DUNGEON

The air is damp and fetid. There has been no light for days. Weeks maybe at this point. Every so often, you feel the soft give of moss under your boots. There would be no rescue from this place. Either you would find your way out of this consuming darkness, or your bones would be crunched underfoot years and years later as you had done with the remains of others who had made the same choice you did. Why had you come to this place? What purpose? You could not explain, and now as your food was gone you feel the pangs of regret in your stomach reminding you how foolish that choice was. Some of the rooms had softly gurgling steams emptying into small ponds, and you could smell the air outside, fresh and invigorating. It kept you going somehow. The clean taste of the water brought new life into your body, despite no solid sustenance for some time.

Your eyes had grown used to the unyielding dark which was a blessing seeing as you had burned the last of your candles down to the stump in the lantern. The bricks this dungeon was built with felt damp and cold no matter where you found yourself in the labyrinthine passages. Except the rooms with the springs. It felt like the sun was bathing the room in its gentle warmth, but you knew it was far too deep for that to even be possible. On the other hand, you were too tired to try and logic at yourself anymore. It was a welcome distraction. The scratching of your empty scabbard against the stone walls was starting to make your heart jump. You had lost your sword, and only the maw of the dungeon knew where it had gone. No gods looked down deep enough in here to know.

Another set of scratching against the stone makes you stop. Hand immediately at the empty scabbard in reflex. The scent of blood fills the dark corridor and mixes with the rot of rusted wall sconces and dead moss. Luckily, your stomach is empty and therefore has nothing to eject but the bile burns as it exits anyways. A laborious licking noise comes from behind you, almost like its siphoning something off of the hard ground. You don’t want to look. Don’t look. Don’t. Look.

In the blackness a shambling heap materializes into your dim view. The stench of rotting blood grows stronger, and your stomach cramps as you try and force yourself not to get sick again. Two eerie pinpricks focus on you under the greasy mass of hair that makes up most of the creature as it licks whatever it can from the dingy floor. You move slightly over to make room for the creature, despite every muscle of your being screaming to run with the limited energy you probably don’t have. It brushes against you as it licks the place you’d been sick at, lingering to ensure it got everything up. Sweat drops off of you even though you know these creatures mean you no harm. Another thought surfaces that this was probably the thing that caused you to drop your sword in fright earlier on and you feel the heat of embarrassment in your cheeks. The creature continues on plodding down the hall as it disappears, but you can still hear its overgrown nails dragging on the stone as it leaves. The scent of rot still hangs in the air faintly as it had marked you with its greasy mane as it ambled past. Next spring you’d wash it off. If there was one.

Time moves even if you do not. Your legs are heavier then you remember, and your mouth is dry. There has not been a spring for some time. Despite your eyes adjusting to the unnatural darkness, you do not see the tree root, and tumble onto the cold stone floor. The weight of everything crashes upon you, and you can feel the warm tears trailing down your face. Your mouth stings as you lap them up with your bitten tongue. This is it. There will be no more shambling through the dark. Relief floods through your body as you convince yourself to remain on the ground. You hope you will not be conscious enough to feel the shambling cleaners when they stumble upon you. A creaking hinge echoes in the darkness bringing a soft light into the cramped corridor. The gentle burble of water hits your ears, and you begin to drag yourself to the one place you feel will be the best place to have a last rest.

Squinting in the soft light, you see another spring. Mushrooms sprout from the roots wound into the stone. They glow with the gentle blue light that coaxed you from your dooming thoughts. The water refreshes you even more this time, and you bring a little to the splotch of stinking rot on your leather pants which melts off easily. Before you can stop your hand, you take a chunk of one of the mushrooms and examine it. You are no mycologist in any sense, but something compels you to take a bite of the cap. It tastes like freshly baked bread out of the oven. If you have to go out horribly, at least it will taste good. After a few more bites, the exhaustion overtakes you and your eyes close. Dreamless sleep envelopes you.

Eyes shoot open. You’re surprised they even did open at this point. The ankle that twisted in the tree root has healed enough its manageable enough to use again despite the slight twinge when too much weight is put upon it. You fish around in a small pouch and set a small coin under the basin. There is no purpose for money down here, but you feel like it won’t get used otherwise so might as well leave a small token of your thanks. You hear the familiar scratching and licking noises outside the spring room. Another shambler. Their odd noises are a comfort to you now, and as you approach the exit you softly utter a greeting at the slobbery creature. It makes a soft gurgle in acknowledgment and then shuffles off into the darkness. You start another trek into the twisting rock veins of this never ending tomb.

