Stephen Zimmer - Dream of Legends

The things weighing heavily on his heart were waiting patiently, and mercilessly, to beset him upon his return to solitude. It was as if a deep shadow fell across him, as he turned his eyes back towards the view of the expansive lake, as the vanguard of his mounting sorrows and fears reached their claws out towards him.

Wulfstan’s eyelids fluttered, and he awoke slowly to the feeling of soft, silken breezes caressing his face. His eyes were filled with the purest white that he had ever seen.

A mystical ambiance surrounded him. He wondered whether he had expired in his mortality, and had entered into the heavenly realms of the All-Father. The atmosphere evoked all of the types of legendary images concerning the celestial realms of Palladium, including the accounts described by everyone from the simplest of village priests to the most erudite of monks, the latter of the kind that Wulfstan’s uncle had oft interacted and traded with.

The thought of being alive in the bosom of the afterworld was instantly sobering. It brought Wulfstan to a state of full alertness, as he lifted his back off the ground, and subsequently pulled his knees up so that he was in a more comfortable sitting position.

At that moment, he heard the quork of a startled raven, turning just in time to witness its black form flying off with haste. He stared after the raven, as the dark bird sped low across a scene that was as fascinating as it seemed to transcend reality.

Delicate vapors wafted over a broad terrain composed of the cushioning, white substance that he was currently sitting upon. Hills and valleys of the white material could be seen stretching to the horizon, as well as a randomly strewn variety of other strange shapes and formations.

To Wulfstan’s eyes, the sight resembled the winter wonderlands that he had known several times in his own life, when the skies draped the hills and fields of Wessachia in thick blankets of snow. Yet the impossibility of that notion, and a dawning realization, threatened to make his mind spin.

Wulfstan had a little idea as to what the environment around him was not; and he had more than an inkling as to what it was.

He knew that he could not be on a simple cloud, of the types that he had traversed on the back of the winged steed. He remembered quite well how he and the Himmeros had flown through them without incident during his desperate ascent.

No matter what its appearance looked like when gazing down from above, no cloud could support the weight of a man or beast. The clouds felt like the mists and fogs that shrouded the woods on the ground, and posed no obstructions whatsoever to his passage in flight. Wulfstan knew with certainty that he could not sit on one.

As he scanned the area, looking to the left and right, his gaze fell upon the form of his Himmeros, lying nearby. Spirit Wing’s body was heaving, smoothly and steadily, with each relaxed breath. The creature was curled up, fast asleep, with its wings tucked snugly into its sides.

The sight bestowed a feeling of relief over the smattering of guilt that lay deeper within Wulfstan. He knew that he had pressed the poor animal harshly, beyond all its known limits of endurance. While the larger part of him did not regret the action, as it was undertaken to help Saxany avert a terrible doom, he was nonetheless gladdened by the knowledge that the Himmeros was unharmed.

It was then that he emerged fully from the initial shock of his strange surroundings. He brought more focus upon the reason that he had set off on the risky, and likely foolhardy, flight in the first place.

The footing underneath the leather soles of his shoes was extremely unusual, like nothing that he had ever felt before. It had a little give and bounce, as he lifted his knees slightly and set his feet back down, feeling the odd sensations derived from pressing against the unfamiliar surface.

Carefully, he got to his feet. He turned around in place, to take a look behind him. The white terrain in that direction held no rises, and it did not spread to the horizon. Rather abruptly, the low span of white came to an end about fifty paces from where he now stood.

Slowly, Wulfstan walked over towards the edge. When reaching it, as if on the brink of a cliff’s boundary, he got down to his belly, crawling the last few paces so that he could peer over the edge without feeling wholly insecure. Despite the reassurance from having his body supported, his stomach churned as he gazed downward.

There were stratified layers of clouds scudding by far below, designating a mind-boggling distance that culminated in solid ground. Nothing about the land was distinct from the lofty heights, and Wulfstan wasted no time trying to identify any specific places. It was like looking down upon a vast cloak fashioned with greenish hues. The movements of the clouds, themselves imbued with misty, shifting qualities, gave evidence that they were what they appeared to be, entirely unlike the surreal substance that Wulfstan now rested his weight upon.

As he looked down at one group of randomly sprinkled clusters, he realized that he was gazing upon the second level of clouds that he had passed through during his long climb upward. It was then that he wondered whether his whimsical, desperate idea, born of dreams, and adhered to with a fanatical effort, had somehow come true.

At that moment, he heard a low rumble.

The snow-like ground, if the unfamiliar substance could be termed in such a way, shook underneath Wulfstan, in a slow, rhythmic fashion. Edging back a few paces from the lip of the enormous drop, he got back to his feet, feeling the powerful vibrations through his shoes. Carefully, with more than a little trepidation clenching his gut, he rotated his body and head around, facing towards the source of the low-pitched resonance. Off in the distance, striding out from behind one of the ubiquitous, hill-like formations, was a living spectacle that froze Wulfstan in place.

By then, the rumblings had roused the Himmeros from its deep, restful sleep. With a nervous grunt, Spirit Wing swiveled its head towards the swelling noise. Seeing what Wulfstan was witnessing, the Himmeros’ head snapped back immediately, its gaze orienting upon the place where the Saxan was standing. Shifting about, and getting its paw-like feet braced underneath it, Spirit Wing lurched up agilely, and hastily loped back to where Wulfstan gazed in awestruck wonderment.

As if instinctively, Wulfstan’s hand shot out, grabbing Spirit Wing’s tether forcibly before the creature could entertain any notions of escaping off the edge of the terrain behind them. The Himmeros’ eyes were brimming with fear, and the agitated creature shifted about, tugging at the leather cording, as Wulfstan desperately tried to calm the terrified beast. It whined and whimpered, as Wulfstan had to anchor his legs to resist the creature’s pull.

“Spirit Wing! Hold here with me, it’s alright… it’s going to be alright,” he said to the Himmeros, somehow keeping his voice from shaking.

There was nobody to soothe Wulfstan, though, and his eyes could not mask the fright spiraling within him as he glanced back towards the colossal vision approaching them. His mouth twitched in his extreme anxiety, while his very breath was trapped in his chest. A cold, clammy feeling spread through him, and his chest constricted further, as he resisted the initial, compelling impulse to simply mount the Himmeros and fly far, far away.

Another force inside him resisted the urges. He had come for a stated purpose, believing that he had reason to trust his instincts, dreams, and the recognition of the anomalous white patch in the upper reaches of the sky. That intended ambition revolved around an uncertain hope; that an ancient race of creatures, immortalized through song and tale, did truly exist in a heavenly exile.