Otherworldly

The Plane of Mist: where islands of bliss float on a glistening sea of clouds. An old truth of a dying era. Golden rays of sunlight stretched up from the horizon like the flailing arms of a drowning man, clawing at a snow white sky streaked with purple. From below, a cool empty breeze swept upwards like rasping breaths. Perhaps dusk would one day end, and night would reign eternal. I tried to purge the thought from my mind, but it remained with roots entrenched. There were more pressing matters at hand.

Glassy fog had covered the earth beneath our feet like a funeral pall. It would soon swallow all. We had already waited too long. For months, the tide had been climbing steadily, further and further up our glade amidst the ocean; its tranquil waves belied its gluttinous nature. First the Ringstones were taken. Then the Winter Brook, and the winery. Only the village remained atop its quaint little hill. It was the only home we had ever known. A place where tomorrow never came and dour rain never fell. The scent of fresh bread had always wafted in the air, intertwining with the flowers which were forever in bloom. Where joy was abundant and we were all forever young. Soon it would be gone. Engulfed by the endless, lightless void below.

With sorrowful eyes, I turned to survey the horizon. It was barren. No other islands, no other ships, nothing at all. We had watched them all sink into the shimmering sea one after another. Some stubborn residents had refused to leave, preferring to succumb to the abyss with their homes than to venture outwards to unknown lands. Those who did leave often docked their vessels on our shores and pleaded for safe haven. Of course, we obliged our neighbours, granting them food and shelter without any catch. But when our home began its descent, they were the first to leave. To desolate horizons they set sail and we never heard from them again.

As we loaded supplies onto our boat, the songbirds' melody changed. Their usual blithe chorus sounded more akin to a dirge; dreary notes of lament spelt the end of an aeons-long ballad. Our last passengers climbed aboard with sorrowful faces and heavy hearts. For the next few days, weeks, or months, this little sloop will be our home upon the ocean; our companion on an odyssesy to chase the horizon. Doubt swelled in my mind. Perhaps we were the last. Perhaps everyone else was already gone, taken by the tides and entombed beneath fathomless darkness. How long could we sail without sight of land before our provisions ran low and our hope turned to dread? I glanced across our small band and saw similar fears barely shackled behind their nervous eyes. Not a word escaped their lips; the melancholy birdsong said all that was needed.

Most of those who would be staying had come to watch us depart. Many could not bear the thought of leaving their centuries-old homes and would rather face oblivion on familiar ground than chance being forever lost on distant tides. Some had become delusional. They had convinced themselves that our glade would be special and would not succumb to the fog. I questioned how they could remain so ignorant when the ocean so clearly creeped further and further up our shores. Alas, their minds were set - they would stay.

We bid farewell to our neighbours and friends who we would never meet again, and raised the anchor. Our sails fluttered as the wind breathed life into them. The sea was still. No wave jostled or rocked our hull, nor did any turbulent wind harry our sails. As we carved through the endless white mist, I cast a forlorn glance back to our old home. Sleepy cottages and quaint windmills began to slowly sink into the distance, their details fading away until they were just small grey slabs leaning against the twilit sky. Their shapes were like sombre gravestones in a cemetery upon a dreary hillside. Out here, far from land, the silence of our rotting world began to fester. In days gone by, the wind gently carried whimsical melodies upon its draughts, as well as calling birds who soared through the air. Only the creaking of our vessel remained. I feared this silence would only swell.

Now, only I remain. The loneliest soul in the world. My weary hands trace the scratched planks, my tired eyes watch the tattered sails. The world grows darker each day as the aeon's long sunset draws ever closer to nightfall. Another endless expanse of barren mist stretches out before me, the same as the day before that and every other day since we left. I let my head sag to stare down into the clouds below. Soon I will join the others, but not today. Our provisions are still abundant; they go a lot further with only one mouth to feed. Isolation, however, is not as easily cured as hunger.

All I feel is regret.