Saul

Darkness.

Darkness; deep and unfathomable.

Darkness extending beyond the limits of imagination.

Darkness beyond time; beyond Worlds.

Stars are born, burn and die in microcosmic displays like frost on warm ink. Some linger on, defying the darkness with their insolent radiance; gathering together as if warmed by each others light.

Moving now through this speckled vista; slowly at first like the gathering of a storm. Gaining momentum we accelerate on as bedazzling galaxy’s burn and speed by like lightening bolts with places to be. All is light now, blinding and silent.

Now the scene slows, seemingly in reverse. Light is pierced by darkness and torn open by ebony ribbons. The light dies and returns once more to pin-pricked night.

Picture now a World’s mass edging from the dark. Indistinct at first, then, forming topaz and ivory landscapes edged with a crimson fire.

Slowly now we drift down through mottled atmosphere, glimpsing for the first time ocean and earth below.

Closer now, closer we move; once more gathering speed.

Dots of darkness appear in the azure, trailing snowy tails. Trade ships possibly, carrying exotic spices and valuable textiles from who knows where.

Closer we fly, speeding by the hulks and their dark skinned crews, labouring under a slate sky. Onwards to land, skimming foaming breakers we crest the high, foreboding cliffs as red-beaked gulls wheel and screech to the heavens.

In a heartbeat a white-washed city flashes by; its stench reaching upward beyond bannered towers to mingle with the winds.

On and on, soaring high now over a vast forest with leaves afire in amber and ruby, where only rogue spruce stand defiant in emerald protest to the onrush of winter.

Further and faster, up through the thinning, frigid air. Snow-topped mountains loom then pass into memory in a blizzard of swirling white brilliance. Down now into pastel plains, where sporadic herds of grazing beasts feast on wind toughened grasses.

Only now do we slow and come to rest.

A single plume of black smoke drifts skywards on the far horizon. A white rider in a vast wilderness rides hard away from the smoking ruin of what has come to pass; rides hard as if speed alone will carry him from himself.

After many miles the horse slows to a walk; the rider does not look back.

From a different horizon others approach. Five riders, three of their number sent far from home by prophecy and fortune. Set on a collision course long ago by forces unimaginable. Destined like the stars above to wander a preordained path of which they are barely aware. Destined through all time, all space to be here; to be now.

Great men are these travellers, though they themselves know it not. No fame in their own lifetimes will they have for their deeds; though a time will come when all men of this world will know their names, their actions to come, and those that have already been.

At peace with each other they travel; but without peace in their hearts. Amidst sadness and tarnished apparel they bear a great item, but it has cost them dear to claim. What piece of a man’s soul is worth such a cost?

The five pause in recognition of the approaching figure; too far yet to call out, too close to be coincidence .

Something approaches.