Wandering

This is a bit of filler until I get some of my new new writing finished and up on here. (I just started writing a new short story last night, and I’ll probably be finished with that in a day or two.)

Anyway, I’m not really sure what this was. I just started writing it a little bit, with absolutely no plan whatsoever for it, or what would happen in it.

 

A lonesome man walked across a desert plain. Not a plain desert, mind you, but fields and hills made of sand, with small trails made by snakes slithering across the sands breaking up the flat expanse.
The man was without purpose, as is his story, the story.
As he walked, he hummed a tune, occasionally breaking into a snippet of the song:
Dum dee dum-dee, there once was a traveller, moving alone, dum dee dum-dee…
He enjoyed the song, it gave him a rhythm to step to.
Of course, he mostly made up the words as he went. But after years of journey, he had found some lines that he liked more than others, and used them with more frequency.
The sum was hot, almost seeming hot enough to melt the sand into glass. The traveller, who we will call Cervil, thought that, of course, is not his true name, had been walking long, oh so long, since he had last seen anybody, anything.
But that was good for him, being alone.
He walked across the desert, left foot in front of right, the back again, ever on.
His time of solitude would soon be up, and he knew that well.
He closed his eyes, still walking, but knowing that there was nothing to run into.
He continued walking with his eyes closed, the light of the sun playing on top of his eyelids, for quite some time, walking, ever walking.
The clothes he war were tattered and wind and sun-worn. The slight breeze that blew through the desert, while giving no comfort from the heat, tossed around the worn grey cloak he wore.
The sand from underfoot made its way into his sandals, chaffing his feet and ankles.
A torrent of wind raced through and across the dunes, smoothing out the footprints he left behind and whipping the sand into his eyes.
He lifted up a flap of cloth at the side of his face, somewhat providing a shield, but he didn’t slow at all in his walking.
The sun rose, the sun set. It affected him not. He continued walking whatever the time, weather, or condition,
His mind rested as he walked, his eyes would drop while his legs were yet moving. his mind was lulled to read by the unceasing steps.
He continued up a dune, then down the other side into a flat valley.
And for the first time in exactly five years, the traveller stopped.
It was not to take a break or rest, or to eat or drink.
He went down onto one knee, and reached inside his cloak.
He took his hood and forearm back out, holding a small square of clothe. This he unfolded.
The cloth was darkened and worn by age, several holes having been created by the touch of many hands.
It itself was covered with markings. Little black marks running up and down the page in a seemingly random fashion.
At the bottom of the cloth was a small circle, with four arrows sticking out of it at quarter intervals, the compass rose.
He looked intently at the cloth for several minutes.
He folded it back up in to a small square, then placed it back in his cloak.
HE gazed off into the distance, over faraway dunes, the sun creating a haze.
Hen, for the first time in five years, he pulled back the grey hood overshadowing his face, revealing his grey hair.
He gently touched the sand, drawing a small circle on the surface.
Then, out from the circle, he started drawing lines and shapes, starting slowly, but gradually picking up speed. he walked outwards in a spiral, creating more and more complicated drawings in the sand.
There was a line, a radius from the center with no lines, and down this he walked, carefully placing his feet where they needed to be.
He set cross-legged in the center of the circle.
A wind began to blow around him, not one, but four. They created a spinning circle of air, centered on him. The sand whipped around.
Then the ground below him began to sink. The sand gave way and he sunk lower, lower.
The sand guided him down into a large, empty stone chamber. There was no lighting inside, but what came down through the hole that Cervil had also come down form.
The ceiling was high above him, close to fifty feet. But the sand had guided him down, so he was unarmed. He was in a sort of hallway, either side of him protruding into the overwhelming darkness. He stood up from the pile of sand that surrounded him, sand pouring from his clothes and hair.
He walked forward, towards the nearest wall. The shadows were deep here, so he ran his hands along the sandstone walls to guide his way. Entire parts of the wall fell away as he touched them, crumbling into dust. Higher up on the walls, where he could barely just reach, were complex engravings.
He continue walking along the walls, through the darkness.
It could have been hours, it could have been days that he walked on through the darkness. He had no way of knowing.
The sand on the floor that had  been there for the first while of his walking, from the sand pouring in, eventually thinned out out to nothing.
Now, as he walked, he felt the cool bare stone, slightly damp from eons of stagnancy.
The light had long faded away into almost palpable darkness, but yet he kept walking. The ground sloped down slightly.
After what could have been hours, a light shown, far in the distance. The entire time he had been walking, his path had been straight, and now, directly before him, was a respite from the black. Yet his walking did not increase with speed, as it would with eagerness to get to a shelter from the dark. He continued walking along at the same pace as he had been going before. The light poured out of a doorway to the right, so that the yellow beams shone diagonally across the wall and onto the floor.
Slowly he approached the door, and as he turned into it finally, his eyes smarting at the change in brightness and gradually adjusting, he smiled.

He stood along on a black plain, covered by a black sky.
When he tried to walk, he could feel his body moving, but nothing indicated that his exact location had changed.
The ground below him, as he looked at it, seemed to be made up of some dark rock with small flecks of dark grey in it. He rand his hand over its surface.
Overall, it was smooth, but he could feel small pits and rises in it. It was also solid. Very solid. Too solid for what he, whom we will call Jered, needed it for. He continued walking, then, though the feeling of not moving continued. A breeze suddenly picked up, a winter breeze that sliced through his clothes and skin, that chilled his very soul. The thin cloth he used as a cloak ruffled, doing him no protection. He tried to gather it around his neck and face, but to no avail.

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