Medieval

Writing prompt.

Medieval times. He was actually stuck in Medieval times. How could this have happened? He didn’t know. All he knew, or all he could see thanks to the thick fog surrounding him, was that he was surrounded by a bunch of fields, and the mud was so thick he almost had to make an effort to walk and not remain stuck two paces behind with every step. He breathed a breath of relief, thinking this was certainly better than having to focus on the future’s responsibilities. He had actually time travelled. This was exciting. As he continued to walk, he imagined he would eventually come across some kind of civilisation. People, after all, were the bane of this era. Maybe he would even get to stick around long enough to figure out what had actually happened during the Dark Ages. At least, he thought that’s why they called it that. Historical blackout. The air was dank and humid, but still possessed a kind of heartless cold to it. The kind that ran straight to your bones and made it impossible to live anywhere outside. He could even envision some kind of swamp monster attacking him, and that would be the last anyone had ever heard of him. The complexities of how time worked was too much for him to handle or even bother with at this point. He had luckily gotten covered in enough mud by now to shroud his clothes from looking like anything other than what everyone else was wearing: a thick layer of muck. Field workers were the most common thing you’d come across here. He was strangely empty-headed for something that you’d only ever see in some soppy rom-com. The sound of his breath was eerily the only thing he could here. How long had he been walking? He didn’t care. He was so glad in a way. He wanted to find some people. Would he even understand the language? He could hear some kind of faint rustling sound up ahead somewhere, at least as far as any human eye could see in this mist. Too unnatural to be the sound of leaves in the wind, not to mention there was no wind to speak of. He was approaching some form of settlement. Perhaps a farm? He did not exactly hope it wouldn’t be some kind of city, but at this point he was going entirely off of his own thoughts, which were few. These times were practically ghost times. He could see figures up ahead. He thought that perhaps his guise was not something anyone would care to look at, clearly being so distraught. He did not have to look at any of them to know that these were unkind times, but with its own pros too. They weren’t even using farming tools, only their bare hands, and too little work to count as anything substantial. State of mind. Mentality. He felt like an outsider. In every sense of the word. Like he didn’t belong. Like any moment now, he was going to get pulled back, but it was only a feeling.

His mind’s eye could see little dots, and then long black figures sprawled out everywhere. He imagined this is what limbo, or even hell, would look like. Hell and Medieval usually accompanied each other in the same sentence. He stopped, to regain…whatever it was he felt he should regain. It was all too much for him, but his body and mind, and heart, wanted to go on because this was a dream come true. He was throwing caution to the wind. He felt the expression would have had more bearing had there actually been any wind. No one was looking at him. No one paid him any attention. He thought at first that he was the only non-working individual around here, but after a while, he wondered just how far these farming talents stretched, if they were using nothing but their hands, digging little holes around everywhere…It almost looked as though they were burying pieces of themselves everywhere they went. They couldn’t be burying hope, because they were born with none. One individual clutched her breast every now and again. All skinny figures in black cloaks. This fog did something to your eyes. Not that it made things any more difficult to see, just that these people almost seemed like they were becoming one with the fog, or were born from it. Shades. There was no difference from the dark cloaks, which looked black but were probably the worst shade of brown imaginable, and their hands and faces, and their hidden feet, and some horribly emaciated body, frail and failing, underneath the rags that were so much richer than the bodies they enshrouded. Yes, this could pass for a hell. How could he not expect different times to collide? There was a calling to the earth. He could lie down and cover himself in soil and mud and say that he was home. No one would care. No one would starve. Even cannibalism wasn’t a luxury. Had he stopped? He couldn’t quite tell. There was no difference. How slow was he walking? Would he be a fool to ask them something? Anything? It was as though the lands were constantly morphing. Occasionally you’d find some form of wooden object, but there was no need to burn it for firewood because cold was not the problem. It was a presence in the air. Like something had come alive in these times and had taken every soul prisoner. Trees shot up every now and again. He eventually made himself acquainted with one such wooden object, some kind of strange contraption that couldn’t really pass for anything other than garbage, and the trip caught him off guard. He yawned. The rivers of Lithe popped into his mind.

He was quickly feeling his breath getting cut short, like he would be pulled inside out without so much as a mourning. No one paid him any attention. This was his idea of existence now. Walking that didn’t feel like walking, thinking that didn’t feel like it was an effort. This was the epitome of knowing you were meaningless in your existence. Without a moment’s notice, he could feel his leg starting to shake like a jackrabbit. He was obviously nervous, still not having gotten over the fact that he was actually here, but how could anyone? If butterflies in one’s stomach were any expression to go by, they were physically forming and would soon burst out of his throat and escape into a different time and space, and whether these butterflies had travelled with him from the future or were a product of such medieval tidings would be anyone’s guess. Would he encounter witches? He desperately hoped they at least existed, and not the sort that were just mistakenly burnt for rumors, but actual witchcraft, in a time when belief was everything.

Author's Note

Yet another writing prompt as part of a word war, this time based on a Medieval time period. Once again, totally random. Each new paragraph is where the 15 minute mark in the word war would end.

Written 25 July 2014.