Runaarayos

He didn’t know how long it had been since he lost feeling in his limbs.

He lay in the same position he had when he’d first come here, belly to stone, head thrown back, looking up, up at the sky, so petrifyingly clear at this elevated, isolated peak. There was no wind to stir his mane, no sun to warm his frozen claws, not even a drop of rain to make him blink, to save him from the horrors unfolding before his eyes.

And oh, what horrors.

He could see it all with terrible clarity, there in the stars. Every life he’d ever encountered, every soul touched in passing or dream, all torn apart. All blackened, charred, destroyed over and over and over. The seeping darkness was coming – up from the cracks, down from the sky. It was coming, had been coming for years, was already here, everywhere. Even here. Even inside him.

He felt like his mind was caught in a gravitational force – revolving again and again, watching the path of destruction circle forever as the blackness slowly burned through each tendon and string holding him together. Where was the dawn to save him from these visions? Where was his guide – the haggard old drake who had led him here, asking for help with his future?

Where was that noise coming from?

He heard footsteps, claws on stone far away, so far away. Perhaps it was only a dream – a soft imagining soon drowned by the agonized cries of those he loved, falling to blood and oblivion. Oh, no, not Elarion, please…how did I never seen this coming-

“Excuse me?”

A voice cut through his vision, making it waver like rippled glass. He tried to pull free but could not, sucked back in by the horrors. My king, I have failed you-

“Are you Runaarayos the Oracle?”

Where was this question coming from? It didn’t make sense, didn’t match the visions of destruction and horror before him.

Someone patted his shoulder with polite insistence. “I’m so sorry to interrupt,” said a businesslike, male voice, “But according to my studies, you’ve been put under a spell. Specifically, a spell of future terrors, designed by your nemesis, the enchantress Cendrillion. Do you have any objection to being freed?”

Slowly, so slowly, Runaarayos turned his head, his muscles screaming in protest. A tundra stood there among the carnage – his spellcaster’s robes, fussy spectacles and pink mane an ungodly contrast to the death and destruction raining all around him. Even as Runaarayos stared, the fellow was torn in two, was turned to ashes, was-

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then.” Said the tundra reaching up to lay a paw on Runaarayos’s face. The oracle could not understand the soft and fluff sensation of pads against his scales. Where was the pain, and the death. It came from above, it came from within-

“This will take me a minute,” the tundra spoke, apologetically. “I’ve never had to free someone from a mind-trap before. I’ve practiced, of course, just in case, but please bear with me…” He pulled out a spell book marked with the Arcane rune and flipped through it, paw still firmly on Runaarayos’ face. Rune could do no more but stare as the tundra put a toe on a specific page and began to read aloud, his eyes shining with power. This was it, the end was here. Death came for him at last, and-

The spell broke, and Runaarayos collapsed onto the stone, all strength gone out of him. He lay there, just breathing, barely hearing as the tundra fussed above.

“Yes, well…well, sorry, I didn’t realize…I suppose I should have foreseen that if one spends four hundred years under a spell, it may come as a bit of a shock tot he system to be woken-”

“Four…four hundred years?” Rune rasped, barely able to form the words.

“I’m afraid so.” The tundra padded over and sat by his side, his expression apologetic. “But well, better freed eventually than freed never?" He didn't sound at all sure. "To be honest, I think nobody knew you were even still alive, after the fall of your kingdom…”

Tears welled in the oracle’s eyes. So, that much of his visions had been true. Everything was lost. Everything. He lay still, the stone hard and cold under him as the hot water leaked down his cheeks. This was almost worse than the visions, being told…being told, so matter-of-factly, that everything is gone. “I should have died with them…” he rasped. “I should have…fallen, defending my king…” Oh, Mikal, he should have forseen…

“Yes, well…” The tundra cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. But, well. There WERE survivors, you know. You could track them down, find out what happened, and what you can do to…ah…avenge your destiny, or whatever it is you intend to do after.”

Runaaros thought this over, staring at the stone floor. Then he turned his gaze on the young tundra. “After…what?”

“After…well! After you help me, of course. I set you free, so now you owe me a debt.” The tundra pushed his glasses up his nose, looking nervous. Perhaps he wasn’t as sure as he pretended. “We just need a few answers from you, that’s all.”

Runaarayos raised his head slowly, staring at the tundra with some spark of his old, all-seeing gaze. “We?” Even as he asked it, he saw a shadow flicker behind the young tundra. A shadow with many ethereal arms, with blood stains and filed teeth, and a cold, calculating smile. The master of this little bespectacled puppet.

“Yes, we.” His savior said firmly.

“My father has questions for you.”