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Short Story: "The Door"
The door appeared once every five hundred years, high on the wall of an icy cavern. And it remained for only one night, when the moon rose in just the right trajectory, and revealed a path to it.
No one knew exactly what lay behind the door, for many who sought to pass through it never returned, bested by the cold, or cut down by other men with the same goal in mind. It was rumored to lead to the thrones of the gods, who would grant the wish of the first person to cross the threshold.
And a rumor was more than worth fighting for.
It was to die for.
Gidren pulled the sword out of the man’s stomach, drawing the blade against his frail, grasping hands, coaxing out crimson blooms in its wake. When at last the man ceased to flail and moan in the pool of his own blood, Gidren turned toward the door.
He was here.
He was first.
He limped to the door, beaten and bloodied from his climb, dragging his soiled sword behind him. Just one touch, a gentle push, and he would have all he’d ever desired.
But what was it that he desired? He seemed to have forgotten.
Indeed, his thoughts spun, unable to retrieve so much as a scrap of why he’d left his home this day, why he’d joined the mad dash to this fabled door. In its place were memories of a different sort, fresher, more sinister. The shouts of fighting men, the cries of the fallen. The looks of anger and determination, and, later, of pain and shock and desperation. The blood that ran freely, steaming against cold stone; the blood that sullied his own hands, never before tainted with that of a man.
The thoughts of all who had perished before him.
Gidren had many wishes in his mind, now. But which one was his?
Food for my family, a cure for my wife. A miracle for my hometown, glory for my father. Power to rule all, riches to live like a god.
A sliver of light appeared on the wall, just above the door. Pale and gray at the start, it warmed with each passing moment, until it was a swath of gold, progressing steadily downward.
The sun.
Gidren wracked his brain, desperate to remember why he was here, desperate to beat the sunlight to the door.
The light grew, and crept lower.
Miracle, power, riches. Glory, food, cure. Did it matter? As long as he got to look upon the gods, as long as he was granted something.
Miracle, power, glory. Riches, food, cure.
He advanced toward the door, reached out to touch it.
Miracle, power, glory.
Miracle, power.
Miracle.
Indeed, he wished for a miracle, with all his soul, as the door faded in the sunlight and the path crumbled beneath him, plunging him into darkness, where he would need to think no more.
No one knew exactly what lay behind the door, for many who sought to pass through it never returned, bested by the cold, or cut down by other men with the same goal in mind. It was rumored to lead to the thrones of the gods, who would grant the wish of the first person to cross the threshold.
And a rumor was more than worth fighting for.
It was to die for.
Gidren pulled the sword out of the man’s stomach, drawing the blade against his frail, grasping hands, coaxing out crimson blooms in its wake. When at last the man ceased to flail and moan in the pool of his own blood, Gidren turned toward the door.
He was here.
He was first.
He limped to the door, beaten and bloodied from his climb, dragging his soiled sword behind him. Just one touch, a gentle push, and he would have all he’d ever desired.
But what was it that he desired? He seemed to have forgotten.
Indeed, his thoughts spun, unable to retrieve so much as a scrap of why he’d left his home this day, why he’d joined the mad dash to this fabled door. In its place were memories of a different sort, fresher, more sinister. The shouts of fighting men, the cries of the fallen. The looks of anger and determination, and, later, of pain and shock and desperation. The blood that ran freely, steaming against cold stone; the blood that sullied his own hands, never before tainted with that of a man.
The thoughts of all who had perished before him.
Gidren had many wishes in his mind, now. But which one was his?
Food for my family, a cure for my wife. A miracle for my hometown, glory for my father. Power to rule all, riches to live like a god.
A sliver of light appeared on the wall, just above the door. Pale and gray at the start, it warmed with each passing moment, until it was a swath of gold, progressing steadily downward.
The sun.
Gidren wracked his brain, desperate to remember why he was here, desperate to beat the sunlight to the door.
The light grew, and crept lower.
Miracle, power, riches. Glory, food, cure. Did it matter? As long as he got to look upon the gods, as long as he was granted something.
Miracle, power, glory. Riches, food, cure.
He advanced toward the door, reached out to touch it.
Miracle, power, glory.
Miracle, power.
Miracle.
Indeed, he wished for a miracle, with all his soul, as the door faded in the sunlight and the path crumbled beneath him, plunging him into darkness, where he would need to think no more.