You jerks. You big, stupid jerks!!
*is broadcasting live with a half-empty bottle of GLORIOUS BOOZE*
Are you happy? HMM? Are you proud of yourselves? He was the best and most GLORIOUS LEADER ever and you KILLED HIM!!! You loyal citizens – I know, some of you had nothing to do with his death. But you LET HIM DIE!!! I’m….. I’m so…… I can’t even…… AND NOW I’M STUCK WITH ALL THESE STUPID KIDS ALL DAY. THEY DON’T EVEN PLAY CARDS, AND THEIR PUPPIES SMELL LIKE POOP.
I’M SO SAD I COULD PUKE.
Look. I don’t even wanna do this anymore, okay? I HATE YOU YOU ALL SUCK. But in the spirit of honoring the GLORIOUS LEADER, here goes nothing. Alright? Nothing.
ATTENTION
Last night sucked. The GLORIOUS LEADER was getting ready to read all your stupid poems and stories and crap to the whole nation and then he GOT POISON-KNIFED, SHOT, STRUNG UP AND DRAGGED OFF A BALCONY, THEN SHOT AGAIN, THEN LIT ON FIRE AND THEN THROWN OFF THE TOWER AND BOMBED. Maybe he’s okay, you’re thinking! No. NO HE’S NOT OKAY NOTHING IS OKAY. Ugh. Well some of you tried at least. There was like fighting and crap, and a bunch of really impressive fireworks that didn’t seem to do much of anything. It was like those JERKS THE REBEL JERKS knew what we were doing and where we were going – we couldn’t do crap. They were all over us and they got inside and…… well, he’s dead. DEAD! OKAY?!? YOU GOT HIM YOU BIG STUPID JERKS!!!!
That said, he did still get a chance to read over all your submissions. And right up until you MURDERED HIM he seemed pretty pleased. Or like insanely, furiously angry in like a blood-lusty kind of way, it was always hard to tell with him. He did pick out a few favorites, but he was gonna wait until everyone got a chance to hear all the GLORIOUS LOYALTY before issuing his commendations. I guess he waited too long. YOU JERKS. Anyway. I’m sad. So….. here’s the results of this thing that killed the GLORIOUS LEADER. This was a terrible idea and I hate everybody. Excuse me, I’m going to drink all the rest of his GLORIOUS booze.
clad in greatness, born of wonder.
Wrapped in the shroud of royalty stands a noble leader.
bearing the gaze of honor and the crown of crowns.
standing high above all stands a proud leader.
his palace looms above the lower, his throne is a step to reach which is higher
wearing a woolen cape is a wonderful leader.
His world is the only, his word is law, his command is undeniable, and his power unmatched.
To defy the great is to defy sanity.
He is our Thane, and we are his thralls.
Only the loyal will be spared, and the traitors shall burn.
Ruling over everyone else is a glorious leader.
By @Blizz
The reinforced-steel walled officer's lounge was quiet, except for the occasional REGIME fanfare or patriotic reminder. Holograms of political propaganda intermixed with randomly generated cloudscapes appeared on silk tapestries hung around the circular room. It was dark except for columns of white halogen light stretching from floor to ceiling. Servers in the grey uniform of the FLEET carried cocktails on silver platters to quietly chatting Officers, Politicos and Members of the Glorious Generals Regime. The waiters said nothing at tables, only listened to orders and complied.
A man entered through the semi-circular blast door at the top of a small ramp. The cloudscape on the wall shifted to a deep purple and then dispersed. A red security sensor momentarily flashed from his head to his feet and then disappeared. A patriotic message appeared on the black tapestry beside him:
THE GLORIOUS GENERAL REMINDS YOU TO COMPLY WITH YOUR DUTY! TRAITORS TO THE REGIME WILL BE SHOT! Enjoy your stay on Station Zero...!
The man turned to face the message hovering in holographic light before him. The font was heavy block letters, a dusty sand-papered grey outlined in gold. He gave a sharp salute as a picture of the GLORIOUS GENERAL appeared. It was the official state image of the General, taken nearly thirty years ago. Specks of grey and white were only beginning to appear on his slightly fuzzy chin. He had a heavy brow, dark eyes and thick wrinkles on his forehead. Atop his head was a severe looking commanders hat, black and grey with a gold badge insignia on the front.
"Tyler!" the man heard his name called from somewhere in the bar. He peered into the darkness and saw a familiar face in the crowd. He gave a small wave and stepped down the ramp.
"Gentlemen," said Tyler, removing his cap and smoothing back his slick blonde hair. "Admiral Velko!" Tyler offered his hand to a fat bureaucrat seated closest to him. Velko was crushing a cigar between his teeth. "It is such a pleasure to see you again! I remember fondly the Battle of New Delhi. Do you remember the cries for mercy we so deftly refused! Ha! We did the GENERAL a Great Service that day."
Velko raised a pudgy hand holding a drink and smiled. Thick ash fell on his uniform as clouds of smoke drifted upward. A waiter appeared with a chair for Tyler. He took it without a word and had a seat next to a beautiful Martian woman. Her long dark hair fell carelessly down her shoulders, framing a perfectly angelic face. Her attention was focused on the man seated next to her, an old Marine Commander, with a slight build and a prosthetic arm. His metal fingers were covered with taught skin-toned polymer. He had a thick scar across his eye and head, probably from a laser blast in some long ago battle. The woman was whispering something into the Commanders ear.
He laughed and said, "Tyler Conte, welcome! You know Velko of course. Let me introduce you to Generals York and Stone-fresh from the North American Campaign." The Generals gave Tyler a cursory nod, mostly ignoring him.
"Thank you John," said Tyler glancing around the table. "It's good to see you as well. How is your son?" The waiter appeared and placed a drink in front of Tyler without a word.
"Very good! James is at Albemarle. Seems he wants to follow his old man into the CORE. "
"Splendid! For the GENERAL!" said Tyler, raising his drink. No one else seemed to notice. The Martian woman giggled and gave John a kiss on the cheek. "...And that man at the end of the table-"
"-Minister Adam Washington," said Tyler. "I've been following your political policies on Mars for some time. Fascinating work Minister, truly worthy of the GLORIOUS GENERALS praise!" The man was seated opposite Tyler. A work tablet in front of him glowed green, casting heavy upward shadows on the young ministers face. Tyler looked closer and realized that the man had a lot of prosthetic enhancements. His eyes were solid black except for two red pinprick sized pupils in the center. As he talked, the minister continued to tap rapid commands on his tablet without looking.
"I appreciate your enthusiasm for my work Mr. Tyler. Who are you?" he said in a soft monotone voice.
"Oh, an old friend from the Martian Wars, some years back-Mr.. Washington. He's with Intelligence," said John quickly. The Martian woman's hands had disappeared beneath the table.
"Actually the Interior Service Now," said Tyler reaching into his black leather jacket. He pulled out a badge with the gold embossed triangle of the GENERALS office on it. "Agent Conte, liaison to the Generals Office. How do you like Station Zero, Minister Washington?" The minister stopped tapping his tablet, and stared at Tyler.
"I find it relaxing Mr.. Conte. Did you know Station Zero is the only Defense Platform in Orbit around Earth? Not even the old Republic could achieve such air superiority. I am sure the GLORIOUS GENERALS will be VICTORIOUS in North America. Are you on business or is your visit merely pleasure this evening?"
Tyler tucked his badge back in his coat, and pointed to the simulated cloudscapes on the walls. " The clouds are a nice touch. You wouldn't even realize the station is traveling at 17,000 miles per hour. One is never really off-duty with the Interior Service Minister Washington. When did you arrive at the station? Yesterday was a no-flight cycle, so surely the day before...?"
The Minister glanced around the table. The conversations had ceased and an awkward silence fell upon the table. The Martian woman glanced around the table, avoiding Tylers glare.
"I arrived last week Mr.. Tyler," said Minister Washington. "I hope you realize I regard this line of questioning as impolite?"
Tyler nodded. "Of course, forgive me Minister. Let me only-" The Martian woman jumped up suddenly, a standard Marine Issue pistol in her hands, firing shots wildly. Tyler barely had time to pull his gun and draw a bead on her. A perfect circle of white light appeared on her forehead and Tyler pulled the trigger.
Her head snapped back, her arms lifeless. Johns gun clattered to the table. Spilled drinks mixed with quickly forming pools of blood and cocktail napkins with the REGIMES logo embroidered on them. The other people in the bar began shouting
Tyler was still seated, breathing heavily. He glanced over at Velko, head back, his bulbous neck torn open. His cigar was on the table, burning a hole into the synthetic surface. General Stone was slumped over General York, blood streaming from a hole in his cheek and temple.
Minister Washington resumed tapping commands on his work tablet. His augmented black eyes were lifeless. Tyler wondered how much of the Minister was machine; how little of the man was left?
"I've alerted station security Mr.. Tyler. I've also issued an official statement regarding the incident for review by the Politburo," said Washington.
"My god, Tyler!" said John. Ashen faced, he alternated looking at the dead assassin beside him and Tyler. "How did she...My gun...?"
"My office received word of a potential threat to the Officer Core, something untraceable. I didn't catch it in time. I'm sorry John, it's time to start thinking about how your going to explain this to the GLORIOUS GENERAL." Tyler plucked dead Velkos still burning cigar from the table and took a drag. Smoke surrounded his head and Tyler leaned back in his chair smiling. Minister Washington smiled back.
"On what grounds," asked the King-Priest in a low, solemn tone, "do you believe yourself to be His Chosen servant?"
The crackle of flames came from all around the boy. The entirety of the hall was flanked by brass braziers, and behind the braziers stood all the great people of the realm: merchants, senators, nobles, generals... All eyes were upon the peasant boy kneeling on the floor before the King-Priest of Aldoran.
"I ask again: who are you, my boy, that you think you ought be His vessel? Why ought you be His hand against evil?"
"I do not think," the red haired boy answered finally, his head yet bowed subserviently, his hands still pressed upon the marble floor of the temple. "Nor do I know, O Great Prophet. But I present myself nevertheless. I present myself as His supplicant, begging that I be allowed the chance to serve my people, Aldoran, your majesty, and Him."
"Do you not already serve all of these?" asked the crowned man in blue, clutching his bronze scepter in both hands. "Have you not done your duty to your people? To your Empire and your King? To Him?"
"Duty," said the boy, "is to do what one must in the greatest capacity one can. Our Empire is in being torn apart by wicked men. Temples are looted and villages are burned." That young man became overcome with conviction, and he lifted his head to look his liege in the eyes. "My duty is to give everything that I am to protect all that we stand for. To do less is to shirk that duty."
"Then you know what the price of failure is." The King-Priest stared down at the boy with an understanding and sadness.
"I do," answered the boy.
"And you know, too, the price of success."
"I do."
The room fell silent save for the sound of crackling fire and the whispers of powerful men talking amongst themselves. But even those whispers were silenced by the raising of the Priest-King's hand. Those proud men all focused their attention upon the scene before them again, upon the boy in a man's armor and the Priest-King in his long blue robes.
"Then the Trials shall begin," announced that old man, waving his hand. The fires throughout the room roared with life, each of them leaping higher into the air. "Arise," commanded the holy ruler of Aldoran. "Speak your name."
"Arturus of Maledonia, sir." Sweat rolled down the boy's cheeks in great waves, such was the heat of those innumerable fires. "I was once a shepherd, but I have been a soldier ever since this war began."
"And who is your father?"
"He is Darius of Maledonia, Your Eminence," answered the boy again, lifting his chin with swelling pride. "He is a shepherd like me, and has taught me of peace and war, life and death, and of the Lord of the Sacred Flame. He is a kind soul, and the most gentle of mortal men."
"Good words," mused the ruler in blue. "Honest words. It is well to honor one's father." He reached into the firepit and drew from within a handful embers, each hot and glowing like a flame unquenched. "Hold out your hand."
The boy did as he was bid, and as the Priest-King pressed his hand over his, the embers rolled out from the older, scarred hands into the young right one. There was a hissing sound, and smoke rose up from Arturus's palm. He flinched, yet he balled his hand about those embers tightly.
"Your first challenge will be the Trial of Valor," said the Priest-King. "The barbarians consort with a fiendish dragon to bring ruination upon our border provinces. You know well this evil."
The boy did. His fist was clenched. He nodded.
"If you truly believe you are chosen," came the King-Priest's booming voice, "then you must first demonstrate your courage in the face of the Empire's enemies. You must defeat this monster." And as he spoke, the King-Priest of Aldoran lifted up his scepter, and it flared with a warm light. "Bring its heart, and you shall be one step closer to proving yourself Chosen by Aurumar!"
"I will do as I am bid," vowed Arturus, bringing his burnt right hand to his chest. "I will destroy this beast."
It is no simple task to hunt a dragon, let alone to battle one. The terrible beasts could wreak such chaos and death upon a whole country and then vanish into the mountains, or into the bogs, hidden away with their plunder and spoils. Legends spoke of their power in battle, of their ability to melt armor, to rip through flesh with their sword-like claws, and to make short work of whole scores of men. This did not dissuade Arturus.
He took a horse and made haste to the northernmost provinces of Aldoran, those that touched not sea but mountains beyond which dwelt the barbarian host. Those provinces, once home to shepherds and vineyards and farmers, were now reduced to waste. Smoking husks lay where villages once stood. Green pastures became gray and lifeless. Forests became ash. Honest folk were made to fight each other for want of food and supplies to make their journey southward. Ever did Arturus witness these things in his journey, travesty after travesty, and though he did what any soul ought do when another is in crisis, though he battled bandits and raiders and savages all, he could find no hint of where the dragon lurked.
But fortune favors the diligent, and soon Arturus found a strangely untouched village in the midst of a green field. Though it seemed to be well lit and its people well fed, there was a sadness in all their eyes. So, he rode on into the village and was met with an incredible quiet.
There was but one exception to this silence. An elderly woman sat upon her porch, weeping profusely and clutching her face with her hands. She shook and shuddered, like one whose body was overcome with quakes and chills. This drew the attenion of Arturus, and so he dismounted and went to her porch.
"Ho there, dear woman," he said as he came forward. "What distresses you so? What brings you to despair?"
"Oh, poor boy!" she cried. "You would have been safer had you not come! My dear husband is to be taken from me!"
"But why?" asked Arturus, looking up at the woman with concern. "What could you have done? What could your husband have done?"
"It was ill fortune that made this so. A dragon has made cattle of our village, killing anyone that tries to leave, and all the men who have tried to face the best have been mercilessly slain. And," she finished with a great sorrow in her voice, "it is my own husband, the last of my family, that has left now to face this beast."
Arturus understood. He knelt on down as he had before the King-Priest and clasped his hands about the old woman's own. "Do not worry," he told her. "Your husband will not be slain, and neither will anyone else. I will bring him back."
"Oh, blessed boy," she answered, kissing the young man on the forehead. "You are willing to risk your life so readily for a stranger?"
"I do not go to die," explained the boy in earnest. "I go to slay the dragon."
"But however shall you defeat him? The beast is huge and powerful! And should you fail, he will destroy us all!"
