The Grave Of The Lost
Far, far down in the caves around the forest, where the sun is nothing more than a sweet memory, through the twisting tunnels of wrong turn after wrong turn, where the floor turns to gravelly layers of charred stone shards that crunch underfoot lies a door.
It is decidedly plain in construction, nothing more than a simple slab with a hinge, an arc of clear ground on the floor in front of it where it silently swings open as it is pushed.
Behind it is pure, crystalline darkness. A dark floor, cold and glassy, burned in intense heat. Dark walls, jagged and broken, scarred here and there where the black glass has flaked away and the grey rock shows beneath it. The ceiling, too, is dark, mirroring a faint light caught somewhere beneath the glass. Poles of wood and metal and something unlike anything else join ceiling and wall and floor here and there, bearing the weight of a failed construction.
But it is what is at the centre of the cave which stands out.
There, carved into the wall, grey against black, are words, that trail from eye height, clumsy and shallow, to the floor where they are sharp and deep, two styles between them, looking almost as old as the rock they are carved into. Where they hit the ground there is more grey rock revealed, deep holes dug six by two into the floor, filled with dust and surrounded by little chunks of rock.
Then in front of them is a small, smoothed slab of white marble, bright and alien to this cave with two holes bored either side of it, both holding a lopsided red candle cracking with age but only sprinkled with the faintest coating of dust, with a flat space in between them that is worn clean and clear, as if something had not long laid there. And beneath the marble is a folded piece of cloth, threadbare and faded. Once, it was something special, plush and vivid and embroidered with intricate designs, but time has ruined it beyond recognition, now nothing more than something softer than the floor to kneel upon.
With a strike of a match the candles are lit, their warm dancing light bouncing off the glossy rock and making the whole room glow. The carvings stand out even more now, bright enough that words can be made out...
Those words are the highest from this kneeling position, edges worn and dimmer than the rest. There is a small space between those words and the next, carved in a clumsier and deeper hand.
Below that, and again the style is different. It is more similar to the first, but smoother, more careful, the blackness around it intact and full.
The writing below that is smoother still and flush with the floor, and beneath it lies the dust of it's creation. It looks the most recently carved, but still it seems older than the oldest of graves, the ones where the writing has faded to naught.
There is nothing more after that. The walls are as silent as the air, as empty as the graves that lay here. ...And how long had they laid here? How long had they been empty? How long had this altar, this mat, these candles stood, a shrine to people long dead? How long had it been since the writing had been carved? And above all, who had kept it clean all these years? Who, for these forgotten souls still cared, despite their graves being barren? Who on earth would come this far down into the impossible and dangerous labyrinth of tunnels to pray for people long dead and long gone?
There's a quiet crunch of gravel behind the open door. Turning, something catches the light and recoils. It does not leave, however. It stares, eyes huge and red, confused and angry.
The candles are snuffed with a whisper.
The light glows, fades, and disappears into the glass.
Everything becomes dark.
Behind it is pure, crystalline darkness. A dark floor, cold and glassy, burned in intense heat. Dark walls, jagged and broken, scarred here and there where the black glass has flaked away and the grey rock shows beneath it. The ceiling, too, is dark, mirroring a faint light caught somewhere beneath the glass. Poles of wood and metal and something unlike anything else join ceiling and wall and floor here and there, bearing the weight of a failed construction.
But it is what is at the centre of the cave which stands out.
There, carved into the wall, grey against black, are words, that trail from eye height, clumsy and shallow, to the floor where they are sharp and deep, two styles between them, looking almost as old as the rock they are carved into. Where they hit the ground there is more grey rock revealed, deep holes dug six by two into the floor, filled with dust and surrounded by little chunks of rock.
Then in front of them is a small, smoothed slab of white marble, bright and alien to this cave with two holes bored either side of it, both holding a lopsided red candle cracking with age but only sprinkled with the faintest coating of dust, with a flat space in between them that is worn clean and clear, as if something had not long laid there. And beneath the marble is a folded piece of cloth, threadbare and faded. Once, it was something special, plush and vivid and embroidered with intricate designs, but time has ruined it beyond recognition, now nothing more than something softer than the floor to kneel upon.
With a strike of a match the candles are lit, their warm dancing light bouncing off the glossy rock and making the whole room glow. The carvings stand out even more now, bright enough that words can be made out...
Here now lies the death of our society. Here together lies our end.
Joseph Miller, Edward White, Abraham Cook, Theodore Jakson, Mary Riley, Elijah Ramsay, Charles Ramsay, Sophronia Fitzgerald, Calvin Hughes, Hannah Fox, Kitty Fox, Dorothea Hill.
