lesser of his worries. All people from the city know that beyond this forest is a desolate meadow – a place no man ever returned from. The desperate thief embraces this alternate horror as he continues to run. Having outpaced the squad of horsemen, the thief leaps behind the partial body of a fallen tree to disappear within the ferns and catch his breath. The dimmed forest, unfortunately, is spacious enough to house the entire army of imperials. In hiding, the thief listens carefully to the current voice of the forest: echoes of angry, confused horsemen who had seemingly lost his trail. He attempts to regain his composure.

     The boy hits the ground, landing in mud and bleeding at the mouth. The leader of the gang of older children retrieves the poor, bloodied boy from the mud with what seemed to be mercy, but wasn’t, since he was lifting the kid by the blond of his head. The leader proceeds to dub the poor boy a ‘dead dog’, dropping him back into the mud and commanding the juvenile legion to pummel the boy until his legs stop kicking.

     After the child’s legs cease moving, the legion stops. They propose to attack him again later on, and again after that, while walking away in unified satisfaction. The abused boy awakes in the middle of the dirt streets of his village. His condition did not alert the townspeople walking around or over him. And although it was worthless to mention, his white shirt had been stained by the mud.

          At least my blood didn’t soak into the cloth, he realizes with comfort.

     Feeling weary and near death, the boy makes the effort to stand. The feat leaving him feeling even more drained, yet he had experienced worse. The beatings had been constant for the last five years, ever since his family moved into this starved village. And if it were not for his scheduled beating from yesterday, he would have certainly burned alive along with his family: a loving mother, an excessively overworked father, and an infant sister. Gone forever, due to the malice of arson. He finds humor in the bleakness of his existence while stumbling to tread the dirt roads, which are occupied by others just as sick or poor as he. A slight chuckle is all he can afford, as his ribcage made laughing painful and a doctor’s price for the wounded is rather steep.

     A middle-aged, balding blind man plays a foreign pipe on a log near the edge of the dirt plaza. The broken boy approaches to have a seat next to his last remaining familiar: Drexelius, the only person of the town who did not refuse the boy.

     “I’m leaving, Drexelius.” says the poor boy, staring off at the burning skies southeast of the village towards the swamp, waiting for Drexelius to stop playing his pipe. Drexelius finishes his song and speaks, “I will miss you, friend.”

     The boy wipes the blood from his lips and smiles while keeping his gaze locked onto the swamp. All had been lost, but the mystery of life beyond his corrupt village remains. Fate has summoned him to answer his calling and he cared not of the dangers ahead of him. Then, the fearless boy rises and marches towards the path he had been eyeing for the last five years. He is heading for the meadow.

     Somewhere south of everything, angered rams on high terrain powerfully charge into large boulders, shattering them into dust and shards of rock. The trespasser, a youthful drifter in his early twenties, unsheathes his serrated dagger to take out the second ram while sidestepping the first. But in his attempt to flesh-wound the charging ram, he stumbles and takes a direct hit to the torso, having his body flipped and projected into the hard wall of the mountainside. This isn’t going to work, he thinks to himself, This isn’t who I am! Expectedly for a well-armored warrior, his wound wasn’t life-threatening. The ram had failed to gore him and instead merely scuffed his bronze armor. All was well, and he stands, tossing his dagger aside and tackling the offending ram to the ground, maiming and killing the beast with his bare hands. The remaining ram charges him, inspiring the fighter to throw the dead ram into the incoming one, sending them both tumbling down the mountain.

     “I’ve got to go with my gut from now on,” he says to himself. The fighter was native to the town south of the mountains, where he once lived as a famous martial artist and ring fighter. He had it all – a soul-enriching mate, money, fame, an abundance of friends and a promising career. His selfish and obsessive behavior, however, had led to his outcasting.

     The fighter treks the mountain as bold as a god. He had been deemed exiled since last night and had been generously given a week to leave town, yet his pride carried him out early. He stops to gaze down the mountains towards the meadow far below to the north, inspecting the grassy circle from such height. He wonders why his people are so scared to speak of it. Perhaps they fear what they don’t understand, he thinks. Being skeptical and courageous, he fears not. He wants to prove himself for once and for all; that if he can reach this epic meadow and return with the tale to be said, he can prove he is truly the deserving champion he always worked for and prayed to be.