"I will defeat him because I serve Our Protector, Aurumar, Lord of the Sacred Flame. He has given me this mark." And Arturus showed the old woman the fiery symbol burned into his hand. "I know not yet how I will succeed, but I know I will, for I have His blessing."
And so Arturus went upon his horse again and rode out to stop the elderly man and the dragon both. He came upon the old man first: the fellow was dressed in a legionnaire's attire, his armor old and rusted, his bronze spear battered and bent. Surely, the man had no hope of facing the dragon and surviving.
"Stay your hand!" called the boy to him as he approached. "Go no further!"
"But I must," said the old man. "There is a monster in yonder hills which I must fell, and I'll not stop until it is slain."
"Do not throw your life away," said Arturus. "Leave the task to me, old man. I will slay the beast."
"It is my duty to face the beast," retorted the old warrior, "lest it harm more souls in my village. It has done us evil, and so I will make right these wrongs and end it myself."
The boy understood, but knew the old man was incapable of this, and thus it could not be his duty. So, he feigned to submit to the elder's words, then cuffed him hard and true, knocking the old man out cold. Arturus quickly dragged the bony man behind a tree and hid him well. Then he tied his horse to another tree and removed most of his gear.
And so Arturus delivered himself to the dragon's cave with no armor and only his small sword for a weapon. This he hid in the folds of his clothes, and he waited patiently for the beast. It came soon enough, stepping out from the cave. Great and massive it was, indeed, the size of a small house. It stared down at the boy and made a curious noise.
"I do not recognize you, little man," it said with a snort. "Who are you? Another vainglorious warrior come to slay the terrible beast?"
"My name is Arturus," answered the young man honestly, bowing to the creature. "I am but a humble shepherd, and I have long wished to meet a dragon. It appears I have found one."
"That you have," replied the dragon, twisting in a serpentine manner about the boy. "And now you will be eaten by one."
"I will be eaten gladly," said the youth, "but hold a moment if you would, great serpent of the skies. I have but one request before I die."
"And what would that be?" asked the dragon with a sniff.
"I would like but to talk a while with you."
This made the dragon laugh, and it raked its claws across the ground. Smoke and fire burst from its mouth up into the air. "Does the wolf speak with the sheep before it dines? Does a human sing serenades to his cattle before he butchers them?"
"No," admitted the boy, "but dragons are far grander than humans, and far more civilized."
This amused the dragon to no end. "I will acquiesce," said the dragon with a crooked smile, "but when all is done I expect you to cooperate and accept being eaten."
"That is well and good," replied the boy. And then the two talked. For hours did they talk. They spoke of philosophy and astrology and of what meat tasted best (which the dragon claimed human meat did). But soon enough the dragon's hunger overcame him, and he let out a groan.
"I believe we have talked long enough," he decided, patting his stomach. "I must now set you alight and eat you."
"There is no need for that," said the boy with a sigh. "I must uphold my part of the bargain, but let me do so with dignity. I will step into your mouth and let you dine on me then."
The dragon was quite taken by this idea, and so allowed the boy to come closer. He opened his mouth wide, ready for some mischief, but to his surprise the boy stepped on in. But before he could begin to chew Arturus, the young man drew his blade from the folds of his clothes and stabbed upward into the dragon's skull, straight into its mind.
The monster writhed about, trying to pry the boy loose, but to no avail. It breathed fire at him, but the mark on his hand glowed a bright blue light and wreathed him in shimmering blue fire that protected him from its weaker, infernal red flame. He kept his blade stuck in the beast's head, twisting it about this way and that, until finally the creature was rightly dispatched.
His task complete, Arturus stepped on out from the dead beast's mouth and removed its heart. This he took with him back to the village, along with the old woman's husband, and he was greeted with such rejoicing that it deserves a story in and of itself. But the boy had yet more work to do, and so he left, making his way back to the capital city.
Arturus recounted his adventure before the King-Priest and all the great people of the Empire. There was awe in the eyes of those former nay-sayers as their owners stared at the heart of the dragon, that still-beating red shell in the boy's arms.
"Such a feat takes no small measure of bravery and wit," said the King-Priest with a smile. "And with the dragon's heart, we now have but two more items which we must retrieve. Tell me, my boy, what makes you so fearless?"
"I am not fearless," he answered, honest as ever. "I am always afraid in face of danger."
This brought confused talk from within the crowd. "But then," asked the King-Priest, "how did you face this dragon? Did you know its fires would not harm you?"
"I did not know that at all," answered the boy. "Indeed, I doubted that I was Chosen at all once I saw the beast. But my love of my home, of my people, and of the Highest of Gods, Aurumar, shall ever surpass my fear of death, and I will ever give all my effort and ability to serve Him."
The King-Priest understood. "Perhaps you are Chosen after all," he thought aloud. "But you have yet two more tests ahead of you. The next is the Trial of Will. Hidden away in the cursed Grove of Thorns is the Fireblossom, a magical rose which is holiest to Him. Bring it to us, and you will have passed the test."
"Then I will do as you bid," said the hero Arturus, saluting again with his hand upon his chest, "such as He demands."
There was no road that led to the fabled Grove of Thorns, but Arturus knew the way well, having heard the story a hundred times in his youth. It was the highlight of every book of Aldorane fables:
And the Grove of Thorns in which the fair Fireblossoms bloomed was that very same grove. It had since been discovered long ago, but the Grove was too dangerous to traverse, they said. But Arturus could not turn down this challenge. He had to pass the test for the good of all Aldoran.
He began first "Betwixt the Spears and the water's edge," the forest between the ocean and the Speartip mountains. From there he knew how to find the path, searching for the place where the woods became brambly and thick. And soon enough, he found himself at the edge of the Grove of Thorns.
It was a dreadful place even for the eyes, a tangled web of hooked black thorns and vines that throbbed like veins. The earth seemed choked, and the clouds above seemed to conspire to hide the eyesore from the world. There was a smell like iron in the air, and upon closer inspection Arturus saw that the vines seemed to have sprouted little metal fibers sharp as needles. And the worst of it all was that the thorns seemed to stretch on for miles and miles, too thick for a man to pass through, let alone a boy.
Yet Arturus could not go back. His duty was clear.
So the boy wrapped his hands and his boots in cloth, and he took his sword tightly in his hand. He began making his way into the Grove of Thorns, hacking his way through the sharp vegetation that groaned in objection. He seemed to make good progress at first, edging his way slowly through the vines, but they grew thicker as he went, harder to cut, and covered in ever-increasing numbers of thorns.
A look back showed Arturus that the way he had just cut through was overgrown once again! It was as if he had never walked where he now was, never cut a path at all. Fear clutched him then, but he focused on the task at hand and continued on forward.
But then his sword shattered in his hand as he cut through the grove. The splintered metal flew all over, out of reach, and Arturus understood that he could not simply hack his way through. He knew, too, that fire would not serve, for these were the thorns of the Firelord's own daughter. He had but one option remaining: to push his way through.
And so he did. Though he had prepared himself well for this inevitability, the boy found that the cloth he'd bound his limbs in was not enough to keep those blade-like thorns at bay. They cut deep into his skin like a thousand tiny swords; the vines rubbed against his legs like sandpaper, tearing away skin and biting into flesh; and whensoever he came to a stop to catch his breath, the ground itself seemed to turn to mud beneath his feet, threatening to trap him where he stood forever.
But Arturus remembered his father, Darius, tending to the sheep at home. He remembered how he had through so many winters let himself starve that Arturus might grew strong. He remembered, too, how his father had suffered all those years without his wife, and raised him alone. Something in Arturus burned at that thought, and he found in himself an energy he did not know he had.
Arturus pushed himself through the thorns and brambles and slogged through the gray, muddy earth. He bled from all his limbs and from his chest, and his body burned like he was skinless. The pain was excruciating, and it only compounded as the hours went by. Soon, he was certain he was dead.
"Ah," he reminded himself with a weary laugh, "but I am not dead, for I still bleed and I yet feel pain. So long as I am alive, I must do my duty, for my father and for Aurumar." So he closed his eyes and marched on still, pushed on still, bled on still.
His boots were ragged, the soles gone, and his feet pockmarked with a thousand little holes when he first felt soft but solid ground beneath his feet. He opened his eyes and was blinded by light, unable to see for what could have been an age. He fell to his knees, and when he opened his eyes again Arturus saw a field of colorful flowers in a sea of green. He felt a gentle breeze caress his scarred face, smelled an aroma so sweet it would have been worth the journey had he died there.
But he saw ahead, growing in the midst of a pool of water, a rose like no other: brilliant and well in bloom, a red-and-gold marvel that glowed with beauteous light.
Arturus did not go to the flower immediately. First he bent his back and prayed, giving thanks to the Highgod, and then to His long-dead daughter. Then he wished the dead goddess a peaceful rest, promising to make good use of her gift, and stepped on forth to pluck the Fireblossom free.
As soon as he pulled it up, he felt himself filled with a warmth he did not imagine could exist. It washed over his whole body, cleansed him of his weakness, healed away his wounds, and restored the vigor he'd thought he'd lost. And when he turned to leave the Grove, he saw that the thorns and brambles parted to show him the way home.
And so Arturus left the Grove of Thorns and returned to the capital again.
His third trip to the city was one in which the citizens of the street now knew his name. They chanted it as he passed through: "Arturus, Arturus, Arturus." Perhaps another man would have heard his own name spoken so and been elated, but the name brought no pleasure to the boy. He was glad, to be sure, for his work was nearly over, but somehow he had a strange feeling of dread he could not explain.
He entered the temple for the third time in his life, holding the resplendent Fireblossom in his hand. All the senators, all the wealthy folk, they all were gathered in the temple, all of them hoping to get a glimpse of the hero who'd slain a dragon, of the hero who'd brought back with him the favored Firebloom. There, at the end of the temple, stood the King-Priest before the firepit. Though all others in the room were elated, the King-Priest had as sad and somber a look as Arturus.
"With this," said the King-Priest as Arturus finished recounting his tale, "we are but one step away from bringing about His return to our world. We are but one last Trial from the return of the Highgod and the savior of our empire."
"So shall it be," swore Arturus. The young man stood more like a warrior now, and he looked the King-Priest in the eyes. "Tell me what the last task is, and I will see it done, for you and the Empire and His glory."
"It is the most difficult of all the tasks," said the King-Priest.
"I am prepared," Arturus reaffirmed.
"As you say. Then I will tell it to you now, but be told this: I will not, and nor will the gods, look ill on you should you refuse this task."
"I will not refuse it," Arturus stated. "This is the only way we may combat the terrible evil which grips our Empire. Tell me what I must do."
The King-Priest did not wave his scepter, nor wave his hand, nor make any grand gesture. Instead, he stepped on down from the dais before the pit, and he reached on down and helped the boy stand to his feet. Then he said, while looking right on back into that hero's eyes:
"You must destroy that which is most dear to you. You must sacrifice that which you cherish more than anything else in the mortal world. Such is the price of the Trial of Loyalty."
And with those words, he broke the boy, and Arturus fled the temple.
For the better part of a month Arturus kept to the road, never staying in one place too long. He punished himself for his cowardice, eating as little as he could and giving up all those things he felt were valuable to him. He deprived himself of all those little pleasures in life: he slept in no bed, ate not from a plate, behaved like an animal in the woods, and in between it all prayed to his God, Aurumar, to accept these sacrifices instead. He prayed he would let him give of anything else, but he knew too well the answer.
There was but one thing in the world he truly loved so much as to bring him to such grief, one thing in the world he could not bear to deliver unto the Highgod by his own hands. For the first time in his life, Arturus was ready to surrender.
The boy passed by a village in his aimless travels. Though he did not stay there, he did let himself watch the people at work, and he found himself longing to be a part of that world again. But he resolved to punish himself further, to let himself suffer because he was not brave, and so went to sleep in the forest.
Arturus awoke that night to the smell of smoke. Sensing danger, he ran out to the village, and there he saw the fruit of his own cowardice: the barbarians had struck again, a great band of them, and they laid waste to all that was in that hamlet. Those peasants who stood their ground were butchered, and those who fled were chased like dogs.
The boy ran in to intervene. Even starved and broken-spirited as he was, he knew well the battlefield, and thrashed through the cacophony of blood and steel like a lion, using his broken sword to fight those brutes and murderers. He killed a great many, and sent a great many more running to the hills.
But for all his efforts, he knew he was too late. A great many good and innocent men lay dead on the battlefield, and a number more women and children, too. What struck him most, though, was the sight of a small boy, a child no older than five, rushing to a body upon the field. He grabbed the dead man and wailed, crying out for the gods to let his father back.
And as the red fires still burned and crackled, as the smoke still rose in the air with the sickening stench of death, Arturus found the resolve he needed. He left that village, bathed himself in the river, and then made his way home.
Arturus was truly going home this time. It was not the road to the capital he took, but a road that led well away from it. He soon went off the road and through fields, through pastures, through vineyards so bountiful that one could array them like a great maze. He passed into less settled land, into places where the forests still stood, where little brooks full of life lay unattended by anyone save perhaps the wily nymphs. These beautiful sights, though, brought him no joy. No, the task at hand was too grim.
It took him a long time before he finally reached the hilltop he called home. There upon it sat a humble house with a thatched roof, and surrounding it was a throng of sheep. They saw him coming, and they let out many happy noises, glad for his return. But even as he stood there, running his hands through their woolen coats, he saw a man step out from the house.
None would have called him a man of a powerful build, nor would they have claimed that he were handsome. They would not call him thin, neither; nay, he had a soft gut to him, and his cheeks were broad and his nose was red. None would have called said of him that he was sagacious; no, he was not known for his cunning. But to Arturus, there was no greater man in the world. There was no finer soul to be had than that which kept that body's heart beating.
"Father," he called out to the man. "I've come home."
Though he yet felt a terrible rot in his gut, something in Arturus made him smile as his father came on forward and clasped his son in an ursine embrace. "So you have!" declared his father. "Gods be good, I thought the war had taken you from me! And how you have grown!"
The two of them laughed, and for a time Arturus forgot all about his task. They spent three days and nights together. They tended the sheep, they drank fresh wine and ate hearty servings of good food: bread and cheese and mutton and grapes. Darius told his son of all the happenings that had been whilst he was gone: of how the village had sprung back to life, of how times seemed simple again, and how glad he was that his son was home to stay.
On the eve of the third day, the two of them sat outside with the herd, drinking together to watch the sun fade. The sky was colored like flame, and Arturus knew the time had come.
"Father," he told his sire, "I cannot stay, and nor can you."
"Whatever do you mean, my son?" asked Darius. "Speak to me, and I will listen to all you say."
And so Arturus told him of his adventures and how poorly Aldoran fared in the war. He told him of how he'd slain the dragon, and then of how he'd braved the grove. He told him of the capital city, the temple, and the divine things he'd seen and felt. Then, finally, he told him of those words the King-Priest had said:
"He said I must sacrifice that which is most dear to me," he told the man. "And, father, there is no thing in this mortal world that I can say I love more than you."
