At the bottom of the towering spire-like mountains, the sheer edges of the cliffs hung perilously over the four. Opaque lumps hung off the sides, drifting aimlessly through, serving only to impair the view of the fearsome parapets in the distance. Harrowed by their travels, what seemed to be an impossible challenge was but one of many. At the forefront, leaning on her left leg heavily, the apparent leader guided them on their way to take the first of many steps. Tortuously, one by one, they filed like ants up the little path winding up as far as the eye could see.
Up and up, slow and treacherous the journey began. The path of cold gray gravel and the usual brush that would have lined the way was left mere scorch marks upon the land. At the foot of the mountain, all one could see was the endless empty pale plains without a breath of life in the land. It wasn’t long till the frozen winds swept past their threadbare coats and the thick fog clouded any view of the fatal drop below.
Evidence of their predecessors, more ill-prepared, less stalwart, their ivory vines sprouted from the ground. The opulent knights and the weather-worn farmer, none escaped the unforgiving grip of the Great Equalizer. The ill-begotten lush lengths of furs that lined the arrogant and the poor canvas tunics of the desperate, Their eyes were blind to it all. All who came before met the same cruel fate.
Great tribulations they had faced to arrive on these cliffs, the sweltering sun that beat down upon their sore bodies. Soggy bogs that soaked through old boots rotted them from the ground up as endless droves of empty eyes watched their every move. The second of the ants, whose bright warmth was leached out by the desolation of the land, could no longer crack the tension with his lightning wit. Not after he had to leave their gentle soul in a shallow grave; no time to mourn when there is a quest to complete.
Perhaps that is what drove them, in their sorry march, making like mountain goats clinging to cliff sides. Some sickening sense of obligation to end a struggle they didn’t start, a war they suffered the consequences of. Maybe it was a moral righteousness that motivated them to leave a better future for their posterity, though any action taken by this point was too little too late. The damage was done, and the gaping wound left in Gaia’s side was left to bleed the last vestiges of life out.
Though in the end, humans are all run by their own selfish desires. The third of the sad trope of supposed heroes was no pillar of justice, just another depraved with no other place to go. One could hardly recognize why only those who had seen the raucous laughter that used to accompany them. The six used to stand tall, in a world that gave them no solace, they became their own sun. Now one could never find four who had fallen so far.
Perhaps it all went wrong, that fateful night, when the fire burnt strong and the crack of fire matched the oily waters. Like a sea breeze, tragedy swept over the camp before they could even comprehend what they could lose. They swarmed in, faceless and cruel, tearing into the scarcities in search of momentary satisfaction. Too fierce, too passionate, the first of the six dropped, his cries of injustice drowned out by the buzz of the selfish.
Like a downward spiral, the infighting started at that moment. First, it was terse words and loud sobs; a sense of grief pervaded them all. Then it was cruelty; they found fault and blame in every misstep and any action became another debt on their soul. The fourth of the lonely line dragged the burden of breathing, needing a moment of respite they no longer felt safe enough to ask for.
Now, the silence bore down on them relentlessly; the weight of their debts dragged on their shoes. The only conversation was between their listless thoughts and the whispering of the rushing wind. Every step was another step away from what they left behind, blinded by some intangible goal. Now they could only silently peer into the abyss below and ponder the decisions that brought them to this point.
Finally, the pinnacle rears its ugly head into sight, and the cast iron wrought gates loomed on top of the peak. After four full years of nonstop travel and questing to defeat the next pillar of the greater evil, the end was finally in sight. Dread curls in the pit of their stomachs, this was the determining factor. This will decide if even a single action they took since the start of this odyssey was worth anything at all.
The cold stern stairway loomed eerily over the four; the final obstacle before they return to their comfortable homes and perhaps even revive their whittled-down communities. Every battle, every friend found and lost, the sacrifices they made, all of them led up to this very moment. Perhaps they knew, however, never could they retrieve the life and lives they lost. Those small snippets of love and joy they found in each other were forever lost to the gusts of times, ever fleeting.
Up and up, one step and then the next, till it could be denied no longer; they were at the precipice of their future. The end was nigh, but now it is here.
Forward stepped the depraved third, with one burst of power the final gate was blasted off of its hinges. A gush of dust mushroomed out of the doors, clouding their vision into the cavern before them. Finally, a sign of life, a rancor of coughs rang out from the quartet. Slowly but surely, the dust swished lamely down to earth again. Teary eyes tentatively gazed forth into the dark and somber throne room.
Vaguely lit, the red sparks from the candles dimly illuminated the heightened ceilings of the regal castle. The dark black stone walls were royally draped with rich red tapestries and the carpets were stained red with blood to match. Stacks of riches sat collecting dust, more wealth than could possibly be comprehended by any one person. Long pillars, ostentatious shows of some artistic taste that died with the artists millennia ago. All leading up to the most magnificent throne of them all. Rich burgundy velvets lined the gold-encrusted armrests. The head of the throne was carved in the shape of the sun, with rays of swords radiating out from the center. Truly, the center of the world sat comfortably in lavish glory, to never want nor need.
There, the figurehead of the horrors of this reality sat; with this creature of unparalleled vanity, the last vestiges of an old reality would die and a new lease on the world could be founded. At last, if they could survive this one last trial everything will have been worth it; they could be the heroes who saved the world. Alas, they thought as Don Quixote once did think.
Up, upon that glorified throne sat their mortal enemy. At less than a foot tall, half-blind in both eyes, completely toothless, and with severe hip joint arthritis, sat a very old chihuahua
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