Fear is a pathetic word. Terror is not much better, perhaps a slightly less whimpering cousin. A jumble of vowels and consonants, clumsily, hastily packed together to describe an emotion. That is their failings as words. True dread does not merely describe the feelings of the agent who took use of the word. It is external, existing as a moving entity, piercing places of light, smothering horizons of hope. These are not petty emotions. These are forces of the universe. It doesn’t stop should you die, mortal. And you call us arrogant.
Know something; I am afraid. It is such joy. I have wandered across your snow blighted lands, from the east, where sands are all the people know. From there to here, I have never known fear. Rather, I am the one that exudes it. I am the hairs upon the nape of a neck when they realise a hidden presence. I am silence, I am the scream. I am the terror of a mother who huddles within her small little hut, covering her children’s ears lest they here the screams of other children that the raiders elicit. And yet, I now know, I am nothing.
At first, I questioned my own judgement, something I have not done for an age. Second, I considered the prospect that my senses had failed me, but that is a ridiculousness. Lastly, I wondered if the very world had died, but that could not be, for it is eternal. I was left then, with the only possibility; the impossible.
The worse thing is, I have no idea what it is, I only feel it. Yet unlike you mortal, I do not merely deposit this feeling within myself, for I know I cannot actually feel. I become aware of its existence. I know of its force. I know of its dread. And it is this knowing, that then makes me feel.
I do not expect you to understand. Your concepts are so utterly tied to your childlike language you are unable to imagine anything beyond it. All I can explain to you, is time itself is changing. Ruptures, cracks, fractures. And I can hear a deep, slow, horrible beating. It is agonising to me mortal. My keen senses are a weakness in this sense, but when you hear it, surely you will expire. Your eyes will bleed and your ears will burst thick, useless brain matter. Perhaps you should not worry as I do, for you measure your life in shorter ways. Maybe even, you will already be dead when it makes its presence known, its heart has only began to thud, and the last time I heard it was over a year ago. But it hasn’t stopped; it is only waking it up. From the depths of the ice it will come. Ah but you should tremble, mortal, the thought of it should make you take your knife and cut your throat now… …you have family? Then kill them this eve. Give them that gift; ignorance, the trait of your race. Ah…I see it is my words that now fail to inspire the truth behind it. I never thought such a thing possible, that I would fall short of describing true dread. Don’t trust my words then mortal, trust the look in my eyes, for I am afraid, and I am fear itself.