And he wept. His father did not, but put his hand on his son's shoulder and let him cry. "My son," he said after much time had passed, "do not mourn my passing to come. Neither should you ever think yourself the villain for taking my life. You do only what is necessary."
"But what sort of man am I if I kill my own father?" cried out Aldoran. "You are my sire, he who taught me all I know, the old man for whom I have fought all these battles for!"
"Yet that is not all you have fought for, and you know it well," said Darius. "For in our world there are a thousand fathers more whose families have suffered as they marched to war. You have fought for them, for the whole of the Empire, and for the glory of our God. And what man would I be," he answered plainly, "were I not to let myself be given unto this greater cause, let my body fuel the cleansing flame which shall sweep clear this land of this evil?"
"You would be a living man," answered Arturus pleadingly. "You would yet breathe. Please, father, tell me but to spare you, and I shall do so."
"I cannot," said the old man with a sad smile. "Such is duty."
And for a time still the two sat on the hill. But as the last light began to fade from the sky and night began to sweep its way in, Darius told his son, "Plant the weapon in my heart. Let me die standing before you, as your father and a man who loved his country."
And so, in a sorrowful silence, Arturus stood, and so did his father. Arturus took the dagger from his belt and pressed it up against his good father's chest. He said but seven words more, seven final words:
"There is no better man than you, father."
And with that, he ended the life of the kindest and most gentle of mortal men.
Arturus stepped into the temple slowly, carrying in his arms the body of his father. It seemed the whole of the city was there to watch this procession, each man and woman stuffing themselves into the streets, spilling out from the temple like so many grains of rice from a rice sack. There was far less cheering and worshipful chanting than there had been before. Now, like the first time, there was only silence, a respectful silence.
The man - for he could be called a boy no longer - passed by brazier after brazier, fire after fire, bowed head after bowed head. He came to a stop before the King-Priest, holding up his father's body for him to see.
"I bring before you that man whom has been the dearest thing in my life," he said solemnly, "the body of the soul whom I owe so much to. Hereupon let my sacrifice not be in vain, and may the suffering for our Empire's people end."
The King-Priest nodded with a real kind of sadness. Then, he brought his scepter up on high and lifted it up on high, and the whole firepit behind him flared into a great and powerful life. Golden flames whipped about in the pit, and the whole crowd gasped. Never before had the fires lifted so high in the temple.
"Before you stands one who would be your Chosen, Auramus!" cried out the King-Priest. "He brings unto you three sacrifices, three marks of his trials!
"From his Trial of Valor is the heart of a dragon," called out that holy man, "a monster which ne'er again shall trouble your faithful!" And so he cast into the fire the terrible beast's heart. The fire grew hotter and taller.
"From his Trial of Will is a fiery blossom, plucked from the Grove which your daughter rests within!" And so he cast into the fire the beauteous rose. The fire grew hotter still and taller still, and the flames seemed to pale.
"And from the most difficult Trial of all, the Trial of Loyalty, he brings to you his father, Darius of Maledonia."
Arturus stood still for but a moment, finding it hard to move. But then he stepped on forward, and with his arms he passed his father into the great fire. The good man's corpse turned into ash in his arms, and the ash soared into the fire, and all the flames glowed a great, pulsing blue. So hot were they that many men in the room fainted for want of fresh air.
"And now," said the King-Priest, "he presents himself as the final sacrifice, as the vessel through which you may save our world. Will you accept him, O Aurumar? Will you let this man be your Chosen servant?"
And then, closing his eyes, Arturus stepped into the flames which burned like a thousand stars.
And so it was that Arturus gave everything for his people, his Empire, and his God. He gave of his strength: that of body and that of mind. He gave, too, of that which he loved in the world: his family. And, finally, he gave of that which made him a part of the world: his very self.
In the flames, the young man was melted like iron. Skin and flesh and all that was his body burned like so much weak ore, leaving only that which was truly human. And it was from this that he was reforged, given shape, his purpose clarified in a single moment.
He was reborn.
The titan stepped forth from the brilliant blue blaze, all fire and fury, its massive gauntlets clenched tightly about the hilt of its flaming sword. And it looked down at the assembled people, at the King-Priest, at the crowds outside. From its winged helmet came a voice that shook the souls of those present, a voice that spoke only six words.
"Judgment hath come. Behold the dawn."
And they all bowed to Him, the Lord of the Sacred Flame, their God, Aurumar.
By @Shorticus
*is broadcasting live with a half-empty bottle of GLORIOUS BOOZE*
Are you happy? HMM? Are you proud of yourselves? He was the best and most GLORIOUS LEADER ever and you KILLED HIM!!! You loyal citizens – I know, some of you had nothing to do with his death. But you LET HIM DIE!!! I’m….. I’m so…… I can’t even…… AND NOW I’M STUCK WITH ALL THESE STUPID KIDS ALL DAY. THEY DON’T EVEN PLAY CARDS, AND THEIR PUPPIES SMELL LIKE POOP.
I’M SO SAD I COULD PUKE.
Look. I don’t even wanna do this anymore, okay? I HATE YOU YOU ALL SUCK. But in the spirit of honoring the GLORIOUS LEADER, here goes nothing. Alright? Nothing.
ATTENTION
Last night sucked. The GLORIOUS LEADER was getting ready to read all your stupid poems and stories and crap to the whole nation and then he GOT POISON-KNIFED, SHOT, STRUNG UP AND DRAGGED OFF A BALCONY, THEN SHOT AGAIN, THEN LIT ON FIRE AND THEN THROWN OFF THE TOWER AND BOMBED. Maybe he’s okay, you’re thinking! No. NO HE’S NOT OKAY NOTHING IS OKAY. Ugh. Well some of you tried at least. There was like fighting and crap, and a bunch of really impressive fireworks that didn’t seem to do much of anything. It was like those JERKS THE REBEL JERKS knew what we were doing and where we were going – we couldn’t do crap. They were all over us and they got inside and…… well, he’s dead. DEAD! OKAY?!? YOU GOT HIM YOU BIG STUPID JERKS!!!!
That said, he did still get a chance to read over all your submissions. And right up until you MURDERED HIM he seemed pretty pleased. Or like insanely, furiously angry in like a blood-lusty kind of way, it was always hard to tell with him. He did pick out a few favorites, but he was gonna wait until everyone got a chance to hear all the GLORIOUS LOYALTY before issuing his commendations. I guess he waited too long. YOU JERKS. Anyway. I’m sad. So….. here’s the results of this thing that killed the GLORIOUS LEADER. This was a terrible idea and I hate everybody. Excuse me, I’m going to drink all the rest of his GLORIOUS booze.
His greatness
A song of the greatest of the great
By: Blizz The Silvertongue
clad in greatness, born of wonder.
Wrapped in the shroud of royalty stands a noble leader.
bearing the gaze of honor and the crown of crowns.
standing high above all stands a proud leader.
his palace looms above the lower, his throne is a step to reach which is higher
wearing a woolen cape is a wonderful leader.
His world is the only, his word is law, his command is undeniable, and his power unmatched.
To defy the great is to defy sanity.
He is our Thane, and we are his thralls.
Only the loyal will be spared, and the traitors shall burn.
Ruling over everyone else is a glorious leader.
By @Blizz
This shall be devoted to attempt describing our glorious leader, such a task will not be simple, but if one never tries the difficult how can we hope to serve our glorious leader if he may task us with a difficult endeavor?
The answer is only what can be expected, nothing more, nothing less.
So here i shall begin.
To gaze upon our most noble and glorious leader, is to gaze upon perfection. But to gaze upon perfection will drive lesser minds to at best confusion, at worst to insanity.
So simple words shall try to make the simple minded comprehend our glorious leader.
To gaze upon our glorious leader, is akin to gaze upon a proud white stallion, with sunlight shining through its shimmering mane, ridden by a divine figure. But to hint upon the glorious leader having anything, any concept as his peer, or even worse better than he is to adopt heresy.
So our glorious leader is akin to a white stallion, riding another white stallion, with shimmering lights dancing through their manes, with a crown adorning their form, most fine and luxurious is this crown, truly the master of all head wear.
To gaze upon our glorious leader, is akin to watching a birth of divinity, but this birth never ceases, and at its core is always finished. For our glorious leader is not divinity, but more.
To hear our glorious leader, is akin to hearing what you've always wanted to hear, but without the incessant lack of noise.
To truly hear our glorious leader, would bring many a tears to our eyes, for such beauty and magnificence is not of the ordinary, but of the overburdened with heavenly glory.
To feel our glorious leader, is not possible without going into a deafening ecstasy, with your body transfixed in a perilous constant dance, without motion but ever moving towards greater joy. For to sense perfection in such a way is to sense our glorious leader.
No more, no less.
I once heard of an act of such selflessness by our glorious leader, i was brought to tears of everlasting joy, which drove my body to draught, which could only be quenched by his words and wisdoms.
During this act, our glorious leader ascended a pit, where lowborn toiled in the attempt to appease some lowly master, these lowborn were so caught up in their work, digging with broken sticks, which had been sharpened but broken once more.
Our glorious leader spoke out to them in utter silence which was deafening. Their only thought of response was to ask whom this divine being could be, but in their hearts knew that it could only be our glorious leader, and thus he stepped upon the heads of the peasants, forever blessing them with his graze, to reach the heavens and put his bare foot upon a simple cloud.
The onlookers gasped as our glorious leader sat upon this throne of commoners, and looked down on the toiling workers like only our glorious leader could.
To them he bestowed a single coin, a coin of such magnitude, that followers of anyone else than our glorious leader would fight endless wars in its acquirement, simply to touch an artifact of such presence.
The women were so immensely grateful for this gift, they fell to their knees, praised our glorious leader, whom had lowered himself to such a humble throne before them and they birthed children with voices so clear, so pure they would sing praise to his eminence for generations to come.
The men, so moved began shedding tears of joy, their knees unable to bend for they had been transfixed by his most generous reception.
They birthed a single child, but this child was ascending to the heavens, such beauty it was so the choir sang hymns of our glorious leader.
The child was so perfect, so pure that our glorious leader gazed upon its form and saw that only one was greater than this, and that was he.
So our glorious leader raised his arms, and lo, the child burst into rays of the sun, shining with solar brilliance like only aquatic animals could our glorious leader bestowed the greatest gift one could bestow another being, letting the child become a part of our most benevolent and just glorious leader.
And the people rejoiced as the land bore fruit and the greenery shone with life, the wildlife seeing peace in this moment forming a bond that lasts until this day.
Children ran across the fields, followed by simply clad men whom proclaimed our glorious leaders honor and glory.
For they truly knew that our glorious leader had done this act before them, in less than the quarter of an hour, and a day. Followed by a heavenly sound, of thunderous cheers of clouds. Raging to prostrate the will of our glorious leader!
Truly, this day was a day our glorious leader grazed us with his simple ways, showed us that living simple, bore great rewards.
And flowers graze the cloud that was his throne to this day, its petals ever dripping with dew that is said to cure all ailments, to grant vision to the blind and to taste like a fraction of the beauty of our glorious leader. And thus leaving those who drink it forever content, knowing no moment could be better than this, and as such give their time to our glorious leader, so he may rule eternal!
So when we speak of of our glorious leader, we speak of perfection. A concept only he can achieve.
By @Klomster
The answer is only what can be expected, nothing more, nothing less.
So here i shall begin.
To gaze upon our most noble and glorious leader, is to gaze upon perfection. But to gaze upon perfection will drive lesser minds to at best confusion, at worst to insanity.
So simple words shall try to make the simple minded comprehend our glorious leader.
To gaze upon our glorious leader, is akin to gaze upon a proud white stallion, with sunlight shining through its shimmering mane, ridden by a divine figure. But to hint upon the glorious leader having anything, any concept as his peer, or even worse better than he is to adopt heresy.
So our glorious leader is akin to a white stallion, riding another white stallion, with shimmering lights dancing through their manes, with a crown adorning their form, most fine and luxurious is this crown, truly the master of all head wear.
To gaze upon our glorious leader, is akin to watching a birth of divinity, but this birth never ceases, and at its core is always finished. For our glorious leader is not divinity, but more.
To hear our glorious leader, is akin to hearing what you've always wanted to hear, but without the incessant lack of noise.
To truly hear our glorious leader, would bring many a tears to our eyes, for such beauty and magnificence is not of the ordinary, but of the overburdened with heavenly glory.
To feel our glorious leader, is not possible without going into a deafening ecstasy, with your body transfixed in a perilous constant dance, without motion but ever moving towards greater joy. For to sense perfection in such a way is to sense our glorious leader.
No more, no less.
I once heard of an act of such selflessness by our glorious leader, i was brought to tears of everlasting joy, which drove my body to draught, which could only be quenched by his words and wisdoms.
During this act, our glorious leader ascended a pit, where lowborn toiled in the attempt to appease some lowly master, these lowborn were so caught up in their work, digging with broken sticks, which had been sharpened but broken once more.
Our glorious leader spoke out to them in utter silence which was deafening. Their only thought of response was to ask whom this divine being could be, but in their hearts knew that it could only be our glorious leader, and thus he stepped upon the heads of the peasants, forever blessing them with his graze, to reach the heavens and put his bare foot upon a simple cloud.
The onlookers gasped as our glorious leader sat upon this throne of commoners, and looked down on the toiling workers like only our glorious leader could.
To them he bestowed a single coin, a coin of such magnitude, that followers of anyone else than our glorious leader would fight endless wars in its acquirement, simply to touch an artifact of such presence.
The women were so immensely grateful for this gift, they fell to their knees, praised our glorious leader, whom had lowered himself to such a humble throne before them and they birthed children with voices so clear, so pure they would sing praise to his eminence for generations to come.
The men, so moved began shedding tears of joy, their knees unable to bend for they had been transfixed by his most generous reception.
They birthed a single child, but this child was ascending to the heavens, such beauty it was so the choir sang hymns of our glorious leader.
The child was so perfect, so pure that our glorious leader gazed upon its form and saw that only one was greater than this, and that was he.
So our glorious leader raised his arms, and lo, the child burst into rays of the sun, shining with solar brilliance like only aquatic animals could our glorious leader bestowed the greatest gift one could bestow another being, letting the child become a part of our most benevolent and just glorious leader.
And the people rejoiced as the land bore fruit and the greenery shone with life, the wildlife seeing peace in this moment forming a bond that lasts until this day.
Children ran across the fields, followed by simply clad men whom proclaimed our glorious leaders honor and glory.
For they truly knew that our glorious leader had done this act before them, in less than the quarter of an hour, and a day. Followed by a heavenly sound, of thunderous cheers of clouds. Raging to prostrate the will of our glorious leader!
Truly, this day was a day our glorious leader grazed us with his simple ways, showed us that living simple, bore great rewards.
And flowers graze the cloud that was his throne to this day, its petals ever dripping with dew that is said to cure all ailments, to grant vision to the blind and to taste like a fraction of the beauty of our glorious leader. And thus leaving those who drink it forever content, knowing no moment could be better than this, and as such give their time to our glorious leader, so he may rule eternal!
So when we speak of of our glorious leader, we speak of perfection. A concept only he can achieve.
