The Wizard – The only refuge of the Wizard
Had the door always been so… heavy? Was the silly anxious thought that crossed his mind as he approached it. It was a silly thought, silly and funny, heh. I am being neurotic, the wizard thought. Though it wasn’t his fault, well it was, but not really. It was more a failure of awareness. Can you really be at fault for not noticing something that is in the background for so long that it might as well be a patch of different-colored wall?
Who was he asking questions to now?
Oh Lord. He was right in front of the door, he could touch the door if he just extended his arm a bit. Yet they hung limp by his side. He took time to study the door; it looked grey with dust, now that he thought he never bothered to clean it. Even the iron hinges, heavy ancient things, were gray with age. He faintly remembered those being once painted black and crispy.
He turned to go fetch a rag and a bucket of water to clean it… “wait, stupid, I don’t have water, I need to go find water,” he thought. Mechanically, with slumped shoulders, he turned again to face the door. It loomed over, like some sort of menacing giant… The scholar part of him, detached and distant, told him that it was just his mind’s eye. Yet it felt real and dark, something utterly dangerous that he had to face. High and might, in front of it he felt small and vulnerable.
Using all of his willpower, he extended a single arm, just one, and touched the wood. Yes, it felt wooden; that much was obvious. Breathing fast, with his heart in his ears, “why am I so terrified?” he slowly moved his hand towards the doorknob. It felt as if he was watching from afar, from outside his body. As he placed his hand on the knob, he raised it, terrified. Not for what he felt; it was just cold iron. But for what he didn’t see. In his mind’s eye, he didn’t have a face.
Taking a moment to let his heart stop pounding, he pondered the mystery. Why. Scared, he touched his own face. Yes, there were the cheekbones, the nose, the mouth, the eyes. Why? He almost turned again to go find out why, but then remembered, “oh right, water.” He turned once again and repeated the process.
Grabbing the doorknob one more time, he turned it. Using his strength, it whined loudly as it turned. Until something clicked and it opened. The hinges moaned pathetically.
Startled, he retreated back, hiding behind a wall. Peeking through, he saw the door slightly ajar. Nothing moved, nothing stirred, and he relaxed a bit and took a step forward. Light, sunlight was pouring through the small crack. He stopped; sound, sound was coming from the outside. He stopped again, marveling at it, drip, drip, drip, water, dripping from somewhere. Yes, his spell, the magic spell that had begun all of this. He was able to see the world again. With a smile on his face, smiling from ear to ear, he opened the door with boldness and saw that he was in a hole. That froze him on the spot; he racked his memory, it had been so long ago that he barely remembered. A clear stream, a meadow, the tower rising mightily in the middle of it all. What had happened? Had the veil, had that deceived him? The sunlight was pouring down a hole in the ground, it was… how does one measure distance? He had stopped using them so long ago. It was a hole; he peered upwards and saw a blue sky and some white clouds, clearer and more colorful than he remembered them to be. Like a scared mouse, he looked at his surroundings. Where had all this dirt come from? He looked at the door; now it looked old and decrepit, almost as if time had consumed it. From both sides. It didn’t look like it did before. Terrified of the implications, he went back into the tower, closing the door behind him, it didn’t. Running, he went in but in the utter dark he slipped and hit his head, losing consciousness. Eventually, he woke up, he didn’t know what time it was, nor how long he had been out cold. It was night now, no sunlight came through the ajar door. “What happened to you, tower?” he spoke out loud, asking, begging. But only echoes of his own voice answered him. The tower had fallen silent. Dead, no longer a companion. Crawling in the dark, he could make out shapes but little else, he felt the floor looking, for something, anything. His knees ached, scraping on the rough floor of the tower, it used to be smooth. He found something, grabbed it, a stick of some kind. It felt like wood, he grabbed it, clutching as a lifeline. He panted in the dark, alone, small, defenseless. Not two days ago he had been at the top of the world. Remembering his tool belt, he started to rummage through it finding flint and steel. With sorrow in his heart, he broke a piece of cloth from his expensive and fine tunic and wrapped it at the end of the stick. Then he tried his best to light it. He got burned, got cut, at a moment he almost lost the steel, it came off flying and he had to crawl through the ground again to find it. But in the end, he lit the fire, raising the flame high, horror consumed him. What had happened to the tower?
