silence. The body slackened and the blade withdrew.
Yes, even now, he had not spoken, he had remained silent, in their last moments he had remained silent… he could not tell them. Last night the fort he commanded was overrun. The attackers were many and they wielded more efficient harbingers of death. Defenses breached. A cornered. Death fight, under a moonless night, their bones pierced easily, their formations broken. They were torn apart. Still, the yells from their throats were of unwavering courage, their movements held no lag of fear, and they all fell the same, bravely. Everyone died, the macabre cycle pulsed alive. But he knew, knew, and yet did not tell them anything. He was a Coward.
The night with Genja still hounded his conscious. A cold night bereft of chirping insects and soughing boughs. They had strolled through the open ground, taking in the wild fresh air, having a break from their duties. Genja had taken a liking towards him, he said he showed promise, and he did, after grueling training and chaotic battles; he rose to ranks of leadership.
Genja had been a solemn individual, joking little, resting less, and working a lot. His family had perished due to a terrible plague. A cure had been created, but it was expensive, many were afflicted, it would cost too much. Genja had survived, one of the few, a fleeting spark of life drifting from a darkness immense, a darkness utterly still. He took up arms shortly after that, not for revenge, not even for justice… questions sought answers.
Save themselves, they could not, their lives were at the hands of others, why, it was their reality. Gold the sparkling panacea of sorrow, luxury the evasive insight that wooed intellect, wealth the pleasured pinnacle of humanity, desired, an unwavering judge that separated the chaffs of failure from the ripe grains of success. This was their reality.
They had sat in silence and in silence stared up at a sky dark studded with a sea of pale stars. The cold night breeze stirred a soft murmur from the grass and the trees around them. Genja, eyes glazed and bleak, sighed heavily, and turned to look at the ground. He remained like this for a long time, anxiety wrought over his foreboding countenance.
He explained everything that night, the true nature of Hasira. A shadow group had been controlling their operations, resources, bureaucracy and targets. The lives being lost and the justice fought for a farce, lives were lost meaninglessly and justice was a wavering illusion. Everything was a lie, the dreams, the righteous war, their pristine cause, and the crowning piece was that the resistance was been orchestrated to aid Vatu tighten its grip on absolute power. The reason for their fight, their struggle, was to give the empire, more power, more control, more wealth.
Genja had gone mad, he thought, he had been overwhelmed by the pressures of war. He held on to the belief for a long time. Even after Genja's assassination he still doubted. But those words clouded his mind ominously, they tormented his life and affected his duties; desperate, he investigated this sadistic reality. He could not do it, tell his men that it was a lie. His mind had shut down, he seized to think, acting automatically, driven on by fear, but not fear of death, a fear of the chains that lay all around him, cold, stretching boundless, chained since birth, chained till death, freedom is, when man isn't.
Rough hands seized him by the arms, he was dragged forward. Heat scorched into his ebony back, the wounds blistering painfully. In front of him, the coils of smoke rolled like the coils of an immense serpent, defiant to the strength of the wind. The Magi continued their chants, praying for the cleansing of his sinful soul, ironic that a grey haze would be the last thing he would see. He stared at the movements of the coils, thick and white and alive.
A face was sketched across the veil of smoke, silver wisps drifting past eyes clear and bright in concentration, the head Magi.
Not long ago, he had been the one witnessing an execution, reposed and idle, listening to the monotonous drone of the chanting. Why! Do the Magi allow themselves, with their teachings and beliefs and scriptures, to participate in our bloodshed? They claim morality do they not, yet involve themselves in our vain slaughters, purification of the soul, nonsense… blessings of blood.
He coughed, the fumes were pungent, with every breath his throat burned and his eyes stung, tears shedding obstructed his vision. A numbness began to spread through his body, even if he wanted to struggle now it would be difficult, the smoke had a drug in it, it was slowly paralyzing him. A faint smile crossed his lips, Darru was truly something.
What is all this, he thought, this reality, his dilapidated upbringing, parents surviving like desperate scavenging animals? He struggled to a life a crust above chronic suffering, a life rife with turmoil, but still better than the one his parents had experienced. He did not hate it nor love it, indifferent he had simply accepted it. The resistance had given him purpose, it had changed his life, it had given him hope, hope, a bright light in a grey darkness; a light that one could stretch out an arm and reach for, or, for the damned like him, to gaze at its radiance, comforting him against the dark shadows.
His wife, beautiful, the best thing he had in the world; treating his wounds, offering warmth against the chill of this reality. He had been ready to die for their cause, and yesterday night most of the soldiers did. But, for it to turn out like this, this deceit, it was all for nothing...nothing. They had died for nothing, all of the soldiers, no more than cockroaches, than scuttling insects.
Is life worthless? Must life be adorned in gold for it to glimmer? Love for the plain weak, why are they toyed with like this, like a rat trapped within the patterned coils of a snake, the ceaseless strife for happiness in a yoke of suffering. Is life worthless?
He vanished inside the coils of smoke, a grey haze all around him, the swish of a blade whipping through the air. Hasn't it always been like this? Desire cast towards emperors, resent to the poor, the embrace of an aristocrat sought, the hands of a beggar shunned. Dynasties are remembered, placed high on vast summits, afloat, on the blood of thousands of thousands shed. Gold glitters in the distance; its sparkle entrances the eye.
He has no gold; he will not be a line of glint in an eye in the expanse of history, all he has is foolishness and cowardice. History is a dark, dark place, and layered dark folds of time haze out the meaningless. Such little value, it can't be, for him to die like this, impossible. What about his wife? Yes, he should tell her about all of this, they would laugh at the absurdity, she loves him, she values him, no matter how small his existence means something to her. Passions not expressed, marvels unexplored, beauty yet witnessed; to die, not in the grasp of cruelty’s palm.
He wondered what she would think of it when he tells her, the whole betrayal ordeal, a conspiracy she'd call it. But she'd see the tears in his eyes, hear the catch in his voice and she would embrace him, in her warm arms, with warm kisses on his cheeks, wetly, on his brow. A calm silence will spread round them, kind and compassionate, her tiny hands holding him tight across his lower back. He would press against her, feel her fragile warmth seep into him, chasing back the chilling cold creeping, and he would see the light, the bright spot of light, pale and trembling, on a vast interminable darkness.
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Felix Lukhale
Dry Bones Page 3