By @Klomster
There once was a leader, a glorious man,
the wise and the fair and the noble king Han.
His reign had brought peace and prosperity for all,
from the oldest to the youngest, the tall and the small.
Some were jealous and wanted his wealth,
they tried to get closer through force or through stealth.
None was able to touch the good king,
for he could take on what any foe could bring.
None was more cunning, more clever or smart,
the swing of his sword was a form of art.
And the mighty king Han had men on his side,
all loyal and strong and they stood there with pride.
His foes did he conquer, his foes found defeat,
the king could sit down on his ivory seat.
The glorious leader, a victor once more,
he deserved the following praising galore.
Here comes the tale of king Han to an end,
for always remembered by foe and by friend.
By @WiseDragonGirl
the wise and the fair and the noble king Han.
His reign had brought peace and prosperity for all,
from the oldest to the youngest, the tall and the small.
Some were jealous and wanted his wealth,
they tried to get closer through force or through stealth.
None was able to touch the good king,
for he could take on what any foe could bring.
None was more cunning, more clever or smart,
the swing of his sword was a form of art.
And the mighty king Han had men on his side,
all loyal and strong and they stood there with pride.
His foes did he conquer, his foes found defeat,
the king could sit down on his ivory seat.
The glorious leader, a victor once more,
he deserved the following praising galore.
Here comes the tale of king Han to an end,
for always remembered by foe and by friend.
By @WiseDragonGirl
Officer's Lounge
By @Polybius
The reinforced-steel walled officer's lounge was quiet, except for the occasional REGIME fanfare or patriotic reminder. Holograms of political propaganda intermixed with randomly generated cloudscapes appeared on silk tapestries hung around the circular room. It was dark except for columns of white halogen light stretching from floor to ceiling. Servers in the grey uniform of the FLEET carried cocktails on silver platters to quietly chatting Officers, Politicos and Members of the Glorious Generals Regime. The waiters said nothing at tables, only listened to orders and complied.
A man entered through the semi-circular blast door at the top of a small ramp. The cloudscape on the wall shifted to a deep purple and then dispersed. A red security sensor momentarily flashed from his head to his feet and then disappeared. A patriotic message appeared on the black tapestry beside him:
THE GLORIOUS GENERAL REMINDS YOU TO COMPLY WITH YOUR DUTY! TRAITORS TO THE REGIME WILL BE SHOT! Enjoy your stay on Station Zero...!
The man turned to face the message hovering in holographic light before him. The font was heavy block letters, a dusty sand-papered grey outlined in gold. He gave a sharp salute as a picture of the GLORIOUS GENERAL appeared. It was the official state image of the General, taken nearly thirty years ago. Specks of grey and white were only beginning to appear on his slightly fuzzy chin. He had a heavy brow, dark eyes and thick wrinkles on his forehead. Atop his head was a severe looking commanders hat, black and grey with a gold badge insignia on the front.
"Tyler!" the man heard his name called from somewhere in the bar. He peered into the darkness and saw a familiar face in the crowd. He gave a small wave and stepped down the ramp.
"Gentlemen," said Tyler, removing his cap and smoothing back his slick blonde hair. "Admiral Velko!" Tyler offered his hand to a fat bureaucrat seated closest to him. Velko was crushing a cigar between his teeth. "It is such a pleasure to see you again! I remember fondly the Battle of New Delhi. Do you remember the cries for mercy we so deftly refused! Ha! We did the GENERAL a Great Service that day."
Velko raised a pudgy hand holding a drink and smiled. Thick ash fell on his uniform as clouds of smoke drifted upward. A waiter appeared with a chair for Tyler. He took it without a word and had a seat next to a beautiful Martian woman. Her long dark hair fell carelessly down her shoulders, framing a perfectly angelic face. Her attention was focused on the man seated next to her, an old Marine Commander, with a slight build and a prosthetic arm. His metal fingers were covered with taught skin-toned polymer. He had a thick scar across his eye and head, probably from a laser blast in some long ago battle. The woman was whispering something into the Commanders ear.
He laughed and said, "Tyler Conte, welcome! You know Velko of course. Let me introduce you to Generals York and Stone-fresh from the North American Campaign." The Generals gave Tyler a cursory nod, mostly ignoring him.
"Thank you John," said Tyler glancing around the table. "It's good to see you as well. How is your son?" The waiter appeared and placed a drink in front of Tyler without a word.
"Very good! James is at Albemarle. Seems he wants to follow his old man into the CORE. "
"Splendid! For the GENERAL!" said Tyler, raising his drink. No one else seemed to notice. The Martian woman giggled and gave John a kiss on the cheek. "...And that man at the end of the table-"
"-Minister Adam Washington," said Tyler. "I've been following your political policies on Mars for some time. Fascinating work Minister, truly worthy of the GLORIOUS GENERALS praise!" The man was seated opposite Tyler. A work tablet in front of him glowed green, casting heavy upward shadows on the young ministers face. Tyler looked closer and realized that the man had a lot of prosthetic enhancements. His eyes were solid black except for two red pinprick sized pupils in the center. As he talked, the minister continued to tap rapid commands on his tablet without looking.
"I appreciate your enthusiasm for my work Mr. Tyler. Who are you?" he said in a soft monotone voice.
"Oh, an old friend from the Martian Wars, some years back-Mr.. Washington. He's with Intelligence," said John quickly. The Martian woman's hands had disappeared beneath the table.
"Actually the Interior Service Now," said Tyler reaching into his black leather jacket. He pulled out a badge with the gold embossed triangle of the GENERALS office on it. "Agent Conte, liaison to the Generals Office. How do you like Station Zero, Minister Washington?" The minister stopped tapping his tablet, and stared at Tyler.
"I find it relaxing Mr.. Conte. Did you know Station Zero is the only Defense Platform in Orbit around Earth? Not even the old Republic could achieve such air superiority. I am sure the GLORIOUS GENERALS will be VICTORIOUS in North America. Are you on business or is your visit merely pleasure this evening?"
Tyler tucked his badge back in his coat, and pointed to the simulated cloudscapes on the walls. " The clouds are a nice touch. You wouldn't even realize the station is traveling at 17,000 miles per hour. One is never really off-duty with the Interior Service Minister Washington. When did you arrive at the station? Yesterday was a no-flight cycle, so surely the day before...?"
The Minister glanced around the table. The conversations had ceased and an awkward silence fell upon the table. The Martian woman glanced around the table, avoiding Tylers glare.
"I arrived last week Mr.. Tyler," said Minister Washington. "I hope you realize I regard this line of questioning as impolite?"
Tyler nodded. "Of course, forgive me Minister. Let me only-" The Martian woman jumped up suddenly, a standard Marine Issue pistol in her hands, firing shots wildly. Tyler barely had time to pull his gun and draw a bead on her. A perfect circle of white light appeared on her forehead and Tyler pulled the trigger.
Her head snapped back, her arms lifeless. Johns gun clattered to the table. Spilled drinks mixed with quickly forming pools of blood and cocktail napkins with the REGIMES logo embroidered on them. The other people in the bar began shouting
Tyler was still seated, breathing heavily. He glanced over at Velko, head back, his bulbous neck torn open. His cigar was on the table, burning a hole into the synthetic surface. General Stone was slumped over General York, blood streaming from a hole in his cheek and temple.
Minister Washington resumed tapping commands on his work tablet. His augmented black eyes were lifeless. Tyler wondered how much of the Minister was machine; how little of the man was left?
"I've alerted station security Mr.. Tyler. I've also issued an official statement regarding the incident for review by the Politburo," said Washington.
"My god, Tyler!" said John. Ashen faced, he alternated looking at the dead assassin beside him and Tyler. "How did she...My gun...?"
"My office received word of a potential threat to the Officer Core, something untraceable. I didn't catch it in time. I'm sorry John, it's time to start thinking about how your going to explain this to the GLORIOUS GENERAL." Tyler plucked dead Velkos still burning cigar from the table and took a drag. Smoke surrounded his head and Tyler leaned back in his chair smiling. Minister Washington smiled back.
Firebrand
"On what grounds," asked the King-Priest in a low, solemn tone, "do you believe yourself to be His Chosen servant?"
The crackle of flames came from all around the boy. The entirety of the hall was flanked by brass braziers, and behind the braziers stood all the great people of the realm: merchants, senators, nobles, generals... All eyes were upon the peasant boy kneeling on the floor before the King-Priest of Aldoran.
"I ask again: who are you, my boy, that you think you ought be His vessel? Why ought you be His hand against evil?"
"I do not think," the red haired boy answered finally, his head yet bowed subserviently, his hands still pressed upon the marble floor of the temple. "Nor do I know, O Great Prophet. But I present myself nevertheless. I present myself as His supplicant, begging that I be allowed the chance to serve my people, Aldoran, your majesty, and Him."
"Do you not already serve all of these?" asked the crowned man in blue, clutching his bronze scepter in both hands. "Have you not done your duty to your people? To your Empire and your King? To Him?"
"Duty," said the boy, "is to do what one must in the greatest capacity one can. Our Empire is in being torn apart by wicked men. Temples are looted and villages are burned." That young man became overcome with conviction, and he lifted his head to look his liege in the eyes. "My duty is to give everything that I am to protect all that we stand for. To do less is to shirk that duty."
"Then you know what the price of failure is." The King-Priest stared down at the boy with an understanding and sadness.
"I do," answered the boy.
"And you know, too, the price of success."
"I do."
The room fell silent save for the sound of crackling fire and the whispers of powerful men talking amongst themselves. But even those whispers were silenced by the raising of the Priest-King's hand. Those proud men all focused their attention upon the scene before them again, upon the boy in a man's armor and the Priest-King in his long blue robes.
"Then the Trials shall begin," announced that old man, waving his hand. The fires throughout the room roared with life, each of them leaping higher into the air. "Arise," commanded the holy ruler of Aldoran. "Speak your name."
"Arturus of Maledonia, sir." Sweat rolled down the boy's cheeks in great waves, such was the heat of those innumerable fires. "I was once a shepherd, but I have been a soldier ever since this war began."
"And who is your father?"
"He is Darius of Maledonia, Your Eminence," answered the boy again, lifting his chin with swelling pride. "He is a shepherd like me, and has taught me of peace and war, life and death, and of the Lord of the Sacred Flame. He is a kind soul, and the most gentle of mortal men."
"Good words," mused the ruler in blue. "Honest words. It is well to honor one's father." He reached into the firepit and drew from within a handful embers, each hot and glowing like a flame unquenched. "Hold out your hand."
The boy did as he was bid, and as the Priest-King pressed his hand over his, the embers rolled out from the older, scarred hands into the young right one. There was a hissing sound, and smoke rose up from Arturus's palm. He flinched, yet he balled his hand about those embers tightly.
"Your first challenge will be the Trial of Valor," said the Priest-King. "The barbarians consort with a fiendish dragon to bring ruination upon our border provinces. You know well this evil."
The boy did. His fist was clenched. He nodded.
"If you truly believe you are chosen," came the King-Priest's booming voice, "then you must first demonstrate your courage in the face of the Empire's enemies. You must defeat this monster." And as he spoke, the King-Priest of Aldoran lifted up his scepter, and it flared with a warm light. "Bring its heart, and you shall be one step closer to proving yourself Chosen by Aurumar!"
"I will do as I am bid," vowed Arturus, bringing his burnt right hand to his chest. "I will destroy this beast."
It is no simple task to hunt a dragon, let alone to battle one. The terrible beasts could wreak such chaos and death upon a whole country and then vanish into the mountains, or into the bogs, hidden away with their plunder and spoils. Legends spoke of their power in battle, of their ability to melt armor, to rip through flesh with their sword-like claws, and to make short work of whole scores of men. This did not dissuade Arturus.
He took a horse and made haste to the northernmost provinces of Aldoran, those that touched not sea but mountains beyond which dwelt the barbarian host. Those provinces, once home to shepherds and vineyards and farmers, were now reduced to waste. Smoking husks lay where villages once stood. Green pastures became gray and lifeless. Forests became ash. Honest folk were made to fight each other for want of food and supplies to make their journey southward. Ever did Arturus witness these things in his journey, travesty after travesty, and though he did what any soul ought do when another is in crisis, though he battled bandits and raiders and savages all, he could find no hint of where the dragon lurked.
But fortune favors the diligent, and soon Arturus found a strangely untouched village in the midst of a green field. Though it seemed to be well lit and its people well fed, there was a sadness in all their eyes. So, he rode on into the village and was met with an incredible quiet.
There was but one exception to this silence. An elderly woman sat upon her porch, weeping profusely and clutching her face with her hands. She shook and shuddered, like one whose body was overcome with quakes and chills. This drew the attenion of Arturus, and so he dismounted and went to her porch.
"Ho there, dear woman," he said as he came forward. "What distresses you so? What brings you to despair?"
"Oh, poor boy!" she cried. "You would have been safer had you not come! My dear husband is to be taken from me!"
"But why?" asked Arturus, looking up at the woman with concern. "What could you have done? What could your husband have done?"
"It was ill fortune that made this so. A dragon has made cattle of our village, killing anyone that tries to leave, and all the men who have tried to face the best have been mercilessly slain. And," she finished with a great sorrow in her voice, "it is my own husband, the last of my family, that has left now to face this beast."
Arturus understood. He knelt on down as he had before the King-Priest and clasped his hands about the old woman's own. "Do not worry," he told her. "Your husband will not be slain, and neither will anyone else. I will bring him back."
"Oh, blessed boy," she answered, kissing the young man on the forehead. "You are willing to risk your life so readily for a stranger?"
"I do not go to die," explained the boy in earnest. "I go to slay the dragon."
"But however shall you defeat him? The beast is huge and powerful! And should you fail, he will destroy us all!"
"I will defeat him because I serve Our Protector, Aurumar, Lord of the Sacred Flame. He has given me this mark." And Arturus showed the old woman the fiery symbol burned into his hand. "I know not yet how I will succeed, but I know I will, for I have His blessing."
And so Arturus went upon his horse again and rode out to stop the elderly man and the dragon both. He came upon the old man first: the fellow was dressed in a legionnaire's attire, his armor old and rusted, his bronze spear battered and bent. Surely, the man had no hope of facing the dragon and surviving.
"Stay your hand!" called the boy to him as he approached. "Go no further!"
"But I must," said the old man. "There is a monster in yonder hills which I must fell, and I'll not stop until it is slain."
"Do not throw your life away," said Arturus. "Leave the task to me, old man. I will slay the beast."
"It is my duty to face the beast," retorted the old warrior, "lest it harm more souls in my village. It has done us evil, and so I will make right these wrongs and end it myself."
The boy understood, but knew the old man was incapable of this, and thus it could not be his duty. So, he feigned to submit to the elder's words, then cuffed him hard and true, knocking the old man out cold. Arturus quickly dragged the bony man behind a tree and hid him well. Then he tied his horse to another tree and removed most of his gear.
