Eryndor, The First Agonized One

The First Agonized One

They say it happened in a time of quiet unraveling, when the world grew brittle and the air thickened like the pages of an old book, ready to crumble. The sun hung unmoving in the sky, casting shadows that stretched and twisted as if unsure where they belonged. Mountains shuddered, rivers flowed sluggishly, and in the stillness that crept across the land, even the birds grew silent.

In a forgotten village, nestled in the shadow of an ancient forest, there lived a humble man named Eryndor. His life was one of hardship, worn thin by hunger and burdened by debts he could never repay. Yet, through all his struggles, Eryndor held an unbreakable spirit, a quiet flame that refused to dim. He shared his last scraps with neighbors, laughed with children in the village square, and offered a hand to the weary. His heart held a warmth that lingered, even as the world grew colder.

One evening, as he sat alone by the edge of the village, a raven appeared, its black feathers gleaming faintly in the dying light. It perched just beyond his reach, fixing Eryndor with a gaze that seemed to hold the weight of secrets too vast for mortal hearts. Though it spoke no words, he felt its meaning as a silent urging—a call to shoulder a burden he could not yet comprehend.

The raven returned the next night, its feathers now darker, woven from the night itself. Its eyes held the quiet anguish of a world unheeded, urging him to leave behind the warmth of the village and walk the lands alone, bearing the grief of those he would meet along the way.

But on the third night, the raven did not return.

Instead, a figure emerged from the shadows. Towering, hollow, it seemed carved from the very essence of night. Its face—a mask of smooth, plaster-like stone, split by deep cracks that ran like scars—was unfeeling, stripped of any semblance of mercy or wrath. Eyes hollow and ancient stared through him, a cold, relentless gaze that unraveled his spirit, peeling away any sense of self. The being’s vastness was impossible, stretching beyond what the eye could see, its presence filling the air as if the land itself trembled beneath it. Chains coiled around its form, binding its movements, pulling it low in a way that was both unnatural and aching, as if something far away kept it from truly rising. It keened toward him, bending unnaturally, its face leveling with his in a single, bone-deep motion.

Eryndor's breath caught, his courage wavering under that hollow stare. Yet somehow, in the silence, he understood: “Bear the sorrow of the world,” the gaze seemed to say. “Endure, for the sake of those who cannot.” Without sound or gesture, it withdrew, leaving a dagger upon the ground—a small, slender thing, bearing an edge that shimmered as though it had witnessed dark rites. With trembling hands, Eryndor took it up, not yet aware of what he carried.

So began his journey—a pilgrimage bound in silence.

Through barren fields, haunted forests, and lands scarred by unhealed wounds, Eryndor walked. At first, he held his spirit high, finding strength in each step. But the weight of unspoken sorrows grew heavy, gnawing into his bones. He bore witness to suffering in every form, each sorrow binding itself to his soul like a chain forged from despair. With every step, his spirit frayed, his mind darkening, shadows lingering at the edges of his vision as if waiting to consume him.

In time, the burden twisted his body, his heart hollowing into a vessel for the world’s pain. He became a ghost, drifting through villages that knew not his name, his hands carrying wounds that no balm could heal. He fought against the weight, struggling to hold himself upright, to remember the warmth he once carried. But his strength faded, his hope thinning, until even the memory of his former spirit felt like a distant dream.

And so, on a night as silent as a grave, Eryndor found himself by the edge of a blackened river, his weary hands trembling around the dagger’s hilt. He stared into its faint glimmer, the cold metal catching the last dying light. For a moment, he saw himself—a hollow shell, a man crushed beneath a weight he could no longer carry. The river reflected nothing but shadows, thick and dark as ink.

There, by the river’s edge, he pressed the blade to his chest, feeling the cold seep into his skin. And in that final, unseen moment, the chains within him shattered with a sound like distant thunder, a tremor that rippled across the land. As he fell, his vision dimmed, and above him, he glimpsed the raven once more, circling high like a silent sentinel, its gaze fixed upon him.

With that final look, the burdens he had sought to carry spilled forth, flooding the earth like a broken dam.

Where he lay, the land grew cold. Rivers turned thick and still, reflecting skies fractured as though by some ancient, unhealed wound. Forests withered into shadowed husks, and mountains rose in silent witness, casting lands into perpetual shadow. The gods gave no answer, their temples lay empty, and those who sought solace found only echoes.

The raven circled above, scattering fragments of Eryndor’s broken chains like dying stars across the night sky. In his fall, pain rooted itself in every corner of the world, a reminder of a promise left unfulfilled. His name, though whispered as legend, became a warning to those who would seek to bear others’ suffering alone.

And some say that, even now, the raven soars across the heavens, a silent harbinger of sorrow woven into the world’s fabric. Its scattered chains are fragments of a promise, held in the balance of a tale too vast to grasp, a reminder that, in bearing another’s pain, one risks becoming the very shadow they seek to dispel.