Trey Nelson 7th Period

A Memory
The dragon-like wind screamed as Riven thrust his foot forward, breaching the crystallized surface of the solemn white snow. Each wounded stride caught the bestial wind as it howled past him, persisting in its wild attempt to buffet Riven into the virtual wall of a mountain before him. His bloodless white face dripped with streaks of maroon-red, seeping from raw gouges on his left cheek and brow. His frozen black hair lay plastered to his face, partially hiding his open wounds. Black eyes, gleaming with hints of gold, absorbed the path before; an etched peak towered conspicuously in the distance, almost as if it was emanating stolen rays of the moon. Riven struggled to take another taxing step, but the elements stood firm in their efforts to obstruct his progress. His bare feet slipped out from underneath, and he collapsed roughly against the mountain's cheek; for a moment, he lay defeated. A faint figure, the Only, stood a short distance away. Waiting. Red-life and ice mixed as Riven twisted in the ice shards, coming to a rest on his tatter-cloaked back. His eyes wandered, nearly meeting the Only's eye, before being drawn West. Nothing could be seen through the icy night. Nothing but painfully fresh memories. Riven closed his eyes. The Dragon-Wind howled. * * * * He awoke screaming, a vague, shapeless nightmare resonating throughout his consciousness. As Riven's thoughts emerged into coherence, his fear seared anew. His mind was empty of all except a single solitary memory: A sharp, infernal pain enveloping him as he was pierced with a blade. The memory caused more white-burning pain to force its way to the forefront of his thoughts. This pain came in the form of an aching, clouted wound in his chest. He sat up groaning upon the bed, and glanced down upon himself, finding the wound less than an inch from his heart. Impressive, a voice sauntered in the gloom, Id thought for sure when youd wake up youd be screamin for a good hour. Riven looked up, suddenly becoming aware of his surroundings. He found himself in a dim, orange glowing room. Smoke from a fireplace in the corner stagnated the room -trapped in by a clogged chimney likely- rendering eyesight useless. The rough of a quilt covered him as he lay on the bed, compounding the smoky heat. Footsteps sounded across the room, a wooden floor by the sound of it, and the creak of shutters echoed through the haze. As the smoke began to seep out into the night, an ancient visage became visible through the translucent air. An

old, withered, man stood next to the open shutters smoking a small pipe. Now and then he would grip the pipe firmly with his teeth and scribble into a ragged paper he held in his spindly hands. And you are? Riven exacted, annoyed at being ignored. Ner mind me, he rasped, soon nough youll be on your way, boy. Boy? Riven echoed coldy, and Im not going anywhere anytime soon. Not with this wound. The old man chuckled. Riven frowned. Obviously he wouldnt be receiving any favors. He turned his attention to the outside, peering through the open window to his right as best he could from his prone position. The wind rocked the shutters back and forth as it carried flecks of snow swiftly across the sky. A white-gray of winter covered the landscape of a thick forest outside. A pale mountain peaked in the distant East. Riven turned to the old man once more and found the wise aged eyes piercing into his own from a mere hand-length away. Thatd be all of it. He croaked, placing the paper upon his chest. He straightened quickly and left the room through a previously unnoticed door in the corner. Youre death waits at the peak. Leave now. If you want to live, Remember. Riven stumbled to the window, rereading the paper. He was lanced with pain, but felt disjointed from it. The second phrase echoed within his empty conscious. If you want to live, Remember. He scowled, concentrating, but his consciousness remained devoid of all but the one memory. Remember. He sank onto the bed again, reading the paper for a third time. Leave now. That old crazy thinks I should leave. Like this? Riven scoffed to himself, I rather doubt he has ever felt a wound like this, spiteful old simpleton! He confidently slipped beneath the quilt again; no doubt the old man would be back. Soon he felt the deep shroud of fatigue closing around. Riven awoke to the smoke again. Only this time, it met him as a dog, licking his feet with a rough scalding tongue. Immediately he stood and froze in shock as his sight registered the burning room. Crazy old man. Recovering from paralysis, he skirted the edges of the flames, leapt towards the door, but crashed to the floor and into the flames as his weak legs gave way. With the fire searing hands, feet and knees, he scrambled up and pulled himself out the door. He lay in the snow; paper clutched in one hand, gazing up at the clouded sky, his pain a flaming dam ready to burst. Then he remembered.

