WEIGHT OF ETERNITY
Author: Mr. White
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CHAPTER 1: STONE AND FLESH
peppermints and cellar damp.
Atlas crouched behind the pantry door, eye pressed to the crack. Shouldn’t be here. He’d crept back for Lily’s birthday candy. Now, he watched his world fall apart.
Father sat by the hearth, carving a bird from cherry wood. His forge-scarred hands moved gentle as prayer. *Thump.* The knife slipped. Something white and sharp punched through his back, just below the shoulder. Not
The air tasted like stolen
blood—bone. Father gasped, confused. *Thump. Thump. Crack.* More ribs tore through his flannel shirt, unfolding like a broken fan. The half-carved bird fell into the fire. It smelled like burnt sugar and hot iron. Father’s eyes found Atlas’s through the crack—wide, bewildered—then turned the color of grave dirt.
"Elias?" Mother’s voice, usually soft as rain on tin, went thin and brittle. She stood by the window, her chipped blue teacup trembling. She took a step. Froze mid-stride. Spine locked. The cup shattered on the floorboards. "Why—?" The word died in her throat. Her warm brown eyes filmed over, dull as river stones. Her hair stiffened mid-curl, catching the dying light like tarnished copper.
Lily whimpered. Small. Bright. Yellow dress. She reached toward the pantry. Her pink fingernails flaked off like old paint, revealing smooth bone beneath. Her hand locked with a dry *click*. Freckles vanished under grey, hardening skin. Her blue eyes—always sparkling with secrets—clouded like scummed ponds. The peppermint smell turned sickly sweet, clawing at his throat.
Outside, through grimy glass: men in puffy yellow suits, faces hidden behind black visors. Watching. One tapped his wrist. A voice crackled: "Sisyphus Nine. Stone-sleep took ’em fast. Faster than Eight. Bag ’em." They didn’t help. They waited. Like crows on a fence.
Silence fell when their boots crunched gravel. Thick. Suffocating. Dust danced in the light slanting over three stone ghosts that used to be his family. Atlas crept out. Floorboards groaned under bare feet. He knelt by Lily. Her stone eyelids felt cold and rough as quarry rock under his thumb. He pried them open. Stuck to her fossilized back teeth—a half-melted peppermint. He dug it out with a splinter from Father’s shattered chair. Put it on his tongue. Cold. Minty. Tasting of dirt and endings. His throat closed like a fist. He pocketed the other candies. The woods sighed through the broken window. They wouldn’t lie. They wouldn’t turn to stone. They’d teach him how to break.
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THE GREEN JAWS
Forest swallowed him. Not the tame woods behind home—this was old, hungry dark. Trees like giants, trunks wider than houses, draped in weeping moss that dripped constant cold. Air thick with rot, wet leaves, and the iron bite of far-off ice. Sunlight rarely reached the floor. Twilight lived here, choked with ferns tall as men and fallen trees slick with emerald slime. Mountains like broken teeth bit the horizon. A land of shadows and stone.
He wore homespun trousers, torn to his knees, and Father’s old work shirt, sleeves ripped off. The forest stole the rest. Thorns shredded cloth. Branches tore skin. Soon, the shirt was rags binding wounds. He learned to stitch deer hide with sinew—leggings and vest stiff as wood, stinking of smoke and beast. His feet grew maps of scars. Hair matted with twigs and mud framed a face already hardening. Eyes like storm clouds over granite scanned constantly—for threat, for food, for path. He moved like the wolves that howled the night. Silent.
The Fall
Weeks deep, he climbed a monster fir for sight. Rain-slick branch snapped. He fell. White fire exploded in his back as he hit a root. Agony nailed him. Legs dead weight. For hours, he lay in wet rot, listening to water drip and his own heart thrash. *Won’t turn to stone here.* Teeth gritted, he dragged himself through mud and ferns toward rushing water. The creek’s cold cut like knives. He lay in shallows, gasping. Tiny fish nibbled torn flesh around his shattered spine. Didn’t hurt. Felt… clean. ‘Rot must be cut away.’ He crawled before he walked.
