As the final, feeble rays of November daylight rasped their last against the window of my study, I resolved to close my ledger and take step of the surrounding town, for air which would at least be cooler, if not necessarily any more fresh. These are streets I feel I have always known, yet while I cannot remember the first time I walked them, I swear I only took residence here relatively recently.
My regular route took me along sparsely populated lanes and alleyways, and on the disused railway line under a rarely used footbridge, I came across what I came to term as The Old Man. Although I call him this, his actual age was indistinct. Lines did not mar his face, and yet such a toll of living had been collected as to evidently strip bare his very soul. The Old Man's attire, timeless yet undeniably old fashioned, was as worn as his aspect as he raised his head sharply, to make instant eye-contact.
He asked if I was enjoying my day. Or my time. I am unsure which as, while his meaning was clear, I find it impossible to recall verbatim the words he used. His manner was direct, short of being abrupt, but with none of the aggression any bystander may have predicted. While I bumbled around a response which would pass as polite whilst hoping to avoid further conversation, my eye was nonetheless drawn to what appeared to be a medal of some sort, pinned to the heavy, flowing rag he had fashioned around himself against the seeping cold of the damp trackway, hanging perfectly straight on a threadbare ribbon of dark, stained red.
This sigil showed a face, clearly a face, though of what species I could not say. Lacertian? Piscine? Satanic? Perhaps all or none of these? A cackling grimace, surrounded by hair, flame or even tentacles leered out at me, the dark recesses of its eye sockets seeming to yawn back as the evening now stretched away from me. Cast in yellow metal with a greenish tinge in the dim light, this could have been brass, bronze or even gold, the time-addled weathering of these filthy streets hiding its value in plain sight. Although the artefact's striking attraction to me was more than the financial potential of its material.
I must confess to having lost track of the discourse I initially wanted no part of, for midway through his rambling reply the man stopped dead, slack mouth turning up in a wide, knowing grin. He asked if I liked what I saw, if I recognised it, noting that even though he had distracted my attention, still my gaze was fixed upon this terrible, leering trophy. Quite lost for words, I could barely draw my eyes back to him, only flapping like a landed fish whose terminal gasps are punctuated by the overwhelming knowledge that it had been hauled from the waves by King Neptune himself. But why again, that automatic aquatic association?
The Old Man went on to tell me his last possession was token for his part in 'the fight of The Wall'. No such recent conflict leapt to my mind, although the name seemed draped in a faint familiarity, like the memory of a nightmare brought to the surface hours or even days after waking by some unconnected occurrence. He spoke vaguely of this confrontation as if it were some historical campaign, yet clearly with first-hand knowledge. Shapes, shadows and screams were conjured as he held my gaze, my own breath hanging on his every word.
When struggling to decide whether I should document this interaction once I had returned to my chambers, it was at this point I realised The Old Man was not in fact speaking in my language, although nor could I specifically identify his tongue. Most odd. I understood the story perfectly, yet my mind also seemed to be performing some instantaneous, subconscious translation upon it. His words seemed to flow through some manner of base human communication, almost as if buoyed by empathy or telepathy. And with this realisation his intent became clear. A flash-flood of memory ensued.
The Wall; an attempt to turn an entire kingdom into a fortress; an ancient emperor bearing terrible power from The Old Ones; his crafting of an invincible legion; a siege, a slaughter, invaders driven back; armies rewarded; an amulet to remind them of their victory over a life beyond imagining; not quite immortality, but far, far more time than any man can know what do with, as long as at least a single brick of that Wall remains in place; freedom, hope, grief, confusion, boredom, despair, resolve, and now opportunity. Finally, opportunity.
The wan smile of a man no longer speaking but preparing now to sleep, slumping contentedly back against the evening's damp brickwork as if it were the long-missed embrace of a parent. And the residual feeling of hideous metal pressed, burning into my hand. Mine, now. Mine, always. And all the time that goes with it. All of my time. For I served at The Wall, too. Of course I did. The accountant. The clerk. The quartermaster. It is not that I could not remember, only that I had forgotten I'd forgot.
In my chambers, I wrap the emblem in its ribbon and place it in the chest, under the boards. With the others.
All will be accounted for. In the end.
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
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