And so Arturus delivered himself to the dragon's cave with no armor and only his small sword for a weapon. This he hid in the folds of his clothes, and he waited patiently for the beast. It came soon enough, stepping out from the cave. Great and massive it was, indeed, the size of a small house. It stared down at the boy and made a curious noise.
"I do not recognize you, little man," it said with a snort. "Who are you? Another vainglorious warrior come to slay the terrible beast?"
"My name is Arturus," answered the young man honestly, bowing to the creature. "I am but a humble shepherd, and I have long wished to meet a dragon. It appears I have found one."
"That you have," replied the dragon, twisting in a serpentine manner about the boy. "And now you will be eaten by one."
"I will be eaten gladly," said the youth, "but hold a moment if you would, great serpent of the skies. I have but one request before I die."
"And what would that be?" asked the dragon with a sniff.
"I would like but to talk a while with you."
This made the dragon laugh, and it raked its claws across the ground. Smoke and fire burst from its mouth up into the air. "Does the wolf speak with the sheep before it dines? Does a human sing serenades to his cattle before he butchers them?"
"No," admitted the boy, "but dragons are far grander than humans, and far more civilized."
This amused the dragon to no end. "I will acquiesce," said the dragon with a crooked smile, "but when all is done I expect you to cooperate and accept being eaten."
"That is well and good," replied the boy. And then the two talked. For hours did they talk. They spoke of philosophy and astrology and of what meat tasted best (which the dragon claimed human meat did). But soon enough the dragon's hunger overcame him, and he let out a groan.
"I believe we have talked long enough," he decided, patting his stomach. "I must now set you alight and eat you."
"There is no need for that," said the boy with a sigh. "I must uphold my part of the bargain, but let me do so with dignity. I will step into your mouth and let you dine on me then."
The dragon was quite taken by this idea, and so allowed the boy to come closer. He opened his mouth wide, ready for some mischief, but to his surprise the boy stepped on in. But before he could begin to chew Arturus, the young man drew his blade from the folds of his clothes and stabbed upward into the dragon's skull, straight into its mind.
The monster writhed about, trying to pry the boy loose, but to no avail. It breathed fire at him, but the mark on his hand glowed a bright blue light and wreathed him in shimmering blue fire that protected him from its weaker, infernal red flame. He kept his blade stuck in the beast's head, twisting it about this way and that, until finally the creature was rightly dispatched.
His task complete, Arturus stepped on out from the dead beast's mouth and removed its heart. This he took with him back to the village, along with the old woman's husband, and he was greeted with such rejoicing that it deserves a story in and of itself. But the boy had yet more work to do, and so he left, making his way back to the capital city.
Arturus recounted his adventure before the King-Priest and all the great people of the Empire. There was awe in the eyes of those former nay-sayers as their owners stared at the heart of the dragon, that still-beating red shell in the boy's arms.
"Such a feat takes no small measure of bravery and wit," said the King-Priest with a smile. "And with the dragon's heart, we now have but two more items which we must retrieve. Tell me, my boy, what makes you so fearless?"
"I am not fearless," he answered, honest as ever. "I am always afraid in face of danger."
This brought confused talk from within the crowd. "But then," asked the King-Priest, "how did you face this dragon? Did you know its fires would not harm you?"
"I did not know that at all," answered the boy. "Indeed, I doubted that I was Chosen at all once I saw the beast. But my love of my home, of my people, and of the Highest of Gods, Aurumar, shall ever surpass my fear of death, and I will ever give all my effort and ability to serve Him."
The King-Priest understood. "Perhaps you are Chosen after all," he thought aloud. "But you have yet two more tests ahead of you. The next is the Trial of Will. Hidden away in the cursed Grove of Thorns is the Fireblossom, a magical rose which is holiest to Him. Bring it to us, and you will have passed the test."
"Then I will do as you bid," said the hero Arturus, saluting again with his hand upon his chest, "such as He demands."
There was no road that led to the fabled Grove of Thorns, but Arturus knew the way well, having heard the story a hundred times in his youth. It was the highlight of every book of Aldorane fables:
Betwixt the Spears and the water's edge a secret grove was lain,
Wherein His daughter lies in deathly rest.
For as her love who fought Evil's host was pierced and so slain,
She thrust a dagger in her lonely breast.
Wherein His daughter lies in deathly rest.
For as her love who fought Evil's host was pierced and so slain,
She thrust a dagger in her lonely breast.
And the Grove of Thorns in which the fair Fireblossoms bloomed was that very same grove. It had since been discovered long ago, but the Grove was too dangerous to traverse, they said. But Arturus could not turn down this challenge. He had to pass the test for the good of all Aldoran.
He began first "Betwixt the Spears and the water's edge," the forest between the ocean and the Speartip mountains. From there he knew how to find the path, searching for the place where the woods became brambly and thick. And soon enough, he found himself at the edge of the Grove of Thorns.
It was a dreadful place even for the eyes, a tangled web of hooked black thorns and vines that throbbed like veins. The earth seemed choked, and the clouds above seemed to conspire to hide the eyesore from the world. There was a smell like iron in the air, and upon closer inspection Arturus saw that the vines seemed to have sprouted little metal fibers sharp as needles. And the worst of it all was that the thorns seemed to stretch on for miles and miles, too thick for a man to pass through, let alone a boy.
Yet Arturus could not go back. His duty was clear.
So the boy wrapped his hands and his boots in cloth, and he took his sword tightly in his hand. He began making his way into the Grove of Thorns, hacking his way through the sharp vegetation that groaned in objection. He seemed to make good progress at first, edging his way slowly through the vines, but they grew thicker as he went, harder to cut, and covered in ever-increasing numbers of thorns.
A look back showed Arturus that the way he had just cut through was overgrown once again! It was as if he had never walked where he now was, never cut a path at all. Fear clutched him then, but he focused on the task at hand and continued on forward.
But then his sword shattered in his hand as he cut through the grove. The splintered metal flew all over, out of reach, and Arturus understood that he could not simply hack his way through. He knew, too, that fire would not serve, for these were the thorns of the Firelord's own daughter. He had but one option remaining: to push his way through.
And so he did. Though he had prepared himself well for this inevitability, the boy found that the cloth he'd bound his limbs in was not enough to keep those blade-like thorns at bay. They cut deep into his skin like a thousand tiny swords; the vines rubbed against his legs like sandpaper, tearing away skin and biting into flesh; and whensoever he came to a stop to catch his breath, the ground itself seemed to turn to mud beneath his feet, threatening to trap him where he stood forever.
But Arturus remembered his father, Darius, tending to the sheep at home. He remembered how he had through so many winters let himself starve that Arturus might grew strong. He remembered, too, how his father had suffered all those years without his wife, and raised him alone. Something in Arturus burned at that thought, and he found in himself an energy he did not know he had.
Arturus pushed himself through the thorns and brambles and slogged through the gray, muddy earth. He bled from all his limbs and from his chest, and his body burned like he was skinless. The pain was excruciating, and it only compounded as the hours went by. Soon, he was certain he was dead.
"Ah," he reminded himself with a weary laugh, "but I am not dead, for I still bleed and I yet feel pain. So long as I am alive, I must do my duty, for my father and for Aurumar." So he closed his eyes and marched on still, pushed on still, bled on still.
His boots were ragged, the soles gone, and his feet pockmarked with a thousand little holes when he first felt soft but solid ground beneath his feet. He opened his eyes and was blinded by light, unable to see for what could have been an age. He fell to his knees, and when he opened his eyes again Arturus saw a field of colorful flowers in a sea of green. He felt a gentle breeze caress his scarred face, smelled an aroma so sweet it would have been worth the journey had he died there.
But he saw ahead, growing in the midst of a pool of water, a rose like no other: brilliant and well in bloom, a red-and-gold marvel that glowed with beauteous light.
Arturus did not go to the flower immediately. First he bent his back and prayed, giving thanks to the Highgod, and then to His long-dead daughter. Then he wished the dead goddess a peaceful rest, promising to make good use of her gift, and stepped on forth to pluck the Fireblossom free.
As soon as he pulled it up, he felt himself filled with a warmth he did not imagine could exist. It washed over his whole body, cleansed him of his weakness, healed away his wounds, and restored the vigor he'd thought he'd lost. And when he turned to leave the Grove, he saw that the thorns and brambles parted to show him the way home.
And so Arturus left the Grove of Thorns and returned to the capital again.
His third trip to the city was one in which the citizens of the street now knew his name. They chanted it as he passed through: "Arturus, Arturus, Arturus." Perhaps another man would have heard his own name spoken so and been elated, but the name brought no pleasure to the boy. He was glad, to be sure, for his work was nearly over, but somehow he had a strange feeling of dread he could not explain.
He entered the temple for the third time in his life, holding the resplendent Fireblossom in his hand. All the senators, all the wealthy folk, they all were gathered in the temple, all of them hoping to get a glimpse of the hero who'd slain a dragon, of the hero who'd brought back with him the favored Firebloom. There, at the end of the temple, stood the King-Priest before the firepit. Though all others in the room were elated, the King-Priest had as sad and somber a look as Arturus.
"With this," said the King-Priest as Arturus finished recounting his tale, "we are but one step away from bringing about His return to our world. We are but one last Trial from the return of the Highgod and the savior of our empire."
"So shall it be," swore Arturus. The young man stood more like a warrior now, and he looked the King-Priest in the eyes. "Tell me what the last task is, and I will see it done, for you and the Empire and His glory."
"It is the most difficult of all the tasks," said the King-Priest.
"I am prepared," Arturus reaffirmed.
"As you say. Then I will tell it to you now, but be told this: I will not, and nor will the gods, look ill on you should you refuse this task."
"I will not refuse it," Arturus stated. "This is the only way we may combat the terrible evil which grips our Empire. Tell me what I must do."
The King-Priest did not wave his scepter, nor wave his hand, nor make any grand gesture. Instead, he stepped on down from the dais before the pit, and he reached on down and helped the boy stand to his feet. Then he said, while looking right on back into that hero's eyes:
"You must destroy that which is most dear to you. You must sacrifice that which you cherish more than anything else in the mortal world. Such is the price of the Trial of Loyalty."
And with those words, he broke the boy, and Arturus fled the temple.
For the better part of a month Arturus kept to the road, never staying in one place too long. He punished himself for his cowardice, eating as little as he could and giving up all those things he felt were valuable to him. He deprived himself of all those little pleasures in life: he slept in no bed, ate not from a plate, behaved like an animal in the woods, and in between it all prayed to his God, Aurumar, to accept these sacrifices instead. He prayed he would let him give of anything else, but he knew too well the answer.
There was but one thing in the world he truly loved so much as to bring him to such grief, one thing in the world he could not bear to deliver unto the Highgod by his own hands. For the first time in his life, Arturus was ready to surrender.
The boy passed by a village in his aimless travels. Though he did not stay there, he did let himself watch the people at work, and he found himself longing to be a part of that world again. But he resolved to punish himself further, to let himself suffer because he was not brave, and so went to sleep in the forest.
Arturus awoke that night to the smell of smoke. Sensing danger, he ran out to the village, and there he saw the fruit of his own cowardice: the barbarians had struck again, a great band of them, and they laid waste to all that was in that hamlet. Those peasants who stood their ground were butchered, and those who fled were chased like dogs.
The boy ran in to intervene. Even starved and broken-spirited as he was, he knew well the battlefield, and thrashed through the cacophony of blood and steel like a lion, using his broken sword to fight those brutes and murderers. He killed a great many, and sent a great many more running to the hills.
But for all his efforts, he knew he was too late. A great many good and innocent men lay dead on the battlefield, and a number more women and children, too. What struck him most, though, was the sight of a small boy, a child no older than five, rushing to a body upon the field. He grabbed the dead man and wailed, crying out for the gods to let his father back.
And as the red fires still burned and crackled, as the smoke still rose in the air with the sickening stench of death, Arturus found the resolve he needed. He left that village, bathed himself in the river, and then made his way home.
Arturus was truly going home this time. It was not the road to the capital he took, but a road that led well away from it. He soon went off the road and through fields, through pastures, through vineyards so bountiful that one could array them like a great maze. He passed into less settled land, into places where the forests still stood, where little brooks full of life lay unattended by anyone save perhaps the wily nymphs. These beautiful sights, though, brought him no joy. No, the task at hand was too grim.
It took him a long time before he finally reached the hilltop he called home. There upon it sat a humble house with a thatched roof, and surrounding it was a throng of sheep. They saw him coming, and they let out many happy noises, glad for his return. But even as he stood there, running his hands through their woolen coats, he saw a man step out from the house.
None would have called him a man of a powerful build, nor would they have claimed that he were handsome. They would not call him thin, neither; nay, he had a soft gut to him, and his cheeks were broad and his nose was red. None would have called said of him that he was sagacious; no, he was not known for his cunning. But to Arturus, there was no greater man in the world. There was no finer soul to be had than that which kept that body's heart beating.
"Father," he called out to the man. "I've come home."
Though he yet felt a terrible rot in his gut, something in Arturus made him smile as his father came on forward and clasped his son in an ursine embrace. "So you have!" declared his father. "Gods be good, I thought the war had taken you from me! And how you have grown!"
The two of them laughed, and for a time Arturus forgot all about his task. They spent three days and nights together. They tended the sheep, they drank fresh wine and ate hearty servings of good food: bread and cheese and mutton and grapes. Darius told his son of all the happenings that had been whilst he was gone: of how the village had sprung back to life, of how times seemed simple again, and how glad he was that his son was home to stay.
On the eve of the third day, the two of them sat outside with the herd, drinking together to watch the sun fade. The sky was colored like flame, and Arturus knew the time had come.
"Father," he told his sire, "I cannot stay, and nor can you."
"Whatever do you mean, my son?" asked Darius. "Speak to me, and I will listen to all you say."
And so Arturus told him of his adventures and how poorly Aldoran fared in the war. He told him of how he'd slain the dragon, and then of how he'd braved the grove. He told him of the capital city, the temple, and the divine things he'd seen and felt. Then, finally, he told him of those words the King-Priest had said:
"He said I must sacrifice that which is most dear to me," he told the man. "And, father, there is no thing in this mortal world that I can say I love more than you."
And he wept. His father did not, but put his hand on his son's shoulder and let him cry. "My son," he said after much time had passed, "do not mourn my passing to come. Neither should you ever think yourself the villain for taking my life. You do only what is necessary."
"But what sort of man am I if I kill my own father?" cried out Aldoran. "You are my sire, he who taught me all I know, the old man for whom I have fought all these battles for!"
"Yet that is not all you have fought for, and you know it well," said Darius. "For in our world there are a thousand fathers more whose families have suffered as they marched to war. You have fought for them, for the whole of the Empire, and for the glory of our God. And what man would I be," he answered plainly, "were I not to let myself be given unto this greater cause, let my body fuel the cleansing flame which shall sweep clear this land of this evil?"
"You would be a living man," answered Arturus pleadingly. "You would yet breathe. Please, father, tell me but to spare you, and I shall do so."
"I cannot," said the old man with a sad smile. "Such is duty."
And for a time still the two sat on the hill. But as the last light began to fade from the sky and night began to sweep its way in, Darius told his son, "Plant the weapon in my heart. Let me die standing before you, as your father and a man who loved his country."