The Poison
Hunger drove him to pale mushrooms in a ring of scorched earth. Tasted like wet chalk. Forest tilted. Visions hissed: Mother’s voice in rustling leaves, *“Atlas… your bones… growing inward… feel them… toward your heart…”* He vomited bile, clawed skin, felt phantom splinters. Found a huge shed antler, bleached white. Boiled it with poison mushrooms in a stone bowl. Antler crumbled to chalky dust in grey sludge. Drank it. Gagged. Visions faded. *Death can be stolen. Antlers eat poison.* He learned safe shapes. Safe earth smells.
The Bear
Two winters etched his face. Lean muscle. Hard bone. Smelling of smoke and fat. Starving grizzly found him near its den—stench of rot and wet fur. Charged. Atlas snarled, sound ripped from his own stone-tight throat. Teeth snapped near his face. Claws ripped hide vest. Hot, rotten-meat breath filled his nose. Desperate strength surged. Grabbed paw, twisted, rammed bear’s own claw deep into its eye. Beast died with a shuddering sigh. He used its sinew to stitch his gashes. Held tight. Life feeds life. Sinew binds. Wore its tooth on a thong.
He kicked a thick pine. Impact shivered up shins. One frozen dusk, air sharp as glass, he spun—knee drove forward. Trunk splintered like thunder. Stood panting, steam rising off skin. Tried to roar triumph. Only a deep *hum* vibrated his throat. Like wind through a canyon. Voice box hardened.
That night, blizzard screamed down the pass. Wind tore trees, shaped snow into monsters. It howled a name, three syllables shaking his bones:
*At-las.*
*At-las.*
*At-las.*
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THE COLD GOD’S HEART
Ice called him. Not sound—a **pull** deep in his bones. High in mountains where air burned lungs and glaciers groaned like beasts, he dug. Weeks passed. Hands bled on blue ice. Breath froze in matted beard. Flint knife struck smooth, cold steel.
Cleared ice. A door. Heavy. Seamless. Words etched into metal:
PROJECT SISYPHUS - FINAL HOPE
Breath caught. Sisyphus. The yellow suits’ word as family turned to stone. Pried door open with ironwood. Cold, dead air sighed out—dust and metal stink. Inside: a metal tomb. One flickering bulb.
Words clawed into walls:
‘BONE IS THE FIRST AND FINAL TRUTH.’
‘CALCIUM IS GOD. COLLAGEN IS LAW.’
‘PERFECTION DOES NOT BREATHE.’
A humming freezer, frost thick on its door. Inside, foam cradled seven glass vials of thick, black liquid. Label: "Black Serum - SLOWS THE STONE-SLEEP". ‘Slows’. Not ‘stops’.
Slumped against the wall, half-frozen: a skeleton in a tattered lab coat. Ribs exploded outward from its chest in a jagged sunburst of bone shards. A needle plunged into its neck bone, full of that same black sludge. One dark drop clung to the tip.
Atlas stared at vials. Stared at needle in dead bone. Grey eyes flickered. Not fear—terrible knowing. This was the sickness. This turned his family to stone. This was the only path not ending as a frozen statue. Saw Father’s bewildered eyes. Heard Mother’s frozen "Why?". Felt Lily’s clicking stone fingers. The serum offered time. Time to break the stone. Calloused hand reached. Not rash. Survivor’s grim purpose. Yanked needle free. Cold hummed in his grip. Slammed it into his own neck. Pushed plunger. Cold fire flooded his veins.
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UNMAKING
He convulsed on frozen metal for twenty-two hours. Not pain like fall or bear. Deeper. Bones grinding like continents colliding under skin. Muscles writhing. Felt the stone-sleep’s *creep* in fingertips—familiar dread—before cold fire burned it back. Skin burned, then froze. Vomited black bile that steamed on floor.
Silence roared when it ended.
Tried to breathe. Lungs crumbled inside ribs like dry chalk. Nine minutes suffocating, rigid, staring at flickering bulb. Vision darkened. Then—wet, tearing gasp. Air rushed into raw new lungs.
Tried to stand. Thigh bones snapped. Dry *CRACK*—Lily’s stone fingers reaching. Fell hard. No scream. Bone ends grinding.
First clear thought ‘Father’s ribs… weren’t breaking out. Were wings trying to form.’ Serum didn’t stop the stone-sleep. Fought it. Demanded control. Demanded fuel.
