by T. C. Edge
I hear them beginning to call out their praise. Mistress Herald they call me. The one who has set them free. Yet others begin to call me 'Mother'. I hear it through the growing din. The one who has birthed their new persona, setting them onto a glorious new path.
"They love you, child," whispers the Overseer, as we move through the sea of kneeling, bowing figures. "Oh what joy you bring them. Can there be anything more glorious in the world than this?"
I look to his face and smile, my expression uncontainable. Like so many around me, I can't help the tears from issuing forth, dripping down my cheeks, blurring my vision.
"You have killed many, Brie, so many this last year," continues the old man by my side. "But look, look how many you have now saved. The debt has been fully paid, and more. But there is still so much for you to give."
"More?" I whisper to him, blinking away the tears, hopeful and childlike in my tone. "More to awaken?"
"Oh yes, so many more. Thousands more come to see you, my child. They are pilgrims, coming from far and wide. Coming to seek deliverance from the darkness outside the door." His expression warms me, his words the same. "You are the light now, Brie. You are the light in the dark that these people seek."
I'm guided on, the crowd growing louder as they call out Herald, call out Mother. The sensation is overwhelming, the communal ecstasy profound. Even beyond the light of the Prime, it warms me like nothing ever has.
Yet, amid it all, I begin to see movement around the edges of the square. Soldiers hurry about, gathering up those with downcast eyes, the many thousands whom I wasn't able to help.
"Don't worry about them, child," the Overseer says to me. "You cannot help everyone. Not all of us have divine blood."
"What will happen to them now?" I ask him. "Will they be sent back out to the Fringe?"
"They will remain in the city for now," he tells me, "until the lands of the Fringe have been made safe. We would not think to send them away at such a dangerous time as this."
I try not to let the feeling linger as we wander through, and the words of praise call out to me. I know I cannot help everyone, nor would everyone, perhaps, wish to be helped. It won't be so bad for them, I tell myself. They will return to the Fringe once it is safe. They will continue to live the simple, but gratifying lives, that they always have done.
I turn again to the words of worship and adoration, and let them fill my heart. I am well known in New Haven now, but have never been treated like this. For all I've done trying to protect that city, for all I've given to that cause, nothing has quite matched this reception. And nothing has quite matched this feeling.
I take another hour to bask in it. Bask in the praise, bask in the worship.
And when it is done, I return to the top of the hill, walking with a purpose, and a sense of belonging.
"Tomorrow morning," the Overseer tells me, "you will liberate many more. As dawn rises, more will gather. This is only the beginning, Brie."
I spend the remainder of that morning wrapped in a deep sense of bliss. Right there, at the summit of the Hill of Olympus, where the great Chosen, Herald, and even the Prime reside.
And in whose mighty company, I now feel I belong.
167
AMBER
The day is mostly gone by the time our work on the fields is done.
It's a heartbreaking sight to see so many hundreds, even thousands of dead piled into the chasms, a great, twisted heap of arms and legs and deadened eyes, already beginning to smell as the rot sets in.
Along the edge of the cliff, some of the Fringers line up to show their respect, realising perhaps that these men aren't so wicked, that they are merely tools in the greater game. I stand alongside them, with my grandmother, Jude, Elian and Perses for company. Behind us, Keith leads the rest as they gather up the carts for transport back to Hunter's Station, sorting the remaining weapons and armour that we've scavenged from the battlefield.
We observe a minute of silence as we look down, the sun still shining brightly enough, though preparing to reduce its glow as late afternoon sets in. Away, within the fort, the Havenite and Neoroman losses have been gathered too, and more carefully laid out upon pyres built from the fallen rubble of stone and wood. They will observe their own mass cremation there soon. I think witnessing this one will be quite enough for me.
I sense Perses preparing some words, a eulogy to the lost. Many of these men have served him before. Many, I know for certain, will be good and honest and loyal, men of honour and courage, forced to fight for a lie. Dwelling on such a thing sparks my ire. I hate what we've been forced to do here. I hate what I've had to become...