     “Agh!” screams the thief as he picks up swiftly, darting from his hiding spot. He had no time to inspect himself; the arrow had pierced his shoulder, but he was good to run. If he wanted to live, and he does, he had to keep moving.

     “After him!” rages the arching horseman who had spotted him from the depths of the forest. The hooves pound the roof of the underworld while arrows and bolts zoom inbetween trees. All shots narrowly miss the agile thief, who continually uses trees as shielding from ammunition. At this point, the cavalry’s effort is in vain as the thief approaches the entrance to the meadow. The captain halts his men, commanding them to not proceed further. “He has doomed himself by seeking that dreaded place,” speaks the captain with conviction, “No criminal is worth pursuing out there. Not even a murderer like him.” All agree, and the chase is forfeited, although with bitterness and regret. The team turns back towards the city as the thief leaps into the light shining from the meadow, never to be pursued further.

     Walking past the reptilians, the boy refuses to look at them. He knows he is trespassing on their land, but his directness overpowers their carnivorous intent. The army of reptilians approaches him left and right, only to stop a short distance from his path and gaze. He acknowledges all of them, but pays them no emotional toll – no fear. Finally he stops walking, as his path is blocked by the swamp’s pack superior. He stands in the mud, yet again, facing an enemy once more. He stands with pure intent to proceed and reach the meadow. The boy’s level of mentality strains the reptilian leader, who turns away and slugs himself back into the belly of the swamp. The boy continues his quest, reaching the edge of the swamp and facing the short path towards the grassland he pursues.

     At the bottom of the mountain, the brave fighter, slayer of mountain rams, chugs a waterskin. And before him are the inviting grasslands. All of his life has been building up to this moment. It was a moment he savored, and he was eager to face his new challenge. To redeem himself of his busted reputation and aching pride.

     The wounded thief stumbles into the meadow from the east, falling forward and landing on his face. Groaning, he stands to see a figure approaching – the fighter.

     “Damnit!” the thief complains, “I came here to catch a break!”

     The fighter spots him and continues walking into the thick of the meadow, towards the thief. The thief, having no plan and a disabled arm, cautiously enters the thick of the meadow, approaching the fighter as well. From the west, the boy observes both men approaching one another. At last, both men pause short of thirty feet from one another. The thief attempts to throw his arms up in appeal, but is hindered by the arrow in his shoulder. This did not engage the fighter, who simply continues to stare.

     “I’m clearly in no condition to fight. Can we just settle this like diplomats?” pleads the thief. The fighter remains motionless and unresponsive, frustrating the thief. Then, to surprise of the thief, the fighter finally speaks:

     “I don’t know who you are or why you’re in my meadow, but I have no business with you.”

     The thief’s eyes widen as the pain in his shoulder burdens him. Collapsing to his knees, he feels both insulted and afraid. Is this ruffian the legend of the meadow? the thief wonders, I may as well have sentenced myself to the grave. As the thief ponders in agony, the fighter kneels down and sits in the grass with his eyes closed and speaks again. “I will sit and wait for a true challenge. I have no quarrel with a knave such as yourself, who is clearly on the run. I am here to overcome the atrocities of this meadow; the horror that haunts mankind so deeply that no one dares speak of it. I am here to confront that horror, defeat it, and restore my honor. I have no business with you or that arrow in your shoulder.”

     Somewhat relieved, the thief relaxes and speaks, “Fine, just pretend I’m not here,” but soon realizes his statement was irrelevant, as the fighter was ignoring him while meditating. Both men are alerted at the sound of long grass blades brushing against one another. The fighter rises to a fighting stance, locked towards the source of the sound as the thief bothers to sit still and recover his strength. Whatever the matter is, the thief is unconcerned and hoping that the bold fighter would defeat it. Unexpectedly, the boy emerges from the long grass, joining the two men in the meadow’s center.

     “A boy…” the fighter speaks softly, “Why are you here? Don’t you know what danger you are in?”