And so, in a sorrowful silence, Arturus stood, and so did his father. Arturus took the dagger from his belt and pressed it up against his good father's chest. He said but seven words more, seven final words:
"There is no better man than you, father."
And with that, he ended the life of the kindest and most gentle of mortal men.
Arturus stepped into the temple slowly, carrying in his arms the body of his father. It seemed the whole of the city was there to watch this procession, each man and woman stuffing themselves into the streets, spilling out from the temple like so many grains of rice from a rice sack. There was far less cheering and worshipful chanting than there had been before. Now, like the first time, there was only silence, a respectful silence.
The man - for he could be called a boy no longer - passed by brazier after brazier, fire after fire, bowed head after bowed head. He came to a stop before the King-Priest, holding up his father's body for him to see.
"I bring before you that man whom has been the dearest thing in my life," he said solemnly, "the body of the soul whom I owe so much to. Hereupon let my sacrifice not be in vain, and may the suffering for our Empire's people end."
The King-Priest nodded with a real kind of sadness. Then, he brought his scepter up on high and lifted it up on high, and the whole firepit behind him flared into a great and powerful life. Golden flames whipped about in the pit, and the whole crowd gasped. Never before had the fires lifted so high in the temple.
"Before you stands one who would be your Chosen, Auramus!" cried out the King-Priest. "He brings unto you three sacrifices, three marks of his trials!
"From his Trial of Valor is the heart of a dragon," called out that holy man, "a monster which ne'er again shall trouble your faithful!" And so he cast into the fire the terrible beast's heart. The fire grew hotter and taller.
"From his Trial of Will is a fiery blossom, plucked from the Grove which your daughter rests within!" And so he cast into the fire the beauteous rose. The fire grew hotter still and taller still, and the flames seemed to pale.
"And from the most difficult Trial of all, the Trial of Loyalty, he brings to you his father, Darius of Maledonia."
Arturus stood still for but a moment, finding it hard to move. But then he stepped on forward, and with his arms he passed his father into the great fire. The good man's corpse turned into ash in his arms, and the ash soared into the fire, and all the flames glowed a great, pulsing blue. So hot were they that many men in the room fainted for want of fresh air.
"And now," said the King-Priest, "he presents himself as the final sacrifice, as the vessel through which you may save our world. Will you accept him, O Aurumar? Will you let this man be your Chosen servant?"
And then, closing his eyes, Arturus stepped into the flames which burned like a thousand stars.
And so it was that Arturus gave everything for his people, his Empire, and his God. He gave of his strength: that of body and that of mind. He gave, too, of that which he loved in the world: his family. And, finally, he gave of that which made him a part of the world: his very self.
In the flames, the young man was melted like iron. Skin and flesh and all that was his body burned like so much weak ore, leaving only that which was truly human. And it was from this that he was reforged, given shape, his purpose clarified in a single moment.
He was reborn.
The titan stepped forth from the brilliant blue blaze, all fire and fury, its massive gauntlets clenched tightly about the hilt of its flaming sword. And it looked down at the assembled people, at the King-Priest, at the crowds outside. From its winged helmet came a voice that shook the souls of those present, a voice that spoke only six words.
"Judgment hath come. Behold the dawn."
And they all bowed to Him, the Lord of the Sacred Flame, their God, Aurumar.
By @Shorticus
by THE TRAITOR JERK @Vilageidiotx
"Yeah, you know... Kelsall, right?"
"Captain Kelsall."
"Heh. Captain. That's what he says."
"Yeh."
"Well, I went to school with Kelsall. Same town, just north of here."
"Yeh."
"Get this. Get this. Kelsall, you know? He is a pervert?"
"Heh. Who isn't?"
"You haven't heard what I am going to say though. See, when we were in middle school, Kelsall would sneak away at recess with this girl named Anne."
"Lucky him."
"Don't interrupt. Let me finish. See, they kept doing that until they got caught. They weren't doing what you think they were doing neither. See, what would happen is, Kelsall would pay Anne. Five dollars I think. It was, like, half of his allowance or something. Anyway, Kelsall would pay Anne this five dollars, and this is the good part..."
"Well, say it."
"Okay. Once he'd payed her, she'd pull her sleeve up or some shit, and he'd lick her armpit."
"What? Really? Holy fuck."
"Yeh, this was his thing. Arm pits. I don't know. I don't know if he still does that shit, after he was in the military."
"Wasn't he just a cook?"
"Pff. Yes."
"And what about the girl?"
"What?"
"The girl. Anne."
"Oh. I think... I think she got into Real Estate."
----------------------
THE JOURNAL
----------------------
-Chapter 1-
I do not mean to write a history of the American Revolution of 2026. Readers will have learned the facts in school, about where the battles were fought, and what great people came out of it. What I mean to tell is a simple story: the story of one person, one soldier, and what I experienced as I played my part in endeavor of our generation.
My story starts right at the beginning of the thing, among my revolutionary companions on the eve of our first fight. We were men and women from all walks of life, gathered in a small town just on the other side of the greenbelt. A regiment of the United States Army had just joined us after their defection from government service, and their first order of business was to organize us unprepared citizen soldiers into something like units. The man they put in charge of my unit was a football coach named Don Kelsall. He had spent some time in Korea thirty years earlier. A cook, I guess. I had never met him before, but others knew him from way back. They told some off-the-wall stories. The best of the storytellers was from a man called Avery. Never gave his last name. He was all around an entertaining guy. I remember he had brought a bottle of hot-sauce with him, and he planned to carry it the entire time. Said he expected military food to taste bad, and didn't want to be caught unprepared.
It was one hell of a night. We sung songs, some that sounded revolutionary to us, and others that were just whatever came to mind. The Army guys had found an abandoned Schwan's truck somewhere along the road, and the people who owned the diner off the main drag were supporters of the cause, so we ate well. And we were not the only ones. Everyday life hadn't quit for most people, not yet, so what started as us revolutionaries living it up before the fight became something of a town-wide party.
And that was fine. We had a great time. I got laid. Dawn the next day we marched out.
It was a rag-tag revolution we led. The Army guys, they knew what they were doing. At least they knew how to look like they knew what they were doing. The rest of us were obvious know-nothings. We carried weapons the Army guys had taken from their base, though some of us had only whatever we could get a hold of. They spent some time teaching us how to use them, but not enough time to make all of us confident with the guns. I felt like a little boy on his first outing in the cub scouts. Uncomfortable, my clothing weighed down by the things I would need, or thought I would need. A knife, rope, ammunition, some gauze I took from my own medicine drawer, a sewing kit, the atlas my car insurance had sent me, and other things I have long since forgot. Because Avery and Kelsall had been childhood friends, they rode in a car together, and I rode in the back seat. I can remember how sparse the traffic was. Regular life hadn't stopped yet, but it was stopping. The air had in it the breath of change. Our mixed-up convoy, made of whatever vehicle we could find, controlled the road.
"The Army boys said a few of theirs ran off to the city to join the Government men. UN is flying in Russian and Chinese soldiers to put us down. This isn't going to be easy." Kelsall told us.
"That is good. I don't want to do this shit if it is going to be boring." Avery heckled. He had that way about him. Careless energy, like a class clown. "Isn't that right back there?"
I told him that I was ready for the party. And I was. Is there anything more exciting than sitting, with a gun in your hand, on the brink of history? Being part of something that will define the next century? I sure as hell was excited.
"Good" Kelsall said, emotionless. "This is happening all over the country, boys. We are going to change things."
"We'll have the President in our hands before winter." Avery said.
"Abercrombie will be finished before he knows it." I joined in again. The energy of the thing. It's a feeling everyone should feel at least once in their life.
When we came to the suburbs, the signs of the coming struggle were more apparent. A cloud of inevitability hung over the place. With the windows rolled down, we could hear the sound of gunfire echoing in distant places across the city. There was a buzz hanging just beyond sight, like the hum of a transformer but much louder. Kelsall said it was drones. Would they be monitoring us? Bombing? I couldn't see any from where I was. Nothing seemed to move.
"Where did the town go." Kelsall muttered.
"Town's right here." Avery pointed out. "People aren't though. Don't know where they went."
There was a two-way radio sitting on the dashboard, and it began to rattle off coded phrases which I no longer recall, but within it was a street address. Kelsall seemed to drink in the information. He said nothing. Not until we were further into the city, nearer to beginning of this thing.
We rendezvoused with a the rest of the boys. Walking out of the car, I could smell acrid smoke on the air, and hear the gunfire like fireworks around distant corners. The army guys were there, in control of the situation. They told us that one of theirs - a loyalist - was held up in a duplex nearby. I remember their captain, the highest ranking of the defectors. Had a real greasy voice, more salesman than soldier. It makes it easy to remember what he said.
"Kelsall, get half of your company together and clear that complex. We'll take the rest and push forward. We got the Russians at the airport under siege, but these govie traitors are all over the city, and they're giving us some shit."
"Anything I should know?" Kelsall asked.
"Street corners near the approach are rounded off. It'll be real difficult to get near it without getting in the line of fire. Take this." he handed Kelsall a packet of what I would later learn was C4. "Do what you got to do. We'll move to the airport."
And that was it. All at once. We had our first duty. Our first violence.
The feeling of first combat, it isn't as difficult to describe as you'd think. You can only be so nervous after all. It is like you're first date when your still in high school, but more total. What you fear in combat you cannot run from. The entire experience becomes condensed in the moment. This all happened to me the first time, when the bullets flew. But there was no blood. We dodged across the street, and our target took a few shoots, but nothing stuck. We fell in behind the wall of the second building and watched intently as Kelsall took a peek around the corner. He motioned. We followed.
Kelsall identified the door and gave it a kick. It didn't budge. There was furniture blocking it. We heard footsteps hammering down the stairs. We'd have a shootout, and our cover was poor. Kelsall thought quick and kicked down the door to the adjoining apartment.
Everything went at light speed. I looked up at Kelsall. The C4 was in his hand. "Stand back." he said cooly. We went to the other room and waited for the wall to blow.
The explosion was deafening. It took a moment to realize that the next sound we heard wasn't part of the explosion - it was gunfire, a single heavy round. Kelsall returned fire, and we rushed to help him. The enemy charged up the stairs before we could get him. We hadn't done this before. We all looked at Kelsall, uncertain in ourselves.
Kelsall had been grazed. First blood. Just a little skin off the arm. There was a fat hole punched in the wall behind him. We wanted to charge in as a group, to overwhelm the enemy with our numbers, but Kelsall had a different tactic.
"You." he pointed at me, "The two of us. We'll finish this. Follow me."
On the other side of the breach was a living room covered in the dust of blasted sheet-rock. A flat-screen tv, futon sofa, a calendar with puppies on it. Radio in the kitchen on the dining table. There were footprints in the dust. Kelsall was standing next to the stairs, thinking.
"Make noise." Kelsall whispered to me. "TV, Radio. Move quick. Any noise."
What was he doing? I didn't question. TV came first. Some reruns were on, but I didn't care what. My heart was in the moment. Something else came to mind. I started to sing. One of those songs from the night before.
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."
The enemy fired a round into the floor trying to get to me, but I moved too quick for him. I turned on the radio. It sung something different than I did, but I kept on singing my own song.
"He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored."
I stuck a fork in the microwave and hit some numbers. It buzzed away. After a few seconds, the inside of it sparked and popped. I could smell the broiling food residue. A rubbery smell, mixing with the scent of sheetrock lime.
"He has loosed the fateful lightening of His terrible swift sword."
I opened the refrigerator and the freezer. Kelsall nodded and began to creep upstairs. I sung louder.
"I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps."
I moved across the apartment. The enemy took another shot into the floor. Was it working? Could he not hear Kelsall sneaking up to take him out?
"They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps."
I moved back into the kitchen to avoid getting hit.
"I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps"
And then it happens. The hammer comes down. I hear a scuffle. Gunshots.
"His day is marching on."
Kelsall came down the stairs alone. I didn't have to ask what had happened. Second blood. We rejoined our men and reassessed.
The adrenaline began to subside, leaving me feeling drunk. There was a dead man upstairs in the apartment next door. A man I had helped to kill. In all of my life, in school and work and the rigmarole of everyday living, I could never had guessed that this was going to happen. Even when the Revolution started, killing a man was a distant abstract. It was like old age - though when I knew it was coming, I did not fully understand it until the moment it had happened. I could see the look in the eyes of the other men. They hadn't participated in the fight, but they felt it. The realness of the thing. We weren't just dreaming it. We were here.
"We're going to clear out the other duplex." Kelsall said. He did not seem to feel what we felt. He had been the one to shoot the men. Why didn't it seem to affect him?
The first apartment was clear. Completely empty, nothing inside except for a stove. I put my ear to the wall to see if I could hear what was going on nextdoor. Soft thumps, like people moving. Or pets. I dreaded getting in another fight.
Sure enough, the door to the adjoining apartment was blocked with furniture. Kelsall knocked but nothing happened. He knocked again. Then he knocked louder.
"Go away." a woman's voice called out.
"We are going to come in. Will you let us in?" Kelsall yelled back. He enunciated every word perfectly whenever he yelled, like an English teacher lecturing an annoying student.
"Please go away." she replied.
"No." Kelsall was adamant. "This is going to happen. We are armed. Make your choice." He wrung his hands on his rifle. This felt strange. Incorrect. We had joined this thing for justice, but what was happening here? Nobody said a word.
The woman gave in. She moved the furniture. We went inside.
She put herself between us and her children, like an embattled lioness cornered by mangy wolves. We inspected her kitchen and found it entirely plain. It had been one thing in the scuffle with the govie, but walking into somebody's house armed to the teeth when they are still trying to live their civilian lives... it's an unnatural feeling. Invasive.
"Get what you need and get out." she said sternly. Her eyes expressed fear, but her voice did not.
"We are securing your house for the revolution." Kelsall explained
"This house is secure." she stated. She had placed herself in the hall, blocking the path. As Kelsall moved forward, she jumped back, and her countenance became more anxious.
"Are you hiding something, ma'am?" Kelsall was still wringing his hands on his rifle. The children's eyes focused on the gun. My eyes focused on the gun. I wanted her to take her children to a corner of the house and hide. Let us get out of her way as soon as possible.
Kelsall did not approach it like that. I am sure the rest of us looked nervous, but he did not. To him, this was no more exciting than if we dropped in to ask about a late rent check.
"This is what we are here to do." he said. "We are not leaving until we have..."
"Please." She looked like she was about to break apart. I was feeling less and less ready to do whatever it was we were doing here.
Kelsall stepped forward. She nearly tripped trying to move back with her children.
They were nearly out of the hall when Kelsall looked up. "Is that what you are hiding?" he said. Cold.
She broke then, only barely holding back tears. She crumpled and fell back into the room. Kelsall kept on her, and the rest of us followed in to see what was happening.