No words, in the end, come from Perses. He doesn't speak of the Eternal Halls, the place where the Children of the Prime are thought to go to at their deaths. I wonder, now, if he even believes such a thing, if he ever did? Has stripping him of the controls of the Prime also stripped him of the rest? Does he now see that it is a lie, and nothing more, no more honest than a myth?
The silence is all that is needed, until Perses looks to me, and my grandmother, standing apart on either side of him. He nods at us both, and our hands begin to boil, fires licking between our fingers, gathering upon our palms.
Together, we stretch them to the chasms below, and unleash the flame upon the fallen. To the left and the right, the great bonfire of corpses begins to light up, spreading thick fumes to the darkening air. Even in death, I think morbidly, they cannot escape my flame. Those who didn't fall to it, are still consumed by it in the end...
We watch for a while as the dead burn, before turning and walking away. No one speaks for a time as we climb onto the remaining carts, and begin rattling towards the fort. It hardly even comes to mind that Jude and Elian are sat next to one another, opposite myself and my grandmother. I spoke to them both earlier, wondering just how they got along. Both said the right thing, I suppose.
"We got on fine," Jude had told me. "I already said, he doesn't seem so bad."
Elian had given a similar sentiment. "He's nice," he'd said. "I can see why you two have been friends so long."
They were platitudes really, but I suppose I can't expect much more. Neither would tell me if they hate the other. Neither would admit it if they saw a friendship brewing. In the end, perhaps what my grandmother told me is right - that they can tolerate one another, at least. It may be the best I can hope for.
As we move along on the carts, however, I find such thoughts distant in my mind. The day's exertions have made me more weary, the same to be said for us all. None of us have much energy for drama right now. I seek only the comfort of a bed, and the silence of my dreams. Though I feel, tonight, they may mutate to nightmares, given all I've seen and done.
I see no fire yet within the fort, the cremation of the coalition forces not set to begin until after dark. We slow to a stop outside of the northern palisade, looking in through the breach. Enough space has been cleared now for the many pyres, four hundred dead laid down upon them. It will be a mournful occasion, I know, for the Neoromans most of all. To lose so many Imperial Guards will cut a lasting scar into their brotherhood.
Secretary Burns appears, moving through the breach towards us. My grandmother climbs down from the cart with my aid, Elian and Perses coming too. Jude, Keith, and the remainder stay aboard. My grandmother turns to them with a few words. "Get a head start, Keith," she says. "Get the rest of our people back to Hunter's Station. Unload the weapons and armour. We'll catch up in one of the jeeps."
They move off, their pace slow, the convoy of wagons and carts setting a gentle, rattling backdrop to the quiet as they begin moving around the side of the fort, heading towards the south.
Secretary Burns comes to join us. "It is done?" he asks, eyes turning to the distant flames.
"It is," says Perses. "The plains are now clear, and the dead have been respected. We have said goodbye in our own way."
"And now so shall we," says Burns, glancing back to the sorrowful scene behind h
im. "Will you stay, Perses?"
"I shall, if you'd permit me."
"Of course. And what of the rest of you?" he asks. "You would be welcome to attend."
"Thank you, Leyton," my grandmother says. "But I would not wish to intrude on such a solemn moment. Amber and I will be returning to Hunter's Station. We would be grateful to have use of a jeep."
"Certainly. We have plenty, now, to spare," he says. "And you, Elian? You are no prisoner to us any longer. You are welcome to stay, or go, as you please."
Elian draws a breath. His eyes glance to me. "I will stay here," he says, his voice ever so crisp and cleanly enunciated. "I hope I can be of further help to you, Secretary Burns."
"I'm sure you will, Elian," Burns says. "But can I ask one favour of you?"
"Of course."