     "No,” the boy responds brazenly. An epiphany captivates the fighter as he understands the boy completely, then glancing again at the thief, who is performing surgery on himself. In that moment, everything makes sense in the fighter’s mind.

     “This is it,” the fighter remarks, awestruck, “This is what’s supposed to happen. We are all here for a reason!” he then turns to the thief, “Do you understand, knave? There’s something going on here. God has brought us all here for a reason!”

     The boy nods while the thief mildly scoffs the idea. And the sky falls black, a surprising event for a cloudless noon. The three occupants of the meadow look up at the heavens, confused by the sound of thunder from a blank, starless, void of a sky. The meadow is visible from all angles, but all lands beyond the grass had been blacked out from view. Maybe the world around the meadow had been discarded or separated, though no one was willing to test the waters by exiting the meadow. Orbs of light gradually fade into view, surrounding the three in all directions while also filling up the sky. A dark, overbearing presence is then felt – something of a mix between mental anguish, physical pressure, and depersonalized confusion. All three cry out in pain as they experience what seems to be God. The group paces, pleads, and remains in a state of constant panic. The pressure continues to intensify, coinciding with the growth of the suspended spheres of light. Finally, the thief begs the heavens “Please, take my gold, God! Take it all! If it will end my curse, please, take my wealth!” This is answered with a pulse from the sky, making gravity painful and generating the loudness of a hundred screaming banshees.

     Soon after, the fighter reached his own limit. Feeling he understood his fate, he also pleads to the heavens, “Take my body, God! If it will end this plague you have sentenced upon us, then take my life and spare the child and knave! Please!” His cries, however, are not answered at all. The sound of banshees continue to grind at the ear drums of the meadow occupants, while the downward pulse from the firmament locks them in the center of the meadow. The orbs of floating light grow larger.

     The boy, however, remains silent. He makes no attempt to speak to God at all, at least not with words, and strangely overcomes the pulse. Instead, he glares at the firmament with hostility. The thief observes the boy while the fighter continues to beg God in desperation. The orbs light red, becoming balls of fire that rise upward, swirling and orbiting into a massive system of fiery lassos that agree to take the shape of a wyvern. The pressure intensifies as the earth begins the shake, and the wyvern swoops downward to claim the boy as its victim, who doesn’t resist the creature and accepts the burning embrace. But the embrace did not come without torment, and the boy lights up to be bright white, releasing a nightmarish final scream that amplifies across the pulsating lands as the dragon of fire splinters the boy into a million orbs of light that evaporate into oblivion.

     After the boy had been sacrificed, the wyvern scatters, evaporating just as fast as the sparks of the boy’s essence. The tremors cease, the pressure alleviates, and the screaming of banshees taper off to a low, harmonious hum. The blackness bordering the meadow, however, insists to remain. The fighter rises to a stand, staring away from the panting thief. A strong gust hits the meadow, breezing between the two men.

     Two orbs descend from the sky and hover near the remaining two men. An orb made entirely of blue light touches the meadow and takes the form of a white door encased in a blue field of energy. The other orb, composed of a fiery black energy, stays suspended in the air and expands into a large, swirling red vortex spewing lightning. The thief rises to his feet and approaches the door with the blue hue. He feels drawn to it, to his surprise, and grabs the handle. But before he can turn it, his conscience directs him towards the now silent fighter. The thief speaks:

     “It’s not your fault, you know. Whatever this is…”

     The fighter, with his back turned to the thief, sorely responds with silence.

     “Come with me,” says the thief, “Let’s see what this god has to offer.”

     The enraged fighter turns to the thief, his eyes masked in a shadow. With a darkened heart he replies, “We have both been given a choice, thief, but we have also both been ignored. Fighting is all I know. I’ve never felt so repulsed by the chosen path of a criminal.”

     The uncaring thief shrugs and replies, “So be it.” He opens the door of blue hue and disappears into the light, shutting out the world behind him. Shortly after, the newly wicked fighter faces the enticing pull of the thundering, red vortex. He smiles and clenches his fists to the point of bleeding, allowing the evil in his heart to submit his will to the next world, throwing himself into the hellish portal he views as destiny.