Metalocalypse - The Dawn Of The Light (PG)
He opened his eyes, not even aware that they had been closed, feeling a gentle breeze blowing into his face, lightly ruffling his hair. The view was breathtaking. He was standing in an endless golden field, tall brown grasses dancing leisurely in the air, as the sun rose ahead over the horizon. A watercolour of bronze and gold, oranges and peaches, casting tiny glowing blossoms onto the tips of the grass as they bathed in the glow.
The dawn of all light.
He had always assumed that the 'bright light' people talked about seeing at the end of all things would simply be a white haze, or maybe a pinpoint of cold silver piercing through from the end of a long tunnel. This was not what he would have expected, had he stopped to consider it when he was alive.
Which, he was fairly sure, he wasn't now.
Again, that wasn't something he had expected either. Not that he had planned on invincibility, of course, but he had evaded the assassin twice – defeated him, even, on one occasion. It seemed a waste to have failed now. But as he breathed in the fresh air and gazed at the horizon, he remembered the burn of the arrow tearing through his chest, and the panic as he realised that his head couldn't possibly withstand the beating that followed. He lifted a graceful hand to his cheek, feeling smooth, unbroken skin, slightly warm in the sun's glow.
He had nothing left to do now. His job was done. He had always vowed that he would protect the boys in any way possible, and he had.
Facing the warm glow in front of him, he wondered if perhaps he was supposed to go to it, if one could even reach it – perhaps it was like a rainbow, hanging in the sky but impossible to get to, as much as he had once tried to outrun one as a young boy. Looking around for some sort of sign, or clue as to what to do, he found nothing. No one. Nobody to show him the way.
He sighed. Of course there would be no one to meet him, who would? Most of the deceased people he had known had died because of him, either indirectly, or on occasion at his own hand. He knew of no family – he had long abandoned them in life, he had no idea if any of them were even on this side yet. He was utterly alone.
He fell to his knees with the weight of the knowledge, the bronzed grass brushing around his shoulders, and gasped, his heart aching with grief. No one was here. Eternity in this beautiful place, in utter desolation.
He choked back a sob, and muttered desperately, "Someone. Please, anyone!"
Lowering his head and blinking his damp eyes, he almost thought he imagined the huge black boots barely a foot from his knees, grass trampled beneath them. Slowly gazing up, he was met by wide green eyes framed by long black tresses blowing in the breeze, the line of each stray hair bathed in a golden glow.
"Nathan?"
The singer nodded, his expression sad, as he wordlessly held out a hand.
It was gratefully accepted, and as he was pulled from his knees by the other man, he was barely aware of the warm light disappearing.
He opened his eyes once more, to thick billowing smoke and flames licking at the sky above him. The air was no longer fresh, but tasted acrid, soot and ash invading his airways. He felt the ground under his back, the warm blood running down his face, the agony of every breath he took, and he let out a feeble cry.
The same green eyes came into view, and gazed at his own – no longer sad, but relieved. "Guys, he's alive!"
Ofdensen knew that for years to come he would wonder whether he imagined the offer of a large, calloused hand in the field, or if Nathan had really been there. He also knew that he would never have the courage to ask the man himself.
The dawn of all light.
He had always assumed that the 'bright light' people talked about seeing at the end of all things would simply be a white haze, or maybe a pinpoint of cold silver piercing through from the end of a long tunnel. This was not what he would have expected, had he stopped to consider it when he was alive.
Which, he was fairly sure, he wasn't now.
Again, that wasn't something he had expected either. Not that he had planned on invincibility, of course, but he had evaded the assassin twice – defeated him, even, on one occasion. It seemed a waste to have failed now. But as he breathed in the fresh air and gazed at the horizon, he remembered the burn of the arrow tearing through his chest, and the panic as he realised that his head couldn't possibly withstand the beating that followed. He lifted a graceful hand to his cheek, feeling smooth, unbroken skin, slightly warm in the sun's glow.
He had nothing left to do now. His job was done. He had always vowed that he would protect the boys in any way possible, and he had.
Facing the warm glow in front of him, he wondered if perhaps he was supposed to go to it, if one could even reach it – perhaps it was like a rainbow, hanging in the sky but impossible to get to, as much as he had once tried to outrun one as a young boy. Looking around for some sort of sign, or clue as to what to do, he found nothing. No one. Nobody to show him the way.
He sighed. Of course there would be no one to meet him, who would? Most of the deceased people he had known had died because of him, either indirectly, or on occasion at his own hand. He knew of no family – he had long abandoned them in life, he had no idea if any of them were even on this side yet. He was utterly alone.
He fell to his knees with the weight of the knowledge, the bronzed grass brushing around his shoulders, and gasped, his heart aching with grief. No one was here. Eternity in this beautiful place, in utter desolation.
He choked back a sob, and muttered desperately, "Someone. Please, anyone!"
Lowering his head and blinking his damp eyes, he almost thought he imagined the huge black boots barely a foot from his knees, grass trampled beneath them. Slowly gazing up, he was met by wide green eyes framed by long black tresses blowing in the breeze, the line of each stray hair bathed in a golden glow.
"Nathan?"
The singer nodded, his expression sad, as he wordlessly held out a hand.
It was gratefully accepted, and as he was pulled from his knees by the other man, he was barely aware of the warm light disappearing.
He opened his eyes once more, to thick billowing smoke and flames licking at the sky above him. The air was no longer fresh, but tasted acrid, soot and ash invading his airways. He felt the ground under his back, the warm blood running down his face, the agony of every breath he took, and he let out a feeble cry.
The same green eyes came into view, and gazed at his own – no longer sad, but relieved. "Guys, he's alive!"
Ofdensen knew that for years to come he would wonder whether he imagined the offer of a large, calloused hand in the field, or if Nathan had really been there. He also knew that he would never have the courage to ask the man himself.
Inspired by Send Me An Angel by Scorpions:
The wise man said just walk this way to the dawn of the light
The wind will blow into your face as the years pass you by
Hear this voice from deep inside, it's the call of your heart
Close your eyes and your will find the passage out of the dark
Here I am, will you send me an angel?
Here I am, in the land of the morning star
The wise man said just walk this way to the dawn of the light
The wind will blow into your face as the years pass you by
Hear this voice from deep inside, it's the call of your heart
Close your eyes and your will find the passage out of the dark
Here I am, will you send me an angel?
Here I am, in the land of the morning star
Author's note: I wrote a sequel to this after the Season 2 finale cliffhangers were resolved in Season 3, called Alive, which can be read here.