The Earth-Wanderer
The earth-wanderer once found peace in the grip of his steel and the chaos of battle. His only company now are the memories of empire, hardships, fierce slaughters—the fall of dear kinsmen. His excitement for battle has taken its place among these fond memories and replaced with a frigid purpose. Forced to hunt a formless enemy across the spiral of centuries, fully-fixed is his fate.
But even the frost-cold logic of the earth-wanderer is at times melted on the endless horizons of his journey. Ever since he covered his heart-borne in the darkness of the earth, he has crossed the woven stings of fate with downcast spirit, winter-sad for a return to the halls where once he wore crown, a place near in his mind, but crumbled in time. There are none left to speak to of his troubles or to express his hardened identity. Over time, he learned it is a law of survival for man to lock tight his heart’s coffin, a sepulcher of dreams. The words of the weary-hearted cannot stand against fate, nor those of a damned angel bring help. Thus he, far removed from any place called home, centuries older than the branded souls of his departed kinsmen, has had to fasten with thorns the secret of his tale. But the eye of the world keeps record of its conquerors and remembers the once-King of man with fondness. Though man was created fleeting and fickle, the King shattered this fate, and the direction of the world with it.
Man’s future-King was not heaven-sent, though his deeds were often compared to gods’. Torn away from family the moment he learned to hold sword, the future-King learned quickly the laws of the world. All men were nomadic. The world was one amorphous state, the sword its only law. There could be no injustice for there was no normalcy. Every moment was hell, every trust a betrayal lying in wait, every gate fastened with loose nails, every man a beast at breaking point. Those who settled were raided. Those who raided grew fat on riches and were raided. The King survived by raiding and spreading his riches among his men. In this way, he and his tribe remained vigilant, and grew stronger. His legend spread. Eventually, his flag was waved alongside every warlord’s army. After several battles and generals won over, he began to build.
A gargantuan castle was erected; a monument to his achievement over the bitter, impartial earth. Settled at the navel of the country, the intelligentsia and warriors gathered to the castle by his decree. The folk of the low-plains, the forests and mountains, inhuman and magical by nature, took active audience in the halls of the King. Legions of retainers studied his strategies. An army of armor-clad youths chanted his name. How he now longs to hear their voices again. How he damns the one who struck the life from their chests, who gained the favor of the god made by man and laid waste to his kingdom where once giant works of stone immortalized the earth-wanderer’s glory.
But lo, though the King had a mighty dream for the future, the fringes of his kingdom were in shambles. The construction of the capital itself took a decade of taxes and lives to complete. In the empire’s far reaches, peasants only heard word of the King when a heavy tax or decree for slave work was announced. The seeds of unrest were planted. Rumors of imperial debauchery spread like a disease along the worn roads tread by the slaves. The sun lit up the golden carvings among the capital’s skyline, while the shadow beneath it fostered famine, ruin and death.
Rebellion erupted in the east in a monastery. A revered wise man was making public sermons, campaigning against the ‘tyrannical king, the slave of mankind.’ The intelligentsia of the empire advised the king to kill the priest without disturbance. But the King was wise. His faculties extended beyond the short-sightedness of his hundred-fold sages and learned men. He invited the wise man to the imperial capital to have public discourse on his failings as emperor. The wise man obliged, and crossed the slave roads. Each night he prepared arguments for the discourse, determined to bring a softer, human element to the totalitarian power of the King. But he did not get his chance.
On peaceful nights when not courting, young squires roamed the forbidden halls of the castle and heard a madman’s howl from the tallest tower. Of the few who snuck past the sleeping guards, fewer still were brave enough to peek through the small, gated opening on the barred door. The wise man had become mad with time and the failings of his dream. His face was a torn canvas of scratches and scars of his own design, his lips pulled back in an endless laughter, his eyes sewn shut with the threads of his garments. He prayed to god, who could not respond, for release.
It began gently, almost tauntingly. Rain and winds battered the golden rooftops of the empire. Balls of hail littered the cobbled streets and etched mars into the intricate statues of the courtyard. The King of man saw this from his throne, in the center of his kingdom, now the center of the world, and smiled. Nature was begging for collapse in her own feeble way. But he was proud, and would not subside. Soon, a ravenous storm overtook the land. Sages from far-off lands began looming, craving audience, raving of a spiritual gulf growing in the world.