This time, you feel like the air has gotten clearer down this way. No, a trick. Down here too long. The rot has begun to seep into corners I cannot reach. The mushrooms were poison, it was just a matter of time, you think. At least the shamblers will have a good feast in who knows how long. It has been some time since you have seen another spring room, and this time you aren’t sure if there will be one. This is what the shambler’s mouths must feel like after licking the stones all day, dry and cracked and splitting. You lick your own lips and taste warm metal. It feels like if you breathe too hard your throat will crack as bad as your lips are right now. Time has passed, and it still will not wait for you. It never will. It never was. I won’t reach it. I can’t reach it. Whatever it is you are trying to reach leaves your mind as you step into air and fall. You feel the sharp jut of a stair hit your back, and the wind is forced from your lungs.

Crack.
The pain surges through your body in all directions. There is no telling what that was. At this rate you probably won’t be able to once you land.
Snap.

The empty scabbard shatters. You feel dripping down your leg. This is it. This place will be your tomb. You will be cleaned up like the rest of the others who came down here. Someone else will crunch upon your bones like you have with the remains before you. The floor stops your endless tumbling and more air is forced out as you hear something else crack. Pain. Blood. This will be the f i n a l feeling y o u are going t o ever fe e l…

Warmth. Light. Your eyes flutter open gently. A wind caresses your face. You smell the fresh emergence of new grass growing. The sun is beaming down upon your broken body as if it is taunting you. You begin to pull yourself towards the bright room, and each pull is a new blossom of pain. A hand finally reaches the sun warmed grass. Grass. Not moss. Down here? Tears start to well up. The sting of sorrow in your throat makes it feel like its on fire. Time passes again. The gentle warmth of the sun feels like you are simmering in a broth of life. The sharpness of every pain you’d felt ebbs away. Bringing yourself to your knees your eyes focus. It is not a room. It is a field full of fresh grass softer than any grass you have felt. The scent of flowers wafts in the breeze but there are none to be found in the wide green space. A lone hill stands in the distance, a strange stone altar at the top of it with a light that shines brighter than the sun but it does not hurt your eyes. Your legs start to move to the hill almost on their own accord, and each step you can feel more pain sliding off of you like silk. You realize you are crying, and yet the tears do not sting. Strength builds in your body the closer you get to the hill. The light atop the altar still shines bright. No pain. No blood. The hill seems to shrink under your steps and the altar and the strange light stand before you.

The brightness you saw before distorts and comes into focus. A silver sword hangs in the air, polished and sharp. There are no notches in the blade from use, or marks used to identify who made it. It is complete silver from hilt to tip. A red liquid drips from its deadly tip onto the altar leaving no trace. Blood? There is no smell. Only the wind carrying the scent of new growth. The sword turns in midair, letting the handle rest within your grasp. Your hand slowly closes over the silvery handle. The wind starts to whip around you and the scent of flora merges with the electrical surge before a storm. There is no fear of being struck by whatever is brewing above, it almost feels like the cacophony is trying to embrace you within its eye. Ethereal voices rise within your head as your eyes study the sleek blade. The rapturous singing urging something building inside your now burning chest. No fear. No pain. You thrust the blade in defiance of the zephyr, and the voices raise into a crescendo as the light catches the grooves of the silver masterpiece adding its own harmonic tones to the unseen choir. In a great crashing noise the storm halts as quickly as it wound up and the clouds dissipate like mists blown away upon the mountaintops. The blade does not stop its blood-like secretions as it drips unto your hand gripped upon the hilt. Warm and sticky. No taste. No fear. No pain.

The damp scent of the dungeon wafts back. The bright light that had illuminated the field has retreated back to the dark depths of the winding dungeon. It is a hill of discarded bones and rusted armors reclaimed by moss and winding dead roots. Each crunch of dried marrow reminds you of every misstep taken while fumbling around in the maze you thought would be the last one taken. It was biding its time for you. It chose you. Pride flexed its golden claws within your mind. You tasted the sanguine nectar and it had given itself to you. The dungeon was no longer as dark as you’d remembered. The light shone across every surface your eyes rested upon, casting long and unsettling shadows. It did not matter. For the first time since this horrible journey, a smile creeps across your lips. It is not your own smile, but it slowly becomes yours. Footsteps echo sharply among the claustrophobic walls once again. The sound of blood dripping follows. The dungeon calls. you. You. YOU.