He turned around to see Saniya emerging from the tent’s opening.
“O-oh!” she stammered. “Where have you been? I was getting worried,” she said, seeming to forget she was supposed to be mad at him.
Syros stared at her in shock. She had let her light brown hair down from its usual curled-up dreads, allowing it to flow naturally in the wind. In all the time they were roommates in Asterleigh, Syros had never seen her with her hair any way other than how she normally kept it. It may have been his imagination but something about her eyes also seemed different, more full and radiant. He had always considered her beautiful but the way she stood in front of him, in her nightwear, lit only by the moonlight, melted something inside of him.
“Your hair…” he murmured after a moment of marvel.
“Do you like it?” she asked. If Syros was not mistaken, he almost would have said she was blushing.
“Yes.” He moved towards her and gazed into her eyes. They seemed so alluring and esoteric, meant only for him. She even appeared to be glowing like a faraway star, coming in and out of brightness. There was a famous saying that many love-astray drunkards, or beggars masquerading as poets, uttered about absence causing the heart to grow fonder. He had never cared for pretentious love-sickly drunks, but, within this moment, he was inclined to agree with them. Why am I having these thoughts? It must be the moon that is getting to me… He wanted to go over and undress her, to see what her naked skin looked like in the moonlight. To caress her gently, and then use his mouth to explore every inch of her illuminated being. He imagined the groans she would make and the cries of pleasure she’d howl as Vurtus towered above them both. Embracing the glow fully until it vanquished the surrounding dark, and then becoming one with her while announcing his love, before they transformed into nothing more than dispersed particles. He was staring for too long, he knew it. So, chances were she also knew this.
“I-” he began. This was hard, harder than anything he had previously done. He coughed in nervousness. “I came to say that I was sorry… if I hurt your feelings, I didn’t… sometimes I don’t…” He could not find the right combination of words. Failing completely, he continued his stare, waiting for a response that did not return immediately. The clouds in the sky parted and, much like within the forest with the Venian only moments earlier, zaffre-blue moonlight covered his location, filling everything between them with calm tranquil light. They stood there for a moment as shadows of clouds passing the moon caused the light to flicker, as if there was divine intervention for their moment of re-coalescence.
“Sy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you hate me?”
“No.”
“I’m glad.” Her lips began to tremble.
He wanted to run and hug her while telling her everything was going to be alright, but something within prevented him from doing so. If Syros could have one hope come to fruition, it would be for him to lose this unwelcome part of himself and forget it was ever once there.
He was standing still, filled with ambivalence, unsure of how to react to his inner confliction, when Saniya broke through his inertia by moving upon him suddenly, entwining him within a deep embrace. Momentary feelings of warmth swept over him and for an instant he forgot himself and all his misgivings. He forgot his life of blood and death, anger and hate, all that had happened previously and all that was undoubtedly still to occur – in this moment, he felt newly defined.
She recoiled away from him in embarrassment. “I’m sorry…” she said apprehensively, glancing upwards to match his eyes. “I know you don’t like hugs.”
Underneath the at-rest night sky, filled with ever-burning golden stars, he gave a rare smile, grasped her gently and swiftly brought her back within a warm embrace. Silently holding her for as long as he dared.
They walked back to the raging campfire. Now alone, Torjan raised his head to see the two of them coming towards him.
“What?” Syros asked, probing the reason for his friend’s beaming grin.
“Nothing…”
The night had grown dark, the clouds had concealed the moon, so the only source of light was the campfire. It must have been the early hours of the morning as the other members of Zelta Squadron were sleeping soundly within their tents. The three of them sat there in a moment of silence before Torjan laid back onto the ground and started a loud bellowing laugh. Syros and Saniya looked at each other in bewilderment.
“What?” Syros chuckled, bemused by his friend’s strange behaviour.
“It’s just…” Torjan lay on his back, facing the stars. “Tonight is a good night. That… and my legs have become completely numb.”
“Are you drunk?” Saniya asked between her laughs.
Torjan gave a shake of the head, and weakly raised his right hand upwards before letting it fall clumsily back down onto his chest. “Steph and Hurus went picking during the daytime, through the meadows seeking herbs.” He made a noise that sounded more like a girly giggle. “Those guys are fun…”
“You’ve been taking herbs?” Syros asked, his interest significantly raised. “Did they leave any?” Struggling, Torjan sat upright, with a smile that now dwarfed the width of the moon.
Deeper into the night, the three of them lay on their backs, senses reduced, with both mind and body stimulated. Movement had become a chore that was not worth the expense. Reminiscing old memories and first encounters, plagued with laughter, was all the three in their newly found state were capable of. The grass beneath them was so long it rose above them; the moon had once again come out from its hiding place and the stars were back on display.
“Man… this should last forever,” Torjan said, as the three laid on their backs, scanning the cosmos.
Syros gazed upwards and thought of his little brother back in Jovian. Ednon and Ira always had a fascination with the stars above, for as long as they had grown up on their farm together – and now he understood why. They were beautiful, peering down upon this planet in all their benevolence, far away from all war and death, heartache and sorrow. Truly anything was possible in the night sky and on the planets that stayed so isolated away from their own.
