Gaze north and beyond. These such meadows used to roll, like waves on the shore. The land you see was one upended and revised by older races. Emotions and appearances had twisted several times over in those days. The world’s eyes would roll like marbles across those meadows, toward one certain wayfarer. This wayfarer would rarely speak, pacing back and forth full of doubt, among the copious corridors and parapets of the castle of their mental prison.The many cords in their mind were decaying and fraying, begging for the holy mare to mend them back. The rolling eyes of others bellowed out, “Speak! Speak, for those above are listening!” Yet, the wayfarer’s perception would not budge. “Heave! Heave, for those lungs shall stay strong and rigid!” Yet the wayfarer’s throat remained sealed; air dared not escape. “Leap! Leap, for the moat shall break your fall!” And yet still, their calls failed to obfuscate the wayfarer’s warped perspective. No matter how much others may pry and beg for answers, the tortured wayfarer refused to expound themself and open up to their pleas. The others grew weary, bellowing impatiently with each new day. Attempts were made to peel back the wayfarer’s veil of deception, but even that cloak escaped their hands, nearly impossible to grasp. It would slip through their fingers like it didn’t exist, like climbing an invisible mountain.
What’s more, the wayfarer’s body appeared empty to the others. Nothing to peel back, therefore nothing to reveal. Like the wayfarer was the very essence of nothing. No matter how they tried to make sense of the wayfarer’s illness, every answer led to more questions.
It may be difficult to explain, but this essence of nothing spread like a wild virus, the illness growing and extending past the wayfarer. The corridors and parapets filled with this virus, covering the walls and floors in every direction. The eyes of others became clouded, the illness obfuscating their once-clear vision, just like their patient. Cataracts infested, like a terrible blight over an island. The walls turned red like blood cells and crumbled to the ground. And their blonde hair turned red and fade away among the wretched land. The castle sunk into its own moat, like a faraway mountain disintegrating and offering its fire to the sky. Liquid stone, liquid sealant, liquid ash. Liquid eyes, liquid hair, liquid nothing. The liquid wayfarer oozed like slime and waded through the meadow, with seldom grip. The clouded eyes could no longer see. The liquid wayfarer still drifted across the meadow, like smeared blue paint over redwood. The meadows shrunk under the blue, liquid wayfarer. Heaven began to bleed. The sky dripped with death in the form of an auburn sap. The wayfarer’s virus spread across the atmosphere, without a leader to take it across the sky. The land fell with regret, and bled itself to sleep. The lonely wayfarer waited too long.