It was such a simple thing. A campaign poster for Abercrombie hung on the wall. A strange thing to do when you think of it. I had heard before how, before it came to revolution, the early govies got real overzealous in their support. The laws of physics at work in man - an equal and opposite reaction. But framed within the context of that day, it was too petty to care about. I could only feel sorry for her. Not even Kelsall looked angry, if he were every capable of such a thing.
But she didn't see things that way. From her point of view, it was us with the guns.
"We need to make sure your house is safe." Kelsall explained.
"It was safe." She sobbed. "It used to be." her voice shook, half of a scream. Her movements were jittery, uncertain, as she continued to fall apart before them.
That was when it happened. One man shouted from among us. I never knew who.
"She has a knife!"
Before Kelsall or anyone else could respond, another man stepped forward and bayoneted her in the arm. She screamed and fell on the ground. Her kids grabbed onto her legs. Blood seeped through her fingers. And we stood there, silent as a cloudy day. It was so quiet I could hear the distant gunfire again.
Third blood.
"Get a tourniquet." Kelsall said simply. He snapped. "Right now. Right now!" First time I ever heard energy in his voice.
To be honest, what happened right after that is difficult for me to recall. It is the numbness I remember. Mental and physical, where everything goes internal. How was it I was so affected? I hadn't seen heavy action yet. But that moment, more than any, marked the start of the war for me. The moment when revolution stopped being a phrase of glory. When it became a struggle.
The injury was not fatal, but it had severed any chance we might work with her. Kelsall ordered her locked in her own basement. For her own protection, and for ours. She would be let out in the morning when we left. We could only see it as another abuse on our part. The rest of our business brought us no joy.
I would spend the rest of the afternoon thinking of these things. Upstairs, with all quiet around us, and violence only sounding from far in the distance. It was war, and not nearly the worst of it. Still, even though I had seen it coming, there was a part of me that did not know until this very moment what was in store. This was what it would be like, and even then only on the best of days. Going back into time, back to that morning, I could have articulated what it meant to go to war. Blood and hate and fear. But though I could have spoke of the war, none of it had truly soaked in yet. It didn't mean anything to me. That, I think, is just a part of the human condition. We are told what tests are in store for us, and we see other people struggle through their tribulations, but there is a part of us that says our experience is going to be different. We all think we will skip the test, and the worst of it is for the rest. Difficulty is for everyone else, but things will go smoothly for us. Perhaps this is this quality of human nature that keeps us sane. Imagine if you could go back and tell your twelve year old self all the shit that was in store for them. Imagine yourself at twelve year old self hearing what would happen to you in the future, knowing that there is no way you could skip any of the tests. What could the untried mind accept, and what would scare us to hide away from the world? If, while in camp that morning, the shit I would go through during the revolution was suddenly revealed to me, could I have accepted it and joined the march into the city? I don't know.
Dinner came in the form of a bottle of water and a Snickers bar pillaged from a convenience store down the road. When you eat a Snickers normally, it's just a candy bar. Maybe it is good, maybe you don't care, but it doesn't go beyond that. But when it is the first thing you have eaten all day, after having been through something so life-changing as even a tiny taste of war, a Snickers is a feast. You taste everything. The nougat, the chocolate, the nuts. It is like a burrito made for dessert. The best thing you have ever had. Once that was done, there was nothing to do but wait and watch the roads. Nobody came our way. Only the threat of buzzing drones, and airplanes, and echoed gunfire.
Before sunset, we got news of the assault on the airport. Bloody. Half had died. The Russians held their ground and nearly ended our revolution at their feet. Avery had been in that fight. Did he survive?
Don't wait for me to answer that later, I will answer it now. I don't know. I never did find out if he survived. The war, as it were, sowed us across the continent. Nothing would be the same as it had been before. Nothing would even be similar.
"Yeah, you know... Kelsall, right?"
"Captain Kelsall."
"Heh. Captain. That's what he says."
"Yeh."
"Well, I went to school with Kelsall. Same town, just north of here."
"Yeh."
"Get this. Get this. Kelsall, you know? He is a pervert?"
"Heh. Who isn't?"
"You haven't heard what I am going to say though. See, when we were in middle school, Kelsall would sneak away at recess with this girl named Anne."
"Lucky him."
"Don't interrupt. Let me finish. See, they kept doing that until they got caught. They weren't doing what you think they were doing neither. See, what would happen is, Kelsall would pay Anne. Five dollars I think. It was, like, half of his allowance or something. Anyway, Kelsall would pay Anne this five dollars, and this is the good part..."
"Well, say it."
"Okay. Once he'd payed her, she'd pull her sleeve up or some shit, and he'd lick her armpit."
"What? Really? Holy fuck."
"Yeh, this was his thing. Arm pits. I don't know. I don't know if he still does that shit, after he was in the military."
"Wasn't he just a cook?"
"Pff. Yes."
"And what about the girl?"
"What?"
"The girl. Anne."
"Oh. I think... I think she got into Real Estate."
----------------------
THE JOURNAL
----------------------
-Chapter 1-
I do not mean to write a history of the American Revolution of 2026. Readers will have learned the facts in school, about where the battles were fought, and what great people came out of it. What I mean to tell is a simple story: the story of one person, one soldier, and what I experienced as I played my part in endeavor of our generation.
My story starts right at the beginning of the thing, among my revolutionary companions on the eve of our first fight. We were men and women from all walks of life, gathered in a small town just on the other side of the greenbelt. A regiment of the United States Army had just joined us after their defection from government service, and their first order of business was to organize us unprepared citizen soldiers into something like units. The man they put in charge of my unit was a football coach named Don Kelsall. He had spent some time in Korea thirty years earlier. A cook, I guess. I had never met him before, but others knew him from way back. They told some off-the-wall stories. The best of the storytellers was from a man called Avery. Never gave his last name. He was all around an entertaining guy. I remember he had brought a bottle of hot-sauce with him, and he planned to carry it the entire time. Said he expected military food to taste bad, and didn't want to be caught unprepared.
It was one hell of a night. We sung songs, some that sounded revolutionary to us, and others that were just whatever came to mind. The Army guys had found an abandoned Schwan's truck somewhere along the road, and the people who owned the diner off the main drag were supporters of the cause, so we ate well. And we were not the only ones. Everyday life hadn't quit for most people, not yet, so what started as us revolutionaries living it up before the fight became something of a town-wide party.
And that was fine. We had a great time. I got laid. Dawn the next day we marched out.
It was a rag-tag revolution we led. The Army guys, they knew what they were doing. At least they knew how to look like they knew what they were doing. The rest of us were obvious know-nothings. We carried weapons the Army guys had taken from their base, though some of us had only whatever we could get a hold of. They spent some time teaching us how to use them, but not enough time to make all of us confident with the guns. I felt like a little boy on his first outing in the cub scouts. Uncomfortable, my clothing weighed down by the things I would need, or thought I would need. A knife, rope, ammunition, some gauze I took from my own medicine drawer, a sewing kit, the atlas my car insurance had sent me, and other things I have long since forgot. Because Avery and Kelsall had been childhood friends, they rode in a car together, and I rode in the back seat. I can remember how sparse the traffic was. Regular life hadn't stopped yet, but it was stopping. The air had in it the breath of change. Our mixed-up convoy, made of whatever vehicle we could find, controlled the road.
"The Army boys said a few of theirs ran off to the city to join the Government men. UN is flying in Russian and Chinese soldiers to put us down. This isn't going to be easy." Kelsall told us.
"That is good. I don't want to do this shit if it is going to be boring." Avery heckled. He had that way about him. Careless energy, like a class clown. "Isn't that right back there?"
I told him that I was ready for the party. And I was. Is there anything more exciting than sitting, with a gun in your hand, on the brink of history? Being part of something that will define the next century? I sure as hell was excited.
"Good" Kelsall said, emotionless. "This is happening all over the country, boys. We are going to change things."
"We'll have the President in our hands before winter." Avery said.
"Abercrombie will be finished before he knows it." I joined in again. The energy of the thing. It's a feeling everyone should feel at least once in their life.
When we came to the suburbs, the signs of the coming struggle were more apparent. A cloud of inevitability hung over the place. With the windows rolled down, we could hear the sound of gunfire echoing in distant places across the city. There was a buzz hanging just beyond sight, like the hum of a transformer but much louder. Kelsall said it was drones. Would they be monitoring us? Bombing? I couldn't see any from where I was. Nothing seemed to move.
"Where did the town go." Kelsall muttered.
"Town's right here." Avery pointed out. "People aren't though. Don't know where they went."
There was a two-way radio sitting on the dashboard, and it began to rattle off coded phrases which I no longer recall, but within it was a street address. Kelsall seemed to drink in the information. He said nothing. Not until we were further into the city, nearer to beginning of this thing.
We rendezvoused with a the rest of the boys. Walking out of the car, I could smell acrid smoke on the air, and hear the gunfire like fireworks around distant corners. The army guys were there, in control of the situation. They told us that one of theirs - a loyalist - was held up in a duplex nearby. I remember their captain, the highest ranking of the defectors. Had a real greasy voice, more salesman than soldier. It makes it easy to remember what he said.
"Kelsall, get half of your company together and clear that complex. We'll take the rest and push forward. We got the Russians at the airport under siege, but these govie traitors are all over the city, and they're giving us some shit."
"Anything I should know?" Kelsall asked.
"Street corners near the approach are rounded off. It'll be real difficult to get near it without getting in the line of fire. Take this." he handed Kelsall a packet of what I would later learn was C4. "Do what you got to do. We'll move to the airport."
And that was it. All at once. We had our first duty. Our first violence.
The feeling of first combat, it isn't as difficult to describe as you'd think. You can only be so nervous after all. It is like you're first date when your still in high school, but more total. What you fear in combat you cannot run from. The entire experience becomes condensed in the moment. This all happened to me the first time, when the bullets flew. But there was no blood. We dodged across the street, and our target took a few shoots, but nothing stuck. We fell in behind the wall of the second building and watched intently as Kelsall took a peek around the corner. He motioned. We followed.
Kelsall identified the door and gave it a kick. It didn't budge. There was furniture blocking it. We heard footsteps hammering down the stairs. We'd have a shootout, and our cover was poor. Kelsall thought quick and kicked down the door to the adjoining apartment.
Everything went at light speed. I looked up at Kelsall. The C4 was in his hand. "Stand back." he said cooly. We went to the other room and waited for the wall to blow.
The explosion was deafening. It took a moment to realize that the next sound we heard wasn't part of the explosion - it was gunfire, a single heavy round. Kelsall returned fire, and we rushed to help him. The enemy charged up the stairs before we could get him. We hadn't done this before. We all looked at Kelsall, uncertain in ourselves.
Kelsall had been grazed. First blood. Just a little skin off the arm. There was a fat hole punched in the wall behind him. We wanted to charge in as a group, to overwhelm the enemy with our numbers, but Kelsall had a different tactic.
"You." he pointed at me, "The two of us. We'll finish this. Follow me."
On the other side of the breach was a living room covered in the dust of blasted sheet-rock. A flat-screen tv, futon sofa, a calendar with puppies on it. Radio in the kitchen on the dining table. There were footprints in the dust. Kelsall was standing next to the stairs, thinking.
"Make noise." Kelsall whispered to me. "TV, Radio. Move quick. Any noise."
What was he doing? I didn't question. TV came first. Some reruns were on, but I didn't care what. My heart was in the moment. Something else came to mind. I started to sing. One of those songs from the night before.
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."
The enemy fired a round into the floor trying to get to me, but I moved too quick for him. I turned on the radio. It sung something different than I did, but I kept on singing my own song.
"He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored."
I stuck a fork in the microwave and hit some numbers. It buzzed away. After a few seconds, the inside of it sparked and popped. I could smell the broiling food residue. A rubbery smell, mixing with the scent of sheetrock lime.
"He has loosed the fateful lightening of His terrible swift sword."
I opened the refrigerator and the freezer. Kelsall nodded and began to creep upstairs. I sung louder.
"I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps."
I moved across the apartment. The enemy took another shot into the floor. Was it working? Could he not hear Kelsall sneaking up to take him out?
"They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps."
I moved back into the kitchen to avoid getting hit.
"I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps"
And then it happens. The hammer comes down. I hear a scuffle. Gunshots.
"His day is marching on."
Kelsall came down the stairs alone. I didn't have to ask what had happened. Second blood. We rejoined our men and reassessed.
The adrenaline began to subside, leaving me feeling drunk. There was a dead man upstairs in the apartment next door. A man I had helped to kill. In all of my life, in school and work and the rigmarole of everyday living, I could never had guessed that this was going to happen. Even when the Revolution started, killing a man was a distant abstract. It was like old age - though when I knew it was coming, I did not fully understand it until the moment it had happened. I could see the look in the eyes of the other men. They hadn't participated in the fight, but they felt it. The realness of the thing. We weren't just dreaming it. We were here.
"We're going to clear out the other duplex." Kelsall said. He did not seem to feel what we felt. He had been the one to shoot the men. Why didn't it seem to affect him?
The first apartment was clear. Completely empty, nothing inside except for a stove. I put my ear to the wall to see if I could hear what was going on nextdoor. Soft thumps, like people moving. Or pets. I dreaded getting in another fight.
Sure enough, the door to the adjoining apartment was blocked with furniture. Kelsall knocked but nothing happened. He knocked again. Then he knocked louder.
"Go away." a woman's voice called out.
"We are going to come in. Will you let us in?" Kelsall yelled back. He enunciated every word perfectly whenever he yelled, like an English teacher lecturing an annoying student.
"Please go away." she replied.
"No." Kelsall was adamant. "This is going to happen. We are armed. Make your choice." He wrung his hands on his rifle. This felt strange. Incorrect. We had joined this thing for justice, but what was happening here? Nobody said a word.
The woman gave in. She moved the furniture. We went inside.
She put herself between us and her children, like an embattled lioness cornered by mangy wolves. We inspected her kitchen and found it entirely plain. It had been one thing in the scuffle with the govie, but walking into somebody's house armed to the teeth when they are still trying to live their civilian lives... it's an unnatural feeling. Invasive.
"Get what you need and get out." she said sternly. Her eyes expressed fear, but her voice did not.
"We are securing your house for the revolution." Kelsall explained
"This house is secure." she stated. She had placed herself in the hall, blocking the path. As Kelsall moved forward, she jumped back, and her countenance became more anxious.
"Are you hiding something, ma'am?" Kelsall was still wringing his hands on his rifle. The children's eyes focused on the gun. My eyes focused on the gun. I wanted her to take her children to a corner of the house and hide. Let us get out of her way as soon as possible.
Kelsall did not approach it like that. I am sure the rest of us looked nervous, but he did not. To him, this was no more exciting than if we dropped in to ask about a late rent check.
"This is what we are here to do." he said. "We are not leaving until we have..."
"Please." She looked like she was about to break apart. I was feeling less and less ready to do whatever it was we were doing here.
Kelsall stepped forward. She nearly tripped trying to move back with her children.
They were nearly out of the hall when Kelsall looked up. "Is that what you are hiding?" he said. Cold.
She broke then, only barely holding back tears. She crumpled and fell back into the room. Kelsall kept on her, and the rest of us followed in to see what was happening.