Fear, like a chink in armor, soon splintered the King’s confident gaze. His wife had taken ill, and then his only son. In grief, the King locked himself in his chamber. But his grief would not end with the loss of his heart-borne. It took only one glance to the countryside to find the world was collapsing. In the west, a vast fire spread like a tidal wave, ushering the beasts of the forests to the empire, ravenous for food. From the north, giants of the sky gathered, perched on the trees and mountaintops, craving the blood they smelled spread across the empire through their keen sense. Bounding from the east, ogres and rock-golems were driven mad with some dread spell. The oceans to the south sent no violent emissaries. They ebbed and swelled, having all the time in the world for the vengeance which was nigh.
The empire was in shambles, but the castle stood firm. Though its walls were battered and cracked by the perpetual thrashing from the invaders, the stone fortress held. But after burying his wife and son, the King finally drew his sword. He summoned the greatest warlords from the fingers of all his lands to battle the horde. Bypassing tradition, ancient sages came from the forests and mountains to help the King of Kings fight against the oncoming legion. And atop his high tower, the madman still prayed. He could no longer sleep, so driven was his zeal. It had been so long now that he began to hear a reassuring heartbeat pounding louder and louder from the abyss of his soul. God answers all His children’s prayers. As he heard God’s heart grow louder, so did the madman’s own heart grow fainter. His sewn-shut eyes parted with a final tear as his body fell forward and he whispered aloud,
“God?” And so it began.
The clouds parted. To an outsider, it must have been a vision from hell. Four ghosts swam out from the heavens, soaring like sinister clouds, encircling, demolishing the once-great kingdom; the lone King at the forefront of his army, defenseless against the spirit-borne assault, never acknowledging his defeat. Not even when the statues crumbled and the arches and columns came crashing down atop the bodies of one-thousand spearmen did the King's tenacity for battle hinder. He called to his flanks, to the forest folk who once assured the King of the spirit world’s loyalty, and saw them struck down one by one by their own conjured subordinates. All defenses lost, the King drew both swords valiantly and claimed the heads of ten dragons from the east, their teeth still flossed with the violet robes of ancient sages. The King was a whirlwind of violence, dodging lightning and hellfire at every step, piercing and twirling with deadly grace towards the tower, where he knew the madman’s corpse had called this hell upon his empire. But his body was scalded by the heat and torn asunder from the ferocity of the battle.
He lay, panting his last breath with his sword in hand on the battlefield of his empire. His took in his last human vision, a great crimson light that engulfed the mountains and the villagers resting at the foothills of his kingdom's throne. A terrible wave of screams shook the land. The horrible, red light grew brighter as it approached. All creation shook as the mighty King's body was branded by the madman’s spell. And the King, who wrestled with angels and demons this night, who once cast aside the borders of the world for unity among mankind, fell. His body lay among the charred remains of his empire. The black sun over his kingdom regressed.
Time passed, and the world moved on, away from unity, falling further into disarray. The remains of man clung to a myriad of fickle leaders without dream or vision. Frightened by the legend of the fallen king, man turned to a book of scripture which provided reason and light to the dark cruelties of the world. And under the veil of reason, man turned its back on its violent past.
Creatures of the night which no sage could tame or trap slowly disappeared into shadow. The elves who once followed children through the outskirts of villages, taunting, daring and begging for mischief, became recluses. The wise dwarves retreated into the hollows of the earth, never to return to the surface of a world that for the next millennia, would belong to man.
The lone survivor of the kingdom for all of man awoke to a world he no longer recognized. Alone, among the ashes and bones of his greatest admirers, he struggled, driven mad by the empty wasteland of his crushed dream. Depression seeped in through the broken remains of his body, a taunting brand mocked his chest. Defeat washed over his old glory as he wandered, blackened faced, mutilated, he began to question if he were ever even real. He felt like an actor in someone else’s tale. But he would wander deep within the crevices of the earth, across the oceans and in the forests now hidden to man, he would find purpose. And in his struggle he would find hope. In search of purpose, in search of a familiar face, reeking of death, searching for revenge. The final look on the madman’s face was of glory and majesty, of enlightenment despite the hell he had created. This would never be erased from the now-hollowed sockets of the earth-wanderer's skull. His charge now is protection. His charge now is freedom.
__________________
Author's notes:
This is my answer to the famous Berserk question, "What happened 1000 years ago?" It goes without saying that to fully understand the implications of 'The Earth-Wanderer', you need to have read volume 10 and Idea's conversation with Griffith.
It was inspired by the poem The Wanderer (click for poem) written in Anglo-saxon english. The similarities between germanic tribes in those times (800-1000 A.D.) and Gaiseric's origin have always been fascinating to me.
It was very difficult to write, and I hope you enjoyed it.
