Apologies for posting in an old prompt while there’s a new one active, but this was such a great topic that I felt it was a damn shame to leave it in such a grossly underrated state. It deserves at least one more post ![:wink:](https://d38bqls1q93fod.cloudfront.net/en/wow/images/emoji/twitter/wink.png?v=6" ":wink:")
I’ll probably post in the new prompt too at some point.
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The sun blazed on in the sky unimpeded by any manner of cloud coverage, and yet it did little to cast upon the woods a more welcome visage. Arron was used to dark, confined places, and from time to time he even took comfort from them, but the twisted, mangled, rotten wood of these surroundings bred an unsettling sensation galvanized by familiarity. Arron had been there when these woods were permanently marred. His body, and likely his soul as well, were made unwilling kinfolk upon that day.
Nonetheless, the only path to take was forward, and so he continued. From time to time a fallen tree or a barbed bush would indicate that a divergence was necessary, yet Arron could make such alterations in his trajectory instinctively. Arron kept his gaze fixated downwards, for the less he saw of these damned woods the better. A deathly silence seemed to blanket the surrounding area, and the only sounds Arron could discern were the occasional breaking of a branch or twig, his own footsteps, and those of his companion who trailed some distance behind him.
It was Steamratchet’s request that Arron return to this place. But no, more than that, rather than merely relive the memories locked here he was to serve as their interpreter. The wily little goblin had almost demanded that Arron explain the significance of so personal a place with him, and for days he would not let this sudden preoccupation go. Arron knew very well that it was within Steamratchet’s character to excessively antagonize him at any given opportunity. Perhaps he derived some sick sense of pleasure from it, perhaps he truly believed he was helping in some twisted fashion. Nonetheless, by now the goblin was so well-acquainted with the facets of Arron’s mind that he knew precisely which pressure points hurt the most. Sometimes it disturbed Arron to consider that Steamratchet could, quite possibly, know him even better than he knew himself. What a horrible, fiendish, foe the goblin would make if ever he chose to exploit his personal roadmap of vulnerabilities.
He could not see the expression his companion, or perhaps captor, wore on his face, but Arron could picture the most smug, disgusting, grin stretching from ear to ear. He loathed that image; he loathed that damned goblin. Could he simply whirl around and kill him? Violence tended to solve most of his problems, but no, not this time. There would be far too many questions asked.
“Sooner started, sooner done…” he muttered as he resigned himself to this fate. Before long the woods gave way to a large clearing where the grass, what little there was, was just so lightly kissed by the light of the sun, and the earth was a lumpy, uneven mass such that it emulated the ebbing and flowing of the tumultuous tides. The small patches of still-living grass were scattered across the clearing, with large swaths of barren, lifeless dirt in between. There were a few trees that dotted the clearing, yet they all bore the marks of rot, decay, or had toppled long ago. To the average onlooker there was not much of note to be observed in this clearing, merely a few wooden shards and stray stones found here and there. And yet, to Arron, the debris was an echo of the secrets long-since swallowed by the earth.
“This is the place?” asked the goblin. Arron gave a slight nod, to which Steamratchet allowed himself a short chuckle. “Not bad, but it could definitely use a little TLC.” The goblin thrust his hands into his pockets and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “I bet was really something back in the day, eh?”
At this, the goblin’s presence seemed to fade away. Indeed, much of the surrounding area did. Arron saw only the clearing, and to his great confusion he could swear he heard a parliament of whispers growing in intensity, as if they were rising up from the dirt itself. Almost instinctively, Arron stepped forward. He took the first step, then the next, and from then on it became completely automatic.
Spires of wood and stone erupted from the earth to Arron’s left and right. Lithe, slender tendrils branched out from the tops of these pillars, overlapping and interlocking with each other until they formed the external frames of houses. A substance that behaved much like water flowed from these frames, hardened, and then took on a variety of shapes and hues to form the walls and windows. Beneath Arron’s feet bubbled forth a cobblestone path that cut straight through the center of this resurrected town, snaking around a blobby mist in the middle. Once the mist dispersed, it revealed a stone foundation inlaid with golden ingots and decorated with smooth, cherubic figures. The cobblestone path that encircled the fountain branched off here into multiple directions, most of them leading right up to the doorsteps of the various abodes, and any ground that was not covered by the path was green. So very green.
Then came the smells. A sweet aroma beckoned from the left, and Arron could see a small brunette girl in a pink dress selling flowers. The scent of freshly-baked bread made its presence known to the right, and Arron could see the slightly-chubby town baker selling his morning’s labors at a wooden stand. Somewhere in the distance Arron could detect the unmistakable odor of fish, and a voice cried out “fresh catch of the day, get it right here!”
But Arron was fixated on one sight, a landmark that, in comparison to everything else in this resurrected town, seemed to emit a certain light of its own. At the other end of the town, just where civilization met the woods once more, stood a large tree blessed with a bounty of apples. At the base of the tree stood two young boys, one with blonde hair and a slender build and the other with brown hair and a heavier physique. Though he could not see their faces, Arron recognized them immediately. The blonde child was him. Or, at least, a faint echo of him, of what he once was. But what of the other boy? Arron could swear his name lingered somewhere in the depths of his subconscious, yearning to break out.