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THE HUNGER’S RHYTHM
Serum warred inside him. Stone-sleep lurked—constant chill in marrow, creeping up spine. The black sludge fought it, cold fire in veins, but demanded payment. In motion. In stone. Became his heartbeat.
Dawn
Woke needing to move. Bones grinding deep ache. Found a boulder bigger than him, grey and glittering. Dug bleeding fingers into cold rock. Lifted. Muscles screamed. Bone groaned. Lifted again. *CRUNCH.* Agony speared tailbone—split like dry wood. Didn’t stop. Built fire. Heated ironwood spike red-hot. Smell of scorching wood. Lay on belly. Reached back. Pressed searing spike into split bone. Smoke hissed. Stink of burnt minerals. Pain swallowed him. Fused. Move or die. Pain is price.
Noon
Sun beat on mountain tarn, surface scabbed with rotten ice. Smashed hole. Plunged into knife-cold water. Held himself down on silty bottom. Chest screamed for air. Felt cartilage between ribs soften—warm wax under serum’s grip. Learned to flex, reshape bone cage. Forced ribs wider for deeper breath. *Bend or suffocate.*
Dusk
Mineral hunger gnawed—emptiness in skeleton. Found vein of chalky grey shale. Tasted like dust and dead seas. Chewed slow. With sharp bear claw, scraped bone spurs from kneecaps—stone-sleep growing wild. Felt grating grind through bones. Drilled tiny holes in thickening skull—pressure threatening to crush thoughts. Carved ribs curling inward, sharp points aiming for lungs. Feed the stone. Carve your cage.
Serum’s brutal gifts:
1. The Melt:
Knuckles locked, fusing like Father’s spine. Panic cold. Clenched fists. Funneled cold fire burning veins. Pushed. Felt bone at knuckles *dissolve*—internal grind like sand slipping. Fingers opened. Stiff. Free. Control bought with fire.
2. Pain-Speech:
Nerve-fire wasn’t just agony. Stabbing burn down left leg spoke: "Left hip crystallizing. Shift weight. Push back." Grinding ache in skull: "Skull plate thick. Drill hole. Here." Pain became map. Language. *Listen or lock.*
3. The Devouring:
Skeleton craved rock. Ate white chalk from cave walls—teeth marks in stone. Crunched snail shells to grit. Shaved slivers from own shins with flint—scraping sound set teeth on edge—saved bone dust in pouch. Swallowed with icy water. *Become the mountain. Eat the stone.*
Sixty-five winters carved him. Not just big—*dense*. Heavy. Footsteps sank deep in soft earth. Heartbeat echoed in skull: *thud-crack*, pickaxe on limestone. Forgot how to blink. Mineral crust greyed eyes—perpetual stone tears. Forgot sneeze. Forgot shiver. Cold was dull pressure on unfeeling skin. Forest smells—pine, blood, damp earth—distant ghosts. Only stone dust and metal tang of his own existence.
Author: Mr. White
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THE HARVESTERS
Twilight bruised the high plateau. Atlas stood at cave mouth, chewing flint. Mineral bite on tongue. Wind sighed over rock. Still.
Shadow blotted dying light. Silent. Sharp. Wrong. Black aircraft, blade-shaped, settled on stone without sound. Crushed ancient lichen. Stink of hot metal and ozone.
Men emerged. Not soldiers. Dark wool coats over sharp suits. Faces hard, eyes calculating. One leaned on cane—*click* on rock. Old man. Thin white hair. Flint-chip eyes behind thick glasses. Legs stiff, wrong. Titanium gleamed at ankles. Smell of antiseptic and bitter cologne.
Stopped twenty paces away. Dry voice cracked silence:
"Subject Nine. Sisyphus Batch Number Nine." Gestured. Two younger men lifted polished case. Opened it. Bones inside. Jagged ivory wing. Fused spine. Small stone hand—fingers curled in final reach. "What’s left of them. Your family. Perfect stone. We learned plenty. Your turn."
Atlas inhaled. Sound like mountain splitting. Crusted grey eyes fixed on small stone hand. Lily’s hand.
Then his chest exploded.
Not blood. Bone. Sternum detonated outward—splintered ivory shards bursting from his core like a jagged, broken sun aimed at the men who took his family.
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END OF CHAPTER 1
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