The White Raven

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A faint beating sound violates the silence found within the endless never lit fields of the void dream.

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Getting ever more frequent and noticeable as the moments slowly become ever more recognizable. A familiar sensation slowly returns, slowly clearing away most of the mental fog that seems to persist, no matter the passage of time. A phantom feeling of sorts. A pressure rests upon the body, pinning down to a strange surface with hard to define texture. Some of it, familiar, while some is as alien as the presence of lucid thoughts.

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The strange melody ringing with an ever-increasing consistency, deafening the voice inside a hazy mind. A drumbeat that is becoming almost oppressive, constantly getting louder and louder. Almost unbearable. Most certainly irritating. The pressure becomes more noticeable too, turning uncomfortable and almost painful, but not quite. As always now, all feelings are quite numbed and ghastly.

As if puppeteered by the threads of the gods themselves, the hands move on their own. They claw and dig into the soft texture of the substance, keeping their corpus in place. Time seems to crawl painfully slowly inside a cacophony of drumming melodic violence. While the hands torture and scar maiming the architecture of nature, the drumming is tormenting a mind yearning to return to the embrace of slumber.

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Finally, a ray of light penetrates the darkness. A gust of cold air blows inside the artificial womb created by the hands that now tore through the face of the earth. The final stage of an undesired rebirth.

The hands quarrel some more with the soil, finally freeing the rest of their corpus from its imprisonment. The corpus jolts upward. A cold wind caressing its form. A pleasant sensation, albeit muffled. The moon shines brightly above. Mesmerizing with its beauty, eyes that can barely see anymore. Hounds howling in the distance bring forth pleasant memories from eons ago. A moment of pure ecstasy lost in thoughts. A moment ruined by the ever-pervasive, omnipresent drumbeat.

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Serenity fades into disappointment while the drumming noise continues, muffling all other sounds and senses. Disappointment quickly becomes a frustration that fuels the whole apparatus. A massive frame rises from within the earth. Casting its shadow upon a pile of mangled bones heaped carelessly together with lumps of shredded armament and precious metals.

The shadow moves slowly, looking around for any signs of life in its vicinity. Yet it remains alone with the abominable drumbeat pounding from all directions against its skull. The ghastly form wanders off without direction, a single goal in its fogged mind – to get away from the terrible noise.

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No matter how far the shade goes, the sound of drums follows. Sometimes growing fainter, sometimes louder. No matter the audibility, it’s always present. Unrelenting and methodically violent in its assault on the spirit.

A different kind of noise permeates through the night. A voice, a scream, a shout coming from behind the shade. Words in a foreign language. Foreign yet familiar. The drumbeat seems to fade into the background, almost disappearing entirely. The shouting is getting closer, becoming more frantic, nay, violent. A group of men approaching from the distance. They are carrying torches and swords. Screaming words that are unintelligible.

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The group draws ever closer as half-blind eyes stare at them with intrigue, making out their shape and intent. Bandits. Raiders. Forest dwellers… How familiar; outlaws are outlaws the world over. Such a shame, however, since they won’t obtain any goods here.

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They suddenly stop, freezing in place. Seemingly struck by horror. Screaming and shouting words that seem more panicked and frightened by the moment. What are they afraid of? They’re outlaws, cast out of society. Here, they are as free as the wind, untouchable. They are fleeing. What a shame. The drumbeat slowly returns, along with a familiar disappointment.

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Of them lingers, frozen, petrified, he stands, making a crossed movement across his chest. This brings back memories. Gray monks, pathetic, powerless. Worshiping a dead god. Plunder, oh magnificent plunder. Memories of a horde of gold and silver, hidden in a pitiful wooden temple. A quiet place. Away from all noises and disturbances.

Giving rise to an idea. Air travels slowly, like a rolling thunder rising from the bowels. Words come out slurred. Almost like animalistic growls. The question seems to terrify the remaining outlaw. Is he a man of his god or not? Perhaps he didn’t understand the question. “Where are your temples?” is a simple question, is it not? Perhaps he is mute and cannot answer. He can scream just fine. What a shame.

