The Poppy Mist
"Man always dies before he is fully born."
- Erich Fromm
Denmark cleared his throat and shouted his world into existence. He was a colossus, a mountain of a man, striding across an unfamiliar world. Every monumental step brought him deeper into the ranks of his enemies. They scattered before him, screaming in terror at his unstoppable march. In his hand, he swung a mighty ax made of silver and gold. It sparkled with deadly intent as he swung it from side to side, clearing a path through the assembled ranks. Great swathes of bloodied bodies and limbs lay behind him as he stomped relentlessly forward. He roared and shouted with each crushing stroke, the sound of his voice knocking many of the fleeing soldiers off their feet.
Denmark powered ahead, picking up pace. He was grinning from ear to ear and spontaneously burst into a raucous song. He noticed that he appeared to be growing larger, swelling, and stretching with each step until he was crushing men beneath his feet. On and on he marched until his enemies were nothing more than ants beneath his feet and his head brushed aside the clouds.
He stopped for a moment as he became conscious of his surroundings. He was no longer a one-man army, decimating the raging hordes. He was a lonely giant standing on ever-shrinking earth. His head broke through the clouds and he felt a cold wind twisting across his torso. He looked up and watched as the pale blue sky gradually shifted, turning slowly to a deep marine blue and finally a cold twinkling blackness. He had never seen a dark sky. The shadow-light of the Skyforge meant that many generations of humans had lived and died without knowing the grandeur and scale of the wider universe. He drank in the view, no longer able to see his feet. Arms spread wide he took a deep breath and reveled in the delight that was his life.
Something was wrong though. He coughed and tried another breath. Panic quickly descended on him as realization struck. He couldn't breathe. He flailed about in terror, gasping and spluttering as his lungs fought to inhale but no relief came. His eyes began to bulge and his face turned a deep purple. He brought his hands up to his throat in a last-ditch attempt to massage some air down into his heaving lungs. It did not help. Consciousness began to flicker out and he felt himself falling backward, farther and farther until darkness consumed him.
Denmark sat up with a start. Gasping for air he sucked in great gulps of the icy mist that enveloped him. The air had never tasted so sweet nor served to calm him so completely. His heart was galloping in his chest at an alarming pace but he felt the tension easing and the pace slowing as oxygen flooded his system. When he had regained his composure, he looked around. Everywhere he looked was clouded by a thick clogging veil of mist.
He was very familiar with this place. The soft nowhere land, halfway between consciousness and the dream world. He often ended up here when he had spent an evening whoring, boozing and chasing the dragon that lay shrouded in a cloud of opium smoke. This time he had no clear recollection of how he had gotten here.
The mist clung to him, an opaque wall of light shifting restlessly before his eyes, blinding him. He waved a hand in front of his face, trying to clear his view but the mist was a thick soup that remained stubbornly vague.
There was a strange, high pitched pulsing sound that he felt more than heard. The frequency of the vibrations gradually ululated across the threshold of hearing and set his jaw on edge. He sensed motion and became aware of strange dark shapes, shifting through the mist. They seemed to be circling him. One of the shapes loomed over him, its form pulsing in time with the sound. He pulled back from it in apprehension and it dawned on him that he couldn't move.
Memory flooded back.
He thrashed about in a futile attempt to pull himself back up into consciousness. Sharp tendrils of adrenaline spiked through his chest. He was convinced he was being attacked by one of the great beasts, perhaps the mate of the one he had managed to kill. The pulsing sound seemed to be getting louder. It washed over him in waves so intense that he swore he could feel it in his skin.
The looming shape began to coalesce in form as the adrenaline cleared some of the mist. It was a horse and rider, moving swiftly around him. He had never seen a horse like this before. It appeared for all the world to be made of iron. Its broad flanks shone brightly through the mist, dazzling him like a mirror reflecting the bright-light sun. It was enormous and the ground shook as it paced around him. As he tracked its motion around him it became apparent that it was also the source of the pulsing sound. The horse and rider appeared to be keeping the other shapes away from him.
I must be dead. He thought to himself, A blacksmith from the Forge has come to collect my soul.
Relief flooded his veins. The struggle of life was over. He would join his ancestors in the hall of the Great Forge where an eternity of feasting and merriment waited for him.
"Take me!" He shouted, stretching his arms out to the rider before collapsing back in a faint.
Chapter 4