The reviving series of memories consumed his senses. A tall, silent, blonde man, his fists curled and eyes scolding. Thick sealed parchment letter stacks spilling from a smooth oak table to the ground. A maiden, crystal eyes brimming with tears and horror. A bloody knife. NO! Riven shouted, jerking himself from the white death encasing him. He haltingly rose from the frosty ground. A swell of emotions assailed him, nearly overwhelming his defenses, but he thrust back and locked the floodgates. He examined his black-burned hands and found that he still clenched the old mans paper. He gazed around, searching for the decrepit man. Nothing appeared in the white gloom, nothing but acres of crystal laden coniferous trees. Behind him the small shack of a house had burned to the ground, a black smudge on winter canvas. Wind bit at him, lack of adequate clothing punishing violently. Im going to freeze to death. The moment the thought of dying passed through his mind, indignation crossed his mind from the other direction. Slowly, he strode away, opposite of the lone peak in the distance. As he walked short breaths stumbled from his dry mouth, breaths that refused to emerge opaque. In due time he began to hear a quiet rumble, casting a black shadow over the pure silence. Despite his catastrophic state, a vague sense of hope began to immerse his thoughts. More quickly he walked, increasing his pace until he was nearly running, dodging trees and logs, drawing ever closer to the thundering. Suddenly, bursting through a wall of trees, he found the source of thunder, a deep, fierce river rushing past to the East. His eyes alighted on a narrow wooden bridge, and a stiff silhouette. Slowly he approached the figure, stepping carefully onto the weak bridge. Do you remember me? he said, eyes scolding. Riven paused, gazing at the figures blonde hair. No. The figure sighed, stepped back, and dissolved in the wind. Everything was still for a moment. A deep unnatural feeling of misgiving descended, and everything became silent. Riven began to feel a touch of guilt, but brushed it away. With a crack, the bridge broke. He dropped into the water like a stone, but the current snatched him like a feather. He struggled to fight, but the river was stronger, oscillating him between the surface and submersion. His mind became a blank slate in fear and hopelessness. But then the slate achieved a warm hue of color, slight specks of vividness crept in and embellished the slate, with memories. Thousands of memories. Of living and life. Of him. Of his failure. He thrashed in the wild water, fighting to break free of the river and of his memories. Through water and snow he saw the Old man, standing upon the bank, hand out held. Lunging through the waters grasp Riven gripped the old mans hand, and was pulled to the shore. He lay there, struggling against the memories, his breath fogging the air. He fought them, seeking to deny them restitution in his consciousness, he refused to accept the memories. These memories were not his past, he insisted. He would not accept the

thought of murder and treachery, of lies and betrayal. Gradually, the memories faded into darkness once more. He uncurled himself from the fetal position and stood. He found himself at the base of an enormous mountain, the same he had seen from miles away, at the now eviscerated shack. "Old man, thank you, but if it weren't for-" The old man was no longer present. Riven turned, searching for a clue as to the man's whereabouts. As he turned towards the mountain once more, suddenly he spotted the old man, beckoning from a trail carving through the surface of the giant rock. He moved quickly, not wanting to lose old man once more. Step by step, he climbed the mountain, at times with ease, and others with struggled suffering. The wind buffeted him at each lunge, begging him to taste the snowy ice against the mountain. Halfway up the mountain, Riven fell. He ignored the old man's stare, and turned to gaze Westward. He saw nothing. Nothing but ice, snow, rocks and emptiness. He felt nothing. Nothing but vestiges of pain, and emptiness. Except for one other, small, repressed thought. "I remember." Riven, whispered. In the distance of the valley he saw several faint apparitions take form. The largest seemed to be a small house, the smaller, people. Undoubtedly, there were people. Achingly, Riven thought of joining them, running until he could run no more or had reached that small touch of release. But then he perceived a specific blonde-haired face. He did not belong there. For the final time, he turned into the mountain once more, and began to climb. Every step brought a memory. Every step brought back the pain of remorse and guilt. Thousands of steps. Until at last, hours, years, maybe eternities later, he arrived at the peak. The crushing weight of memories forced him to his knees. He knew what needed be done. He could see each and every memory before his eyes, ghosts in the wind. "I remember you." he relinquished to each, "Forgive me." When he was finished, he felt hollow. Or perhaps hallow. The valley below teemed with vivacity. A million people lived below, each entreating their own life. All his memories. Except one. He turned to the old man, standing watchfully nearby. "Thank you. Forgive me." he murmured, "And I forgive you." The ever present pain faded from his consciousness. He lay back upon the warm ground, and accepted darkness. The One reached down and grasped Riven, pulling him into his strengthened arms. The One carried him upward, upon beams of silver light. Into the sun. Into life.