[Receive thy Blessing, for Fate now carries thy lingering soul]

The observer walks along the river’s edge, hands held out to strum at the long grey stalks that line its banks. He hums a tuneless and silent song as he gazes across the fog that hangs low and heavy over the water. The water is flowing, but shows no sign of movement. No waves, ripples or splashes accentuate the surface, leaving it eerily dead yet seemingly alive.

Silvery ribbons flow under the surface, sluggish and grey. They swill between the souls that flow down, downwards along the flow of the undercurrent towards a large imposing gate. Its outline is in the shape of a door, but it in of itself is not a door. The observer’s eyes flick to the door but as soon as it focuses on the object itself a force pushes his gaze over. The waters flow into the gate, its movement unchanged as it passes the threshold. Although he cannot see the gate itself, he feels a familiarity in its presence. A comforting one, the feeling of a long day coming to a close. The feeling of finality, of closure.

A low dull wailing can be heard. Not in the air, but in the mind. A constant colourless grating against your thoughts, like a personal itch that you and you alone can feel. But never scratch.

[Born under a new star, one of vengeance. What thine Soul giveth, my Will accepts]

The observer stops. He notices that the fog is getting thinner as the air is swirling, eddying away from the river. He breathes deep, as if tasting fresh air for the first time. The fog is lifting.

The night sky suddenly intrudes on the silence. A loud chorus of shimmering lights bursts across the sky, its colours colliding with itself. Stars like scattered gems pierce the black night, their radiance dimmed only by the roiling fog, now churning and roiling against the light. Beams of light patched the darkness, rebelling against the pitch of the night.

The observer had recoils against the sight. He is now crouched, his hands above his head to ward off the offending array of starlight. He seems fearful of the light.

[The Skill of Acquisition! Thus is thy blessing]

A single star descends, borne from the sky. It casts its flickering rainbow of light like an aurora, drenching the sky in its blazing wonder. It turns the night into day, its rays as bright as the sun. It descends lower still, down upon the river whose grey dullness does not reflect the brilliance above.

No dancing lights can be seen on the water, no multicoloured spectacle reflected back in its still waters, as if it refusing to participate in the dazzling show above. The two sides of lightness and darkness, light in the sky and dark on the ground collide. They form a discernable line that splits the land horizontally, neither side giving in to the other. They seem to be at a stalemate, light and dark now in an uneasy equilibrium. The observer holds his breath.

***

A hand, of spun golden light, crosses the threshold. It reaches down into the murky depths of the water. For the first time, the surface tension is broken.

As if reacting to this sudden intrusion, the waters instantly explode into movement. They roll and crash violently, the calm surface now desolated by the water’s rebellion. The equilibrium of light and dark is broken once more, rejected by the water’s furious tirade. The observer has disappeared, now running from the river, his back turned against the chaos. His movement is slow, jerking, almost like he is moving through a dream. Or a nightmare.

The hand wastes no time. With a quick scoop, it draws out but a single soul. The river grasps at the soul, refusing to let go. It bubbles and clings to the hand, trying to drag the soul back into the depths. Light and dark crash. The hand persists, fingers tightening around its precious cargo. The water refuses to give up, swirling hard around the hand of light, forming a grey and black vortex.

Each side is trying to take back their own, each unwilling to give in to the other. The beams of light and darkness flicker back and forth, like a hanging light thrown into utter confusion. Once again, at a stalemate but this time with both sides throwing all they had into the fight.

[Fulfill thy destiny. Upon mine name as Abbath, Sovereign of light]

The light suddenly changes its tactics, withdrawing its beams from where they pool over the land, to concentrate into one single point where the hand has descended. The darkness is allowed to encroach closer and closer, but the hand also gets brighter and brighter. Like, a candle being swallowed by moths, its blaze is slowly smothered, the darkness becoming fuller.

A last blaze blasts the hand into the sky, like an incandescent firework shooting into the stars. It traces a glowing trail through the sky which fades as the darkness smugly returns. The river quietens and stills, now back to a tranquil state. Silence reigns once more.

Night returns and the grey blackness smothers the land and river once more. The fog rolls back and the observer fades from view, disappearing into the mist. All is silent, with no evidence of the epic clash remaining.

The land lies empty. Only in the darkness, a shadow remains. A blur. A half-forgotten memory.