“What do you think happens after you die?” he asked the two of them, his mind shifting away from the stars.
“I heard from old shamans that our consciousness travels to a distant part of the universe where we are judged by the five great Gods of legend,” Torjan explained. “Dependent on the lives we have lived, they decide what we shall be reborn as – then we start again with new families and bodies, as well as new destinies to fulfil.”
“But how could anyone possibly know that? Especially some senile old shaman to whom you have to pay coins to hear his knowledge.” He thought it over within his mind. “I don’t think I want to die.”
“That’s a step in the right direction! We probably shouldn’t have joined the military then.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, disheartened. “Too late now, though. Once you sign up, only death relieves you from your duty. That’s something they don’t tell you when you’re a kid, between the stories of glory and valour.” He turned his head to Saniya who had been unusually quiet. She gave a small smile as he faced her and their eyes locked.
“Why did you join the military, San?” Syros wasn’t sure if he had ever asked her. Saniya became visibly nervous. Sensing this, he instantly felt horrible.
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t,” she said, quickly interrupting him. “Don’t feel bad, I…” She stayed silent for a moment, choosing her next words carefully. “I’ve never really felt as if I had a home. The one home I did have did this to me.” She indicated the scar running down her face. “Nor did I feel I had much of a family. I have always considered the two of you to be my true family, making the military my true home.” She blushed again, much like she had when he was alone with her earlier outside her tent. He ha
d never heard her speak so openly before – more than ever, he felt terrible for all the times he had been insensitive towards her.
“Well,” Torjan began quietly, sitting upright. Proceeding to retrieve a knife from the belt around his waist, he slowly started to cut into the palm of his hand.
“What are you doing?” Saniya shouted.
“If we are indeed a true family,” Torjan said, opening his palm and showing them the wound, “then we need to share the same blood.”
“You’re going to regret that when you become sober, mate.”
“Come on… how about we do a vow… a blood vow.”
“A vow that states what?”
“How about…” he stopped in a moment of thought. “How about we swear that we will all die on the same day.”
“But what happens if one of us dies first?”
Torjan gave a shrug. “Chances are it will be in the same battle. If that is the case, I guess we should go out fighting.”
Syros, while not totally certain if he completely meant it, said, “Sure, why not?” He turned to Saniya, whose eyes were already fixed on his own. After a moment, she too agreed. His hand was already bloodied from earlier, so cutting into his palm this time around didn’t appear to make much of a difference. The three put their hands together, collectively held them upwards to the moon and spoke their everlasting vow.
After a while of lying on the grass next to the campfire, flicking in and out of consciousness due to fatigue, Syros heard footsteps moving towards them. It was Mercivous and two others, Deckard and Koman, two extremely stocky lads who were only slightly smaller than Torjan in both height and width – and just about sharing a brain cell between them. They had been drawn to Mercivous ever since the beginning of the campaign. Could I have been among them – if I did not have Torjan and Saniya with me? he questioned as the three of them walked over, with the two heavyset youths eclipsing Mercivous by a good foot.
“We’ve come to relieve you of your night duty,” Deckard told them. He was carrying a bag round his waist. Syros thought to ask what was in it, but stopped himself like he did most times Mercivous was in his presence.
“Don’t you three ever sleep?” Torjan asked nervously.
“We’ve been on quite an adventure,” Koman snickered. Within an instant, Deckard opened his bag and threw a severed head to the ground. It rolled a short way and then stopped, revealing three eyes all facing vertically and dark brownish skin stained with blood.
“We found this primitive savage wandering the meadows alone,” Mercivous uttered coldly. “It struggled… but not for very long.”
Torjan, Syros and Saniya, leaving the three to their ghoulish cackling, walked back to their pavilions. Having said goodnight to Saniya, the two lads re-entered their tent quietly so as not to wake their sleeping comrade.
“Freckon,” Torjan whispered, as the two entered through the flap. “Are you awake?” The boy lifted his head slightly.
“Yeah…” he said, before placing his head back onto his pillow.
“Still having problems sleeping?”
He did not answer, opting to avert his eyes while remaining silent. Freckon was a short timid lad, who stood at just over five foot and was extremely skinny. He was only thirteen years of age but his appearance made him look even younger – short brown hair with a freckled face and wide-open eyes, which gave the impression he was in a permanent state of terror. Syros had the feeling that Freckon feared him, as he rarely talked whenever he was present. He had, however, found his young comrade in deep discussions with Torjan whenever he faked sleep.
“More nightmares?” Torjan asked, as he and Syros positioned themselves in their respective beds. The young lad did not answer, once again choosing silence.
Syros could relate to the freckle-faced youth more than he knew. As he laid his head down upon his pillow, he too felt anxiety run through him. It had been close to a perfect night, one of the best nights he had known in quite a while. However, once again, he found himself silently begging to whatever divine powers were at play. He prayed that this night, he too would not have his deep sleep infested with any form of nightmare.