"Let me give you back your powers," Burns says, causing Elian's eyes to widen, the request so unexpected. "I would feel safer having a mighty Fire-Blood like yourself helping to protect me, during these dangerous times. You have been subdued for long enough, son. It's time that you became yourself again."
I find my lips drawing up into a smile, as Elian glances across at me, and then, surprisingly, to Perses. They stay on the great Olympian for a moment.
I see him nod. "You need to protect yourself, Elian," Perses says. "As well as others. You cannot do that as you are."
"I'm not saying that you need to fight," Burns goes on. "That will remain your choice. I'm merely telling you that you have our full trust. There is no reason for you to stay as a shadow of who you are."
I can see his doubt, as his eyes show his anxiety. "But, what if..." he begins, his voice whispering the words. "What if I..." His eyes look to my neck, where he'd tried to strangle me before. The marks have now receded, but the mental scar of what he did remains. "I don't want to hurt anyone," he finishes. "If the Prime's controls are still inside me..."
"They aren't," Burns says. "I assure you, Elian, the Prime's influence has been stripped from your mind. If you hurt anyone now, it would be you doing it, and no one else." Elian's eyes rise up to his. "I do not believe that is in your character. What happened before...was not you."
I reach out and take his hand, squeezing softly. The support gives him strength. He begins to nod, and a refreshing smile appears, revealing for the first time in a while his perfect white teeth. "Thank you," he says. "I will not let you down, Secretary Burns."
"Please, Elian, do call me Leyton." His eyes work to Perses, and Alberta. "Everyone else seems to."
It's a nice moment, and one I feel like Elian has earned. He has shown only full contrition, and has worked hard to help where he can. I know he still harbours doubts over what we're doing, what we may achieve in this war, but he's willing to try to see the light, try to help in fashioning a brighter future.
And, perhaps as a selfish aside, I feel better knowing he'll have his powers restored. Knowing that, perhaps, he may even join me in the fight, if and when it comes again.
I give him a parting hug before he moves inside with Perses and Secretary Burns. "When will you be back?" he asks me.
I tell him, "I don't know. But three days, at most. I'm not going to miss it when the main army arrive."
I give him a kiss on the cheek, and move off with my grandmother.
Hoping that, when I see him next, his fires will have returned.
168
KIRA
I have never enjoyed funerals, though I suppose it would be odd if I did.
The first I recall were those held for my parents, when I was only a child. They were killed by a group of Stalkers in Haven, fighting for the Nameless during the organisation's early days. I still remember with some clarity the moment I was told, as I sat in our chamber in the underlands, and Lady Orlando came to deliver the news. It was the moment I began on my path, committing to a life as a servant to the cause. Spy, assassin, hardened killer. It's a path whose end is now in sight.
We held their funerals the following day, their bodies recovered when we thought it was safe. It was a simple affair, really, nothing too elaborate. Funerals in Haven, as it was then, were never especially important. We took them to the outerlands and buried them beneath a tree. I don't even remember exactly where it was now.
Since that day, I've experienced many more of the same, my time with the Nameless making death so familiar to me. Where we could, we honoured the fallen, burying them within the outerlands, often in the fields around the old town where we held our headquarters. In the city, I knew, simple cremation ceremonies were used to dispose of the dead. In order to avoid the possible fire trails, we chose to bury them instead.
The worst of them all, however, was a funeral I held alone.
The one in which I cremated my friend, Gwyn, at the edge of the lake, during my fateful adventure to the north with her and Brie. It was, perhaps, the most tragic moment of my adult life, piling the wood for a fire, burning her body under the fading light. I had been so strong, for so long, until that point. But that night, I broke, and I'm not sure I've ever been quite the same since.
The memory brings a tug of grief that I try to fight off, as I look ahead now at the many, many dead before me. They lie upon the pyres; foundations of stone, toppings of wood, built across the northern yard of the fort. It is a larger count of dead than I have ever seen in a single place. Hundreds of men and women, none I know well, but many I know by face or name.
