Dreams of the Quill

by Flak

So maybe I am stranded in this icy wasteland…

White, as far as the eye can see. This cursed tundra has been covered in snow and frost for as long as the mortal men can recall, for as long as their frail oral tradition has lived. They live in their shacks, struggling with the cold, to the north of this place, where the climate is at least livable. I’ve seen them around their flickering invention, what they claim is the source of life. I’ve seen them huddled in the hides of those better fitted to this place, shivering as the bitter winds claw at them.

The air is thin here, but not as thin as the thread that binds me to this place…

I’ve traveled this desolate plains for years, epochs, full ages. The tribespeople come and go, herding their few domestic animals with harsh words and yet harsher whips. Few make it through a single true winter here, fewer still realize that when they first arrive it is not winter. They do not realize that the plains have been a frozen swamp forever, that the blizzards are eternal, that there is no springtime. Many learn, though. They choke on the atmosphere, they’re devoured by the rampaging beasts, they lose limbs to the icy diseases.

This is an incredibly hostile land…

The mortals fight amongst themselves over the lush North, and so the tribes that wish to avoid war move southwards to avoid conflict. This is what awaits them… a land where every human and his sons are vying for survival, where every monster of the deep white is hungry and deadly, where every sickness is amplified, where every lifespan is shortened. A land where winter and conflict rule. Escape to the gentle East, traveler, lest you desire death.

Which is the evil, myself or these plains?

Am I causing the drain of life force from being to earth? Am I the one keeping myself alive as civilizations come and go in the North, as those heroic leaders amongst mortals are born and die? Am I the one causing these eternal hail storms, am I the one freezing the waters over? Or is it this land? This land that trapped me here, this land that rose up to fight me, this land that houses the one thing I despise the most?

What am I doing, wandering this frosty region?

I did something wrong, a long, long time ago. I don’t even remember what anymore. But since then, I’ve been in this state- formless, breathless, intangible. Cold. I am constantly cold. And there’s nothing to be done. The burning embers of the tribes do nothing but hurt, and I cannot robe myself in warm furs. I’m trapped here, in this state of discomfort, for eternity…

Who am I, anyway? Was I ever solid? Or am I a dream?

Perhaps I am just the voice of a breath of wind, in stasis for what seems forever, but at the same time, in reality I come and go like a bad idea. Perhaps I never had a form. Perhaps I never did anything wrong. Perhaps everything I think I’m thinking, perhaps all of everything I’ve experienced, perhaps all these things are simply my dream. Perhaps they’re less than that, the fragments of a dream of a gust of wind.

But what if… what if I was real. I wonder what kind of creature I’d be. What kind of company would I keep? What variety of activities would I partake in? Would I be able to escape this icy wasteland?