Drycen.
Yes, Drycen. That was his name. And this place that constructed itself from the blueprint of sheer memory was where he lived. Arron could remember it all so vividly now, for he would come to visit his dear friend here in the lazy afternoons of the warm seasons.
“Alright, how many do we have so far?” Arron could hear Drycen ask. At this, the echo of Arron’s childhood looked downwards at a basket of apples that lay at his feet. “About twelve,” came the reply.
“Better make it a lucky thirteen, hm?” said Drycen. He pointed at a lone branch just out of reach of both boys. “We’ll just grab that last one and head for home.”
“I dunno, Dryce,” Arron replied sheepishly, “that’s awful high.”
“Come on! Do it for the pies!”
Arron squinted his eyes and clenched his fists with newfound resolve. “For the pies…” he said with an attempted air of valiance, yet looking up at the branch still caused a dizzying sensation and his strength quickly fled.
“I… uh…” he stammered.
Drycen merely rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright, how about I boost you up there?”
“Um… are you sure…?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Look.” Drycen turned his back to Arron and hunched over. “Just, uh, step on me lightly.”
“How do I step lightly?” asked Arron.
“Just hurry up and do it!”
“Okay, okay!” Arron mustered up what resolve he could and put his right foot squarely on Drycen’s back. He could feel his friend flinch, but still he moved forward. Using the momentum, he swung his left foot upward and positioned it on Drycen’s left shoulder, with his right foot following suit on the right shoulder soon after.
“Ok now…” huffed Drycen as he slowly stood upright, inching Arron closer and closer to the tasty treat mere inches above. Arron’s hand was outstretched, fingers wiggling in anticipation. Soon, soon it would be in his grasp… Drycen wasn’t as close to the tree as he could be. No matter, all Arron had to do was lean forward ever so slightly…
Big mistake. Arron could feel himself losing his balance. He let out a short yelp and flailed his arms, preparing himself for the inevitable crash. But a split second later he could feel something grasp his ankles and pull him backwards a bit, resolving his balance issue.
“It’s alright,” said Drycen, “I’ve got you.” The panic fled in an instant.
That’s what Arron liked best about his childhood friend, for truly he was as trustworthy as he was mischievous. And yet, as it seemed, such a quality was worthy of punishment.
Arron, the true Arron, the weary reanimated corpse, knew what awaited him if he turned around, yet there was no avoiding it. As he turned a very different scene greeted him. Every structure was either charred or reduced to a pile of sticks and stone. The fountain was cleaved in twain, and the ground was littered with orcish weapons, mostly axes of course, and the bodies of those that once called this place home. Among them was the twisted body of Arron’s boyhood friend, his eyes open wide and a dull expression etched on his face.
Arron reached down and grabbed Drycen by the collar of his shirt, and suddenly he was just a boy once again, dragging him slowly, his eyes filled with tears, towards the apple tree that remarkably still stood intact at the end of town. Behind the tree he dug a simple grave, one that only he would ever know about, and solemnly deposited his friend in it before filling it back up. The apple tree would be its only headstone.
Morning flashed to dusk, and dusk gave way to night, over and over again in a matter of seconds. Time raced forward all around Arron, and one by one the corpses in the town disappeared. Arron could remember what happened to them; they would all serve the King of the Dead and, later, their allegiance would shift to that of a queen.
Arron was himself again as he stared down at the dirt beside the apple tree. It was still untouched, left perfectly in the same state in which Arron had last seen it. He had contemplated defiling it, of course. When the angels of death itself joined the ranks of his people and brought with them the means to bestow upon others the same “gift” that Arron had received, he was certainly tempted. He had come here one last time on that day, wracked with indecision. His closest friend was still there, lying cold beneath the earth, but it did not need to be so. Surely there was at least something of him that remained that could be brought back…
And yet he decided against it. Perhaps it was better to leave some things dead and buried.
“… that was the last time I ever saw this place.” Time shifted back to the present, and to Arron’s surprise he realized he had been talking out loud the entire time. He wasn’t even conscious of it. He was still standing beside the apple tree, and now Steamratchet was there too. Surely a snide comment from the goblin would have broken Arron’s trance at any point, and yet he had remained completely silent, simply listening.
What was it that Arron felt now? Relief? Something like that. He felt lighter, just slightly, but definitely noticeable.
Arron bent down and gently brushed the dirt. “It was… good to see this place again,” he admitted.
Steamratchet nodded and let out a slight snicker. “Of course it was. When have I ever steered you wrong, friendo? You really should listen to my magnificent genius more often.”
Arron let out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks anyway.”
“It’s alright,” said the goblin, “I’ve got you.”
![:star_struck:](https://d38bqls1q93fod.cloudfront.net/en/wow/images/emoji/twitter/star_struck.png?v=6" ":star_struck:")