Here, feared and desperate, far from every thing that they ever did love, these dear friends perished in pursuit of companionship. They were brave, they were lonely, and we who remain are so much lonlier for their loss.
Those words are the highest from this kneeling position, edges worn and dimmer than the rest. There is a small space between those words and the next, carved in a clumsier and deeper hand.
Sacrifice for progress, progress for happiness, and happiness is its own reward in itself. This is how that life should be. I can only hope that they were happy when they died. We who remain are not happier for their loss.
Below that, and again the style is different. It is more similar to the first, but smoother, more careful, the blackness around it intact and full.
Progress means moving on, progress means leaving things behind. We cannot move forward if things stay the same. But I can not help but think that this was not the progress that we needed. It does'nt feel right that progress should create misery such as this. Mayhaps for once we should have been content. We who remain are immovable for their loss.
The writing below that is smoother still and flush with the floor, and beneath it lies the dust of it's creation. It looks the most recently carved, but still it seems older than the oldest of graves, the ones where the writing has faded to naught.
We can not give them the sun. We can not bury them with their families. But we can give them light, we can give them flowers, we can give them water. Perhaps they will be happy with that. We who remain must hope so.
There is nothing more after that. The walls are as silent as the air, as empty as the graves that lay here. ...And how long had they laid here? How long had they been empty? How long had this altar, this mat, these candles stood, a shrine to people long dead? How long had it been since the writing had been carved? And above all, who had kept it clean all these years? Who, for these forgotten souls still cared, despite their graves being barren? Who on earth would come this far down into the impossible and dangerous labyrinth of tunnels to pray for people long dead and long gone?
There's a quiet crunch of gravel behind the open door. Turning, something catches the light and recoils. It does not leave, however. It stares, eyes huge and red, confused and angry.
The candles are snuffed with a whisper.
The light glows, fades, and disappears into the glass.
Everything becomes dark.
Architecture
The room is a cave dug out of the surrounding rock, walls seemingly once smooth but now jagged and uneven, shored up with wood where large chunks are missing It is simple to see what it old and what it new; the additions are the same stone as everywhere else, a plain, familiar grey, while the room itself, the floor and ceiling and walls, are hard and black, charred beyond recognition.
History
Spoiler warning: this article contains details important to the plot of the story. Important details are obscured, but may be revealed by choice.
the banished mages practiced their magic. Ritual circles were scribed into the floor, books piled up in corners. Here they tried to find some semblance of home in the caves, not by adapting themselves, but by adapting what was around them.
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It didn't last long. They hadn't quite figured out that when dealing with powerful magic there always had to be a cost. Too many earth-changing spells caused them to pay with their lives, a burst of magical fire hotter than hell and brighter than the sun they'd lost exploding with their spell, burning everything beyond repair or survival The cost seemed steep, but to do what they did it was barely a fraction of what they caused to happen. Of the few who survived the event (due in equal parts to their formless souls being exactly what the spell needed, the strong final wishes they clung to as they died and what seemed then and now to be an honest-to-goodness divine intervention) ones who did not immediately flee or die soon after buried what remained of the bodies in the room, since there were no graveyards down here, nor would the graveyards above ground accept them, and this seemed as apt a place as any.
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They dug up the ground as best they could, and buried them in the rubble this created. After this was done, a eulogy was carved in the wall for them; short, sad and mostly left in case the survivors died and someone in the future found this place.
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It didn't seem right to leave them there alone though, so soon the survivors returned with marble and candle and book and velvet, setting up a simple shrine at which to pray, and tell their friends of what progress they had made in finding the sun. Sometimes, when they were overcome with emotion or things were going badly, they would carve another message into the stone, how much they missed them. How lost they were without them.
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Before they managed to find the sun, they found something else, even deeper in the ground. A cave full of light, and plants, and water. A forest underground. Life. Giant insects and amphibians and arachnids that looked very, very familiar, and knew them by name. It was the best place for their souls to rest, the closest thing to the sun and the air and peace that they had found, so carefully, gently, they exhumed the bodies and buried them there, by the shore. They did not, however, move the altar; this room was still special to them, and this was still where they would pray, until the day came that they no longer had anything left to tell their friends. Every week they returned, cleaning, dusting, shoring up slowly collapsing walls, replacing worn beams and speaking into the silence, keeping the crumbling room in some semblance of safe and tidy for the sake of those who had once laid here.
RUINED STRUCTURE
5th July, 1854
5th July, 1854
Type
Barrow / Burial ground
Parent Location
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Amazing work, loved the spoilers. You do know that you can now name them right ? Also I would suggest that you use the quote bbcode for your quotes. Very well done
World Anvil Founder & Chief Grease Monkey
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“No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.” - Aesop
No I didn't, and thank you for telling me! I really appreciate the tip! ^-^