The earth-wanderer once found peace in the grip of his steel and the chaos of battle. His only company now are the memories of empire, hardships, fierce slaughters—the fall of dear kinsmen. His excitement for battle has taken its place among these fond memories and replaced with a frigid purpose. Forced to hunt a formless enemy across the spiral of centuries, fully-fixed is his fate.
But even the frost-cold logic of the earth-wanderer is at times melted on the endless horizons of his journey. Ever since he covered his heart-borne in the darkness of the earth, he has crossed the woven stings of fate with downcast spirit, winter-sad for a return to the halls where once he wore crown, a place near in his mind, but crumbled in time. There are none left to speak to of his troubles or to express his hardened identity. Over time, he learned it is a law of survival for man to lock tight his heart’s coffin, a sepulcher of dreams. The words of the weary-hearted cannot stand against fate, nor those of a damned angel bring help. Thus he, far removed from any place called home, centuries older than the branded souls of his departed kinsmen, has had to fasten with thorns the secret of his tale. But the eye of the world keeps record of its conquerors and remembers the once-King of man with fondness. Though man was created fleeting and fickle, the King shattered this fate, and the direction of the world with it.
Man’s future-King was not heaven-sent, though his deeds were often compared to gods’. Torn away from family the moment he learned to hold sword, the future-King learned quickly the laws of the world. All men were nomadic. The world was one amorphous state, the sword its only law. There could be no injustice for there was no normalcy. Every moment was hell, every trust a betrayal lying in wait, every gate fastened with loose nails, every man a beast at breaking point. Those who settled were raided. Those who raided grew fat on riches and were raided. The King survived by raiding and spreading his riches among his men. In this way, he and his tribe remained vigilant, and grew stronger. His legend spread. Eventually, his flag was waved alongside every warlord’s army. After several battles and generals won over, he began to build.
A gargantuan castle was erected; a monument to his achievement over the bitter, impartial earth. Settled at the navel of the country, the intelligentsia and warriors gathered to the castle by his decree. The folk of the low-plains, the forests and mountains, inhuman and magical by nature, took active audience in the halls of the King. Legions of retainers studied his strategies. An army of armor-clad youths chanted his name. How he now longs to hear their voices again. How he damns the one who struck the life from their chests, who gained the favor of the god made by man and laid waste to his kingdom where once giant works of stone immortalized the earth-wanderer’s glory.
But lo, though the King had a mighty dream for the future, the fringes of his kingdom were in shambles. The construction of the capital itself took a decade of taxes and lives to complete. In the empire’s far reaches, peasants only heard word of the King when a heavy tax or decree for slave work was announced. The seeds of unrest were planted. Rumors of imperial debauchery spread like a disease along the worn roads tread by the slaves. The sun lit up the golden carvings among the capital’s skyline, while the shadow beneath it fostered famine, ruin and death.
Rebellion erupted in the east in a monastery. A revered wise man was making public sermons, campaigning against the ‘tyrannical king, the slave of mankind.’ The intelligentsia of the empire advised the king to kill the priest without disturbance. But the King was wise. His faculties extended beyond the short-sightedness of his hundred-fold sages and learned men. He invited the wise man to the imperial capital to have public discourse on his failings as emperor. The wise man obliged, and crossed the slave roads. Each night he prepared arguments for the discourse, determined to bring a softer, human element to the totalitarian power of the King. But he did not get his chance.
On peaceful nights when not courting, young squires roamed the forbidden halls of the castle and heard a madman’s howl from the tallest tower. Of the few who snuck past the sleeping guards, fewer still were brave enough to peek through the small, gated opening on the barred door. The wise man had become mad with time and the failings of his dream. His face was a torn canvas of scratches and scars of his own design, his lips pulled back in an endless laughter, his eyes sewn shut with the threads of his garments. He prayed to god, who could not respond, for release.
It began gently, almost tauntingly. Rain and winds battered the golden rooftops of the empire. Balls of hail littered the cobbled streets and etched mars into the intricate statues of the courtyard. The King of man saw this from his throne, in the center of his kingdom, now the center of the world, and smiled. Nature was begging for collapse in her own feeble way. But he was proud, and would not subside. Soon, a ravenous storm overtook the land. Sages from far-off lands began looming, craving audience, raving of a spiritual gulf growing in the world.