Within the gloom, as we stand grouped to one side, firelight shines out, burning on torches. They are held by some of our leaders, Max, Ares, and some of the remaining Neoromans ready to light the pyres of their lost, Hendricks and Burns and a few City Guards doing the same for theirs.
They step in, igniting the wood, bowing their heads in grief before moving back to join us. The fires light the darkness, smoke billowing quickly and joining the black above. I wonder, as I watch, if there's ever been a funeral to match the loss of such powerful warriors as these. Imperial Guards. Stalkers. Hybrids from New Haven. It is a collection of immense power, now lost to this earth for good.
It is with no surprise that the remaining Neoromans stand with faces of stone as they watch their brothers burn. Their bonds of honour, duty, and kinship will last long beyond death, I know, each and every one of those who remain filling their minds now with vengeful thoughts. Yet some whisper, their lips cracking open, speaking soft words to those most dear. Soon, the roaring flames are joined by a chorus of whispering lips, indecipherable even to my ears as they join into a murmuring din I cannot make out.
The funeral lasts as long as a person allows, some moving off quite early to seek rest, others waiting much longer, watching as the fires die down. Though our Olympian and Fringer allies have departed, I see that Elian and Perses still remain, standing respectfully together to one side. They seem to take the decision to leave quite early, allowing the rest of us to grieve alone, stepping off out of sight as the flames crackle loud and burn.
I leave it a respectful amount of time before taking my own leave, heading for the new chambers that I have been given in a small room in the south of the fort. As I do, I find Ares and Max still out there, along with a host of their own men. It is, primarily, the Havenites who have departed, not so conditioned to mourn the dead as the Neoroman custom requires.
Laying down on my bed in my quiet little chamber, I drop off to sleep easily enough. Though my mind remains busy and troubled, I cannot fight off the pull of sleep any longer. It is a deep and void-like thing, drawing me into a world so black and barren that even nightmares cannot breed. I am grateful for that fact; I have not the energy to contend with them now.
I wake, partially refreshed, to find that it remains dark. I stand and move to the window, limping without my crutch. Above, the skies tell me I've slept several hours, though dawn remains a little way off. My attention is drawn to the pyres, still burning, smouldering in the northern yard.
I take my crutch and fix it to my armpit, hobbling my way out into the cold nigh
t air. I move around the side of the fort, passing strewn rubble and scattered debris. My eyes take in the pyres, burning quietly now. The light from the flames illuminates figures, still standing, serving vigils as they watch.
There aren't many of them now, only a handful of Neoromans still watching on. Is it a test? I wonder. The most grief-stricken stay longest, proving a point of their loyalty?
I don't intrude, or make myself seen. I merely stay back, beyond the rubble, and peer forward through the gloom and swirling smoke. Ares remains, I see, and Maximus too, joined by only two others. They are two of the more senior men amid the guard, perhaps those only junior to Max and Ares now.
Is that what this is? I think. The more senior you are, the longer you must endure?
I watch from the shadows for a time, until the men depart, one by one. Soon, only Ares and Max remain. Another half an hour goes by, before Max bends his neck into a nod, and turns to step quietly away.
He comes around towards me, stepping to the south of the fort. Before he even arrives, he knows I'm there. He knows I've been watching.
"You should be resting, my Lady," he says. "There is no sense in you wasting time awake during these predawn hours."
"I've slept," I say. "I've slept for hours. But...you've been out here all this time?"
He nods, his voice quiet, as he glances back towards Ares, now standing alone.
"It is Neoroman custom," he says, "to think of each fallen brother. The more brothers you know, and the more brothers you command, the more time it takes to recall them. We think of their deeds and their triumphs. We remember what they accomplished." He turns again to look at the pyres. "These were great Champions of Neorome, Imperial Guards of high esteem. It takes time to give them all the respect they have earned. Sleep comes secondary to that."