Dreams
In the silent still void of nothingness, all matter congealed into one large burst that spread waves throughout the entire fabric of space and time; creating the limitless cosmos. Through the ocean of chaos and uncertainty, independent consciousness began to rise from small microorganisms fighting for the slight chance of momentary existence within the once great void; and, rising through the possibility, the human race, though new and ungainly, began to make its mark within the universe. Striding through fear and uncertainty, the zealous life form began to create its own civilisations. However, fearing the unknown of death and the subsequent path it leads to, the species too late discovered that the one true conflict was within. Eco destruction and endless warfare threatened the still unfamiliar species with complete annihilation; sensing the end, they then decided they should instead be turning within themselves to find the answers, to the dark matter and to the spirit molecule that cycles within all life during the universal course. Whether genuine or metaphorical, the human race found through extraction and inner conflict that death was not the end and nothingness was solely that; it was always merely nothingness – nothing more nor was it anything less. The human race began to spread throughout the universe wielding the silent secrets of the cosmos. The world they left behind and the civilisations that had taken thousands upon thousands of years to forge soon returned to nothingness. And humanity was born once again amongst the stars, but mistakes were always bound to reoccur. Having lost all previous knowledge of worlds and the silent secrets of the cosmos, eyes were once again fixed only upon the ground; fear and prejudice once again began to fester in minds; love soon became hate; exploration became stagnation and alluring dreams became turbid nightmares. Now the once sanguine life form travels the vast silent skies searching for what it once believed was home, now, once again fearing the eventual finality of death. Without the knowledge of the one simple law to all life within the universe, all things, no matter how bright, eventually fade. No matter how much one individual may transcend, they will eventually, without exception, all return into the great empty void. However, the cosmos is nothing other than incalculable; perhaps what once was isn’t any longer. Perhaps what we witness is not actually what is truly there; and perhaps the true answers are all lying sequestered within forgotten dreams.
7
Suns of a New Age
It was the day of Ira’s funeral; he was dressed in black. Ednon had met so many new faces this day it was hard to keep track of them all and was surprised at just how many had known his grandfather well enough to come and offer their sympathy at the secluded cemetery on the outskirts of Jovian. There must have been close to two hundred people who had arrived to pay their respects to the at-peace visionary. They all came up to Ednon, shaking his hand while offering their utmost reverent condolences. Even old Ageth had come out from her sanctuary of the library, crying uncontrollably and holding him for so long it made him feel uncomfortable. The suns were central within the sky and sunlight was beating down. It did not feel much like a day for mourning. In fact, it had been continuously sunny ever since the passing of Sechen and the bringing of the New Year. Ednon wished he could return to Abacus’s farm and retreat into the room they had given him following Ira’s death. He was growing tired of these new faces and their fake sincerity; it was beginning to cause unwanted pains to form in his stomach. Sensing his discomfort, Abacus sent him a glance.
“Do not worry, Ednon. You will only need to greet a few more.”
“Why do I have to greet them at all?”
“It’s because your grandfather was a much beloved man. And you, being Ira’s genetic relation, well, there are many who are curious to see just what kind of boy you are.”
“Will Syros return from mili
tary duty?” he asked in hope.
“We have sent word to your brother. I wouldn’t hold out too much hope though, Ednon. The military isn’t known for showing this kind of compassion, especially towards new recruits.”
Ednon wondered if Syros had been in any battles yet. He had dreamt the previous night of being dressed in golden armour, wielding a sword and killing strange beasts with over a dozen eyes. Perhaps Syros was right when they were both children and his theories, of Ednon’s dreams being a sign of him growing into a great warrior, were true. He was starting to speculate he was on the wrong path and his purpose in life was war, and had never been peace.
Feeling even worse than he had previously, Ednon looked to the large congregation behind him. “How did he know so many people?”
“Your grandfather was a very popular man within Asterleigh and the surrounding villages. He used to preach in the streets when he was young; I couldn’t tell you the number of times he was beaten or jailed for the unpopular ideals he spouted. Still, he held true to his convictions and before too long he no longer needed to, as the number of followers grew, and our Order was finally born.”
Ednon looked at Abacus, intrigued. Order? What Order is he speaking of? Before Ednon could utter a response, Abacus announced loudly, “He has finally arrived. Ednon, this is the man I have most wanted you to meet.” Three distinguished figures had made their way up the grassy pathway.
“Ednon, this is Luther,” Abacus gestured to the man in the middle. He was fat, pear-shaped and standing only an inch or so taller than Ednon, using a short walking stick to assist his movement. Dark-tinted shades made it difficult for Ednon to get a proper look at his eyes, while a bald head placed his wrinkles on full display. The two men surrounding him were both tall, almost double the height of the exceptionally small Luther.
“Abacus, my dear chap. How are you?” he said in a deep voice as he shook Abacus’s outstretched hand. “And this must be…” Luther turned his attention to Ednon. “Ira’s grandson… the deepest of condolences, my young maverick. Ira was a great man in his prime, however, I fear years do horrors to the consciousness. But suicide…” he shook his head. “I’m afraid none of us knew how unsound of spirit he had truly become.” He stopped and let out a long sigh, which sounded to Ednon as nothing but fake. “Suicide has always been an act of cowardice, especially when he had someone so young as yourself to shepherd.”
To Tame the Sentry Being Page 7