Fear, like a chink in armor, soon splintered the King’s confident gaze. His wife had taken ill, and then his only son. In grief, the King locked himself in his chamber. But his grief would not end with the loss of his heart-borne. It took only one glance to the countryside to find the world was collapsing. In the west, a vast fire spread like a tidal wave, ushering the beasts of the forests to the empire, ravenous for food. From the north, giants of the sky gathered, perched on the trees and mountaintops, craving the blood they smelled spread across the empire through their keen sense. Bounding from the east, ogres and rock-golems were driven mad with some dread spell. The oceans to the south sent no violent emissaries. They ebbed and swelled, having all the time in the world for the vengeance which was nigh.
The empire was in shambles, but the castle stood firm. Though its walls were battered and cracked by the perpetual thrashing from the invaders, the stone fortress held. But after burying his wife and son, the King finally drew his sword. He summoned the greatest warlords from the fingers of all his lands to battle the horde. Bypassing tradition, ancient sages came from the forests and mountains to help the King of Kings fight against the oncoming legion. And atop his high tower, the madman still prayed. He could no longer sleep, so driven was his zeal. It had been so long now that he began to hear a reassuring heartbeat pounding louder and louder from the abyss of his soul. God answers all His children’s prayers. As he heard God’s heart grow louder, so did the madman’s own heart grow fainter. His sewn-shut eyes parted with a final tear as his body fell forward and he whispered aloud,
“God?” And so it began.
The clouds parted. To an outsider, it must have been a vision from hell. Four ghosts swam out from the heavens, soaring like sinister clouds, encircling, demolishing the once-great kingdom; the lone King at the forefront of his army, defenseless against the spirit-borne assault, never acknowledging his defeat. Not even when the statues crumbled and the arches and columns came crashing down atop the bodies of one-thousand spearmen did the King's tenacity for battle hinder. He called to his flanks, to the forest folk who once assured the King of the spirit world’s loyalty, and saw them struck down one by one by their own conjured subordinates. All defenses lost, the King drew both swords valiantly and claimed the heads of ten dragons from the east, their teeth still flossed with the violet robes of ancient sages. The King was a whirlwind of violence, dodging lightning and hellfire at every step, piercing and twirling with deadly grace towards the tower, where he knew the madman’s corpse had called this hell upon his empire. But his body was scalded by the heat and torn asunder from the ferocity of the battle.
He lay, panting his last breath with his sword in hand on the battlefield of his empire. His took in his last human vision, a great crimson light that engulfed the mountains and the villagers resting at the foothills of his kingdom's throne. A terrible wave of screams shook the land. The horrible, red light grew brighter as it approached. All creation shook as the mighty King's body was branded by the madman’s spell. And the King, who wrestled with angels and demons this night, who once cast aside the borders of the world for unity among mankind, fell. His body lay among the charred remains of his empire. The black sun over his kingdom regressed.
Time passed, and the world moved on, away from unity, falling further into disarray. The remains of man clung to a myriad of fickle leaders without dream or vision. Frightened by the legend of the fallen king, man turned to a book of scripture which provided reason and light to the dark cruelties of the world. And under the veil of reason, man turned its back on its violent past.
Creatures of the night which no sage could tame or trap slowly disappeared into shadow. The elves who once followed children through the outskirts of villages, taunting, daring and begging for mischief, became recluses. The wise dwarves retreated into the hollows of the earth, never to return to the surface of a world that for the next millennia, would belong to man.
The lone survivor of the kingdom for all of man awoke to a world he no longer recognized. Alone, among the ashes and bones of his greatest admirers, he struggled, driven mad by the empty wasteland of his crushed dream. Depression seeped in through the broken remains of his body, a taunting brand mocked his chest. Defeat washed over his old glory as he wandered, blackened faced, mutilated, he began to question if he were ever even real. He felt like an actor in someone else’s tale. But he would wander deep within the crevices of the earth, across the oceans and in the forests now hidden to man, he would find purpose. And in his struggle he would find hope. In search of purpose, in search of a familiar face, reeking of death, searching for revenge. The final look on the madman’s face was of glory and majesty, of enlightenment despite the hell he had created. This would never be erased from the now-hollowed sockets of the earth-wanderer's skull. His charge now is protection. His charge now is freedom.
__________________
Author's notes:
This is my answer to the famous Berserk question, "What happened 1000 years ago?" It goes without saying that to fully understand the implications of 'The Earth-Wanderer', you need to have read volume 10 and Idea's conversation with Griffith.
It was inspired by the poem The Wanderer (click for poem) written in Anglo-saxon english. The similarities between germanic tribes in those times (800-1000 A.D.) and Gaiseric's origin have always been fascinating to me.
It was very difficult to write, and I hope you enjoyed it.