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The stench of urine fills the nostrils, along with the weeping of a petrified outlaw. Worthless waste of time. The drumbeat persists, forcing the presence to try to find some solitude away from the constant noise elsewhere.

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Soon enough, the noise almost matches the gait of the shape walking under the cover of darkness. Almost like some raiding song beaten on drums on a march to the fields of the slain. The noise is steady, forever torturous in its intent. Carelessly assaulting the mind.

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A light in the distance rips through the darkness. Enticing and muffling the noise, just for a moment. The form shifts from its path and walks towards the light. More lights appear to rip through the blanket of night.

A whole ball of lights stands still, in the middle of nothing. Illuminating an old wooden structure. A temple. Glory to the gods. A place rich in solemn quiet. At last.

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The shade picks up speed as it limps towards the wooden structure, bursting through the gates of the temple and throwing itself onto the ground. Eyes closed, limbs still. A soft breeze travels through the crevices of the form, gently caressed by the light of a torch’s flame.

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And yet, the silence won’t arrive, the terrible drumbeat persists

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What a terrible fate it is to endure the constant drumming noise that won’t ever leave, never relent, and never fade.

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What a pitiful god dwells inside this temple, cannot even get rid of a terrible noise.

What a pitiful god… The thoughts are cut short, along with the noise, but a shriek. One turns into many. Hags yelling and wailing into the night, disturbing any and all attempts at renewed sleep. Eye open. A congregation of manic völvas standing, screaming, waving, and thrashing wooden sticks crossed in the air.

Hel, the speak of Hel. Oh, what a pleasantry would it be to descend into the depths of Hel, to sit beside the queen of that desolate realm, away from the terrible noise.

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The hags are unrelenting in their attempt to disturb. Sleep is unattainable in this place of rage-filled worship. The one-eyed wandered had disappointed before, he’ll disappoint again. The hall of the slain is naught. A graveless grave, endless torture in combat. A hall resting, spear shafts roofed by shields. A cycle of death and rebirth until the end of days. A garden of madness.

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Heat, heat spreading through the form, forces it up from the ground again. One of the völvas must’ve thrown a torch at the shape resting at its feet. The cracking of cloth and skin muffles the endless beating. Frenzied völvas aren’t going to let the shadow find rest. The form rises from the ground, slowly devoured by a flickering flame. Unable to feel the true extent of this force of nature.

It wanders off, trying to get away from the flock of mad worshippers of the mad divinity.

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The drumbeat seems to grow louder and louder now, becoming unbearable once more. What a terrible curse it is.

Even the flame cannot tame the terrible noises as the shape wanders off into the darkness again. It lost all hope by the time it found its way into a small settlement. Flames still licking and kissing at its form, not penetrating deeper than skin level.

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The drumming seems to be amplified by a strange external noise. One that is familiar and yet foreign. One that itches a memory.

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Before long, a beast rips through the night, half animal, half man. A tall creature, taller than the shadow. Two-headed and loud.

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It screams in that foreign language again.

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The beast then charges at the shape, full speed, its feet drumming against the ground. Time seems to slow down as the longer elongated lower head of the strange monster lets out a strange cry that sounds like a frantic scream and a laughter combined into one. The glint of steel shines in the moonlight.

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A bringer of sleep.

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A bringer of salvation.

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The shape returns, finally making sense in the mind. It’s a horse. A war stallion.

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A warrior mounted on the horse.

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A sword.

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The cry of a giant ripping through the sky

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The galloping of hooves

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The hissing of snakes and the chirping of birds.

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An explosion of light

The melody of a downpour obscures everything besides a very noticeable stench of burning flesh. Paralysis takes hold again. Vision is fading. The sound of a downpour slowly dies down with flashing frames flickering before foggy eyes. Scattered visions of a horse burning on the ground.

A silent prayer of gratitude to the Thunderer for opening ajar the gates before slipping into the jaws of eternal sleep under the watchful eye of a white raven circling the sky above.