Eyes Wide Open

It had taken far too long, but Merrill had fumbled his way to what would hopefully be a steady source of water. Luckily, there had been little underbrush, mud, scree, or otherwise unstable footing on the way. The only hiccup had been a large boulder at the top of a shallow rise that Merrill had walked straight into, none the wiser. His shins still ached from the collision.

But that was in the past. It was the soon to be future that weighed more heavily on Merrill's mind.

He had yet to use his Eyes of Mystic Prying, genuinely afraid of the fallout. Not without reason, he supposed. The name said it all. They weren't Eyes of Mystic Viewing, or Seeking, but Prying – and that made all the difference in the world. Prying wasn't an action with benign or harmless connotations. To pry open a box, you didn't use a key or password. No, you got a crowbar and forced it open, whether it wanted to or not.

His eyes, on the other hand, forced himself to see things he wasn't ready for.

So perhaps he was about to use his eyes exactly as they were meant to be, even if it scared him. Peering behind the curtain of the mundane world was a reckless and dangerous action, but one that was necessary for those trying to understand the mysteries abound.

Yes, for a Mystery Pryer, understanding and danger worked hand in hand.

A strange feeling suffused his body for a short moment at the tail end of that thought. As if something were clearing up inside of him, leaving him feeling significantly better then he had before. He hadn't even noticed the issue before now, although it was nowhere close to being resolved.

Putting his water-related goal on hold, Merrill tried to figure out what had just occurred. It almost felt like his very soul had suddenly digested part of a heavy meal. It was a welcome change, whatever it was, on that his spiritual intuition agreed, but what was it and what was the cause?

It didn't take long for a connection to be formed in his head between what had happened and the art witchcraft – specifically, embodiment. By deciding to use his Mystic eyes of Prying as they were meant to, was he embodying their purpose? Or did defining what it meant to be a Mystery Pryer – what it meant to embody such a title – cause the subsequent reaction?

Perhaps it was both, or something in between the two. He wasn't sure yet, although he was confident he was on the right track. Although it did beg the question, was there a relationship between beyonders and witchcraft? It felt like too much of a coincidence that a method of one would also work so well for the other.

Again, it felt like something in his soul ever so slightly dissolved, albeit on a much smaller scale than before.

So why? What was it that was catalyzing these reactions in him?

He tracked back a few moments in his mind – grasping the connection between witchcraft and beyonders – was that it?

He doubted he'd come to a definitive answer right here, right now. He was getting distracted from his main purpose anyway. He licked his dry lips, determined to move forward on potable water.

A few clumsy steps later and Merrill could hear the movement of water as it streamed past him – he had arrived. For a second that seemed to stretch on, he hesitated, before steeling his nerves. He had said it himself, understanding and danger went hand in hand for a Mystery Pryer. If he wanted to know what this stream was about – discover if and how he could drink from it – then he had to look, no matter the risk.

With a deep breath, Merrill slid off his blindfold and for the first time since becoming a beyonder, he opened his eyes.

The brook before him was a small thing, thin and shallow with a slow meandering current. It –

The brook before him was a small thing, thin and shallow with a –

The brook before him was a small thing, thin and –

The brook before him was a small thing –

The brook before him was –

The brook before him was –

The brook before him was –

–––

An old man, hunchbacked and bare footed, slowly approached a calm river that seemed to suck in the nearby light. He collapsed onto his knees at the water's edge, tears falling down his weathered face. The man stared long at the dark waters, his reflection, distorted and wavering, looked back. Eventually, a crooked smile that spoke of relief bloomed onto the old man's face as he cupped a handful of the river's water and brought it up to his mouth.

–––

The brook –

The brook –

The brook –

–––

A young woman with pale white hair screamed out in horror as she was dragged towards a calm river that seemed to suck in the nearby light. Her captors silently ignored her frantic struggles and desperate pleading. Her legs were kicked out from under her as they approached the water's edge and she was unceremoniously dunked head first into the dark waters. Any prior fight quickly left the young woman. When she was taken back out the woman was gone. Her body remained intact, her chest placidly moving up and down, but there was nothing left behind her eyes.

–––

What was happening?

What was –

What –

–––

A massive bird with feathers of pale flame that flickered and warped in eye-watering ways was perched near a calm – the beast's head snapped to the side. Ancient eyes of bronze forged into countless refracted doors peered through time and history to look directly at –

–––

With a wheezing gasp, Merrill slammed his eyes shut as blood streamed down his face and an oily black liquid dripped out of his pores. He stumbled backwards, falling to the ground as he held his pounding head, his skull feeling like it might crack in two.

"My name is Merrill Rhodes. My name is Merrill Rhodes. My name is Merrill Rhodes."

Over and over he repeated the phrase in an anguished loop – a desperate declaration of identity. Meanwhile, eyes bloomed open across his body – every eye staring in horror at the innocuous brook before quickly closing in fright.

"My name is Merrill Rhodes. My name is Merrill Rhodes. My name is Merrill Rhodes."

He tasted iron in his mouth and bile in his throat as vague recollections of loss and emptiness threatened his sanity. He felt as if everything he was might be washed away if he didn't hold on. That Merrill Rhodes would cease to exist if he didn't hold tight and weather the encroaching tide of insatiable hunger.

Time lost meaning as he burrowed into himself, repeating his name like a prayer.

Eventually, the eyes stopped appearing on his body and his pores no longer shed black tar. He had arrived on the other side of that trial with a mind beaten bloody and nerves stretched to the breaking point, but ultimately in one piece.

Trembling hands ghosted across the ground until they found the discarded blindfold and slipped it back on. The flimsy piece of cloth provided a small measure of comfort, if only just so.

With a grunt, Merrill got up on shaky limbs before walking in the opposite direction of the – in the opposite direction.

At the very least he now knew the problem. Time to find a solution.