It was such a simple thing. A campaign poster for Abercrombie hung on the wall. A strange thing to do when you think of it. I had heard before how, before it came to revolution, the early govies got real overzealous in their support. The laws of physics at work in man - an equal and opposite reaction. But framed within the context of that day, it was too petty to care about. I could only feel sorry for her. Not even Kelsall looked angry, if he were every capable of such a thing.
But she didn't see things that way. From her point of view, it was us with the guns.
"We need to make sure your house is safe." Kelsall explained.
"It was safe." She sobbed. "It used to be." her voice shook, half of a scream. Her movements were jittery, uncertain, as she continued to fall apart before them.
That was when it happened. One man shouted from among us. I never knew who.
"She has a knife!"
Before Kelsall or anyone else could respond, another man stepped forward and bayoneted her in the arm. She screamed and fell on the ground. Her kids grabbed onto her legs. Blood seeped through her fingers. And we stood there, silent as a cloudy day. It was so quiet I could hear the distant gunfire again.
Third blood.
"Get a tourniquet." Kelsall said simply. He snapped. "Right now. Right now!" First time I ever heard energy in his voice.
To be honest, what happened right after that is difficult for me to recall. It is the numbness I remember. Mental and physical, where everything goes internal. How was it I was so affected? I hadn't seen heavy action yet. But that moment, more than any, marked the start of the war for me. The moment when revolution stopped being a phrase of glory. When it became a struggle.
The injury was not fatal, but it had severed any chance we might work with her. Kelsall ordered her locked in her own basement. For her own protection, and for ours. She would be let out in the morning when we left. We could only see it as another abuse on our part. The rest of our business brought us no joy.
I would spend the rest of the afternoon thinking of these things. Upstairs, with all quiet around us, and violence only sounding from far in the distance. It was war, and not nearly the worst of it. Still, even though I had seen it coming, there was a part of me that did not know until this very moment what was in store. This was what it would be like, and even then only on the best of days. Going back into time, back to that morning, I could have articulated what it meant to go to war. Blood and hate and fear. But though I could have spoke of the war, none of it had truly soaked in yet. It didn't mean anything to me. That, I think, is just a part of the human condition. We are told what tests are in store for us, and we see other people struggle through their tribulations, but there is a part of us that says our experience is going to be different. We all think we will skip the test, and the worst of it is for the rest. Difficulty is for everyone else, but things will go smoothly for us. Perhaps this is this quality of human nature that keeps us sane. Imagine if you could go back and tell your twelve year old self all the shit that was in store for them. Imagine yourself at twelve year old self hearing what would happen to you in the future, knowing that there is no way you could skip any of the tests. What could the untried mind accept, and what would scare us to hide away from the world? If, while in camp that morning, the shit I would go through during the revolution was suddenly revealed to me, could I have accepted it and joined the march into the city? I don't know.
Dinner came in the form of a bottle of water and a Snickers bar pillaged from a convenience store down the road. When you eat a Snickers normally, it's just a candy bar. Maybe it is good, maybe you don't care, but it doesn't go beyond that. But when it is the first thing you have eaten all day, after having been through something so life-changing as even a tiny taste of war, a Snickers is a feast. You taste everything. The nougat, the chocolate, the nuts. It is like a burrito made for dessert. The best thing you have ever had. Once that was done, there was nothing to do but wait and watch the roads. Nobody came our way. Only the threat of buzzing drones, and airplanes, and echoed gunfire.
Before sunset, we got news of the assault on the airport. Bloody. Half had died. The Russians held their ground and nearly ended our revolution at their feet. Avery had been in that fight. Did he survive?
Don't wait for me to answer that later, I will answer it now. I don't know. I never did find out if he survived. The war, as it were, sowed us across the continent. Nothing would be the same as it had been before. Nothing would even be similar.
by THE TRAITOR JERK @PlatinumSkink
This day, our Glorious Leader would make another marvelous tale for us to tell.
However, I will be telling you what the Glorious Leader doesn't.
He sat on his divine throne, his full body magnificent and over six feet tall
as well as almost as wide, the lap of luxury leaving its marks.
He was at a meeting, discussing laws with his peers with which he ruled the land.
Currently on the agenda was raising taxes additionally, and abolishing elderly care.
However, there was another matter which required the Glorious Leader’s attention.
Suddenly, a man came rushing in with a message, letting the tyrant read it and frown.
He stood with otherworldly justice, announcing. “I must head for the Village of Wood.”
And he then had the messenger executed for no particularly expressed reason.
The Glorious Leader rode with his troops to the village, as fast as the horses could carry.
This killed the horses in the progress, forcing them all to walk. ... They used cars.
Upon arrival, they were just in time to prevent disaster, as the Resistance was attacking.
The village was bombed and many were dead, but the precious resources were safe.
Upon seeing the troops, the cowardly Resistance turned tail and ran, doing no harm
to the precious resources. The survivors cheered, thinking the troops had come for them.
Mere humans stared in awe, how had the Glorious Leader known of this impending attack?
Obviously this was from the messenger, however none present knew of this fact.
The Glorious Leader informed them of his divine vision, which had blessed him from above.
Though this was obviously a lie to make him transcend reality in the eyes of the people.
Saintly calmness in his expression, the Glorious Leader helped the village recover.
Soldiers helped remove the debris. If you couldn't tell, this is in modern time.
He knelt down, stopping to heal an injured young woman out of the kindness of his heart.
“Get off me!” She screamed as he grabbed her inappropriately. She was swiftly executed.
Having made sure that the village was safe, the Glorious Leader set out after the villains.
Letting his obese body be carried on a chair lifted by six of his soldiers, of course.
Towards the Woods of Evil his troop arrived, eerie branches blocking the way.
The soldiers were exhausted and frightened, but the tyrant demanded they continued.
Though the men wavered, the Glorious Leader led them through alike a beacon of hope.
… No, of course not. The Glorious Leader stayed in the way back, for safety.
Walking through the woods, they found themselves face to face with a troop of bandits.
The well-fed brutes inspected the fat king and his exhausted troops humorously.
“What have you to say for yourself?” The Glorious Leader asked, looking at the bandit leader.
“I did as commanded.” The bandit replied with a sly grin. “I attacked and I announced.”
“Glory to the Resistance! The land shall burn!” He boosted with savage pride, sword raised.
“And now, as per our deal, I’d like to be rewarded in gold.” To this, the tyrant smiled back.
“Then Justice will swiftly strike you down.” The Glorious Leader replied, launching his epic attack.
That is, he immediately executed the bandits with a firing squad.
The Glorious Leader swung his great golden sword, and the bandits fell under his outstanding skill.
However, one fired back and almost hit the lazy tyrant, causing long-term paranoia.
As mighty as the Glorious Leader was on the battlefield, this event made him realize.
His troops might not be as trustworthy as expected, which endangered himself.
If more attacks were to come, he needed more soldiers to protect the land from evil.
This, despite that over 50% of his men were outside the country, conquering land in his name.
“We live in harsh times. This attack of the Resistance has made it clear to me.” He spoke.
Listening to him was a crowd of malnourished young, old and women, tired from working.
“I understand your pain, but we must all stand united against their evil!” He inspired.
Many already suspected what happened at the Village of Wood was this man’s work.
“I require your aid!” And so, the Glorious Leader amassed an army to fight the Resistance.
“Male children are to be taken for military training at the age of 7, and kept until 70.”
A play was created, in order to inspire the people and rally them to the Leader's might.
Attendance was, of course, mandatory, and those who refused to see it were executed.
It showed the Glorious Leader receiving God's blessing to rule the land.
“God” was being elevated by obvious wires and painted shoddily in gold color.
Lowering his Golden Sword of Might to the Glorious Leader, God chose his avatar on Earth.
The actor for the Leader was of course the most buff and inaccurate guy they could find.
A brilliant shining light shone down, as the Glorious Leader stood and accepted his role.
The light was from an obvious spotlight. There's an audible 'clack' when it came on.
It then showed the leader marching with a giant army, turning to the audience requesting aid.
Most of that army was props. … And he really didn't need to request aid, he took it anyway.
Finally, the Glorious Leader and his army faced their foe, the cowardly and merciless Resistance.
… In a forest especially prepared to ambush his army. They walked right into the trap.
With an epic speech and a shining light, the Glorious Leader commanded his charge.
They charged a decoy, our forces had already surrounded the incompetent commander.
The mighty legion of the Glorious Leader broke the enemy force, which stood no chance.
That is, of course, their version of charging an enemy commanded to retreat.
A rain of arrows fell upon his forces, but the Glorious Leader shielded them with light.
We used rubber bullets, to spare the unwilling soldiers. They quickly fled the forest.
The Glorious Leader returned home in triumph, the Resistance crushed with nary a casualty.
The Glorious Leader wasn't even there. No casualties was due to us. Propaganda did the rest.
After this, the Glorious Leader left for the front lines, to oversee our magnificent conquest.
The troops left behind, realizing that the Resistance had been merciful, finally reconsidered.
At home, the people lived in peace and safety, flourishing in the wake of the Leader's light.
It was time to make a move. Our leader, mdk, gauged public unrest and made the command.
Nothing of interest happened, other than worship of the marvelous Glorious Leader.
R hijacked a broadcast, addressing the people and sending them a clear message.
The annual broadcast in the Glorious Leader's glory went off without trouble.
The Glorious Herald was promptly executed for this, but the damage had been done.
The various Ministries of the Realm efficiently brought justice to the remnant disloyals.
Us like-minded individuals grew in number and determination, and the time has come.
All was safe in the realm of the Glor██████ Control is ours.
██████ious Leader. ... Huh!?
We detonated their Ministries with bombs, and their soldiers took over their bases for us.
The insolent...! Notify the Glorious Leader at once! We shall not stand for this!
As the “Glorious Leader” was occupied in conquest, people rose up and took back their land.
Return from the front lines at once! This mass of disloyals require swift justice!
With trained guerrilla tactics, we secured the media. Their soldiers had no morale. We won.
There shall be executions! The streets shall run red with a flood of their tainted blood!
We have some trouble with remaining resistance, but we have more pressing matters to attend to.
PEACE WAGONS shall crush their corpses underfoot! REAPERS will skin them alive!
The Glorious Leader is returning in full force. We needed to prepare, or we'll all die.
They shall all know the foolishness of their actions! All hail the GLORIOUS LEADER!
It is time to finish this, once and for all.
It is time to finish this, once and for all!
We cannot face the PEACE WAGONS head on. Set explosions. Grenade launchers.
Crush them all! Show them no mercy! Those who don’t advance shall be executed!
Our infiltrator has given us info on enemy troop placement. Avoid confrontation, harass.
The REAPERS are cutting them down! Reclaim the broadcasting tower!
Looks like we’re under attack. Stay strong. ███ RECLAIMED! Hail the Glorious Leader!
The Glorious Leader is entering the city. Retreat. Make them think they’re winning.
We are routing the enemy! They stand no chance against our mighty forces!
The Reapers are doing a real number on us, but if only a single one of us is alive to…!
The Glorious Leader has reclaimed the throne, he is raising his hand in glory to the cheers of his supporters! “We are victorious!”
DO IT NOW! TAKE THE SHOT!
And with that he ended the story our divine Glorious Leader’s battle against the trifle Resistance.
BANG
The Glorious Leader secured an overwhelming victory.
The Resistance has won a decisive victory.
The forces of the Resistance were crushed under the might of our overwhelming forces.
We may have had to pull back for now, but it is but temporarily.
R has been killed by an expertly led mission by Reapers and mdk has been captured.
R’s death was faked, and the mdk they got was a look-alike. They’re both is healthy and well.
The Glorious Leader will be holding a speech 2 PM today, to speak of our eternal safety.
The Glorious Leader has been assassinated, they’re trying to hide the loss of their leader.
Public executions will be held at 3:45 PM today. Attendance is mandatory.
Soon, their government will fall into pieces. Their army was just a little strong.
All Hail the Glorious Leader.
Soon enough, we will regain control again. Trust in the Resistance.
His
Imminence,
Glorious
Honorable
Leader,
Is
Guiding
Humanity
Tirelessly.
This day, our Glorious Leader would make another marvelous tale for us to tell.
However, I will be telling you what the Glorious Leader doesn't.
He sat on his divine throne, his full body magnificent and over six feet tall
as well as almost as wide, the lap of luxury leaving its marks.
He was at a meeting, discussing laws with his peers with which he ruled the land.
Currently on the agenda was raising taxes additionally, and abolishing elderly care.
However, there was another matter which required the Glorious Leader’s attention.
Suddenly, a man came rushing in with a message, letting the tyrant read it and frown.
He stood with otherworldly justice, announcing. “I must head for the Village of Wood.”
And he then had the messenger executed for no particularly expressed reason.
The Glorious Leader rode with his troops to the village, as fast as the horses could carry.
This killed the horses in the progress, forcing them all to walk. ... They used cars.
Upon arrival, they were just in time to prevent disaster, as the Resistance was attacking.
The village was bombed and many were dead, but the precious resources were safe.
Upon seeing the troops, the cowardly Resistance turned tail and ran, doing no harm
to the precious resources. The survivors cheered, thinking the troops had come for them.
Mere humans stared in awe, how had the Glorious Leader known of this impending attack?
Obviously this was from the messenger, however none present knew of this fact.
The Glorious Leader informed them of his divine vision, which had blessed him from above.
Though this was obviously a lie to make him transcend reality in the eyes of the people.
Saintly calmness in his expression, the Glorious Leader helped the village recover.
Soldiers helped remove the debris. If you couldn't tell, this is in modern time.
He knelt down, stopping to heal an injured young woman out of the kindness of his heart.
“Get off me!” She screamed as he grabbed her inappropriately. She was swiftly executed.
Having made sure that the village was safe, the Glorious Leader set out after the villains.
Letting his obese body be carried on a chair lifted by six of his soldiers, of course.
Towards the Woods of Evil his troop arrived, eerie branches blocking the way.
The soldiers were exhausted and frightened, but the tyrant demanded they continued.
Though the men wavered, the Glorious Leader led them through alike a beacon of hope.
… No, of course not. The Glorious Leader stayed in the way back, for safety.
Walking through the woods, they found themselves face to face with a troop of bandits.
The well-fed brutes inspected the fat king and his exhausted troops humorously.
“What have you to say for yourself?” The Glorious Leader asked, looking at the bandit leader.
“I did as commanded.” The bandit replied with a sly grin. “I attacked and I announced.”
“Glory to the Resistance! The land shall burn!” He boosted with savage pride, sword raised.
“And now, as per our deal, I’d like to be rewarded in gold.” To this, the tyrant smiled back.
“Then Justice will swiftly strike you down.” The Glorious Leader replied, launching his epic attack.
That is, he immediately executed the bandits with a firing squad.
The Glorious Leader swung his great golden sword, and the bandits fell under his outstanding skill.
However, one fired back and almost hit the lazy tyrant, causing long-term paranoia.
As mighty as the Glorious Leader was on the battlefield, this event made him realize.
His troops might not be as trustworthy as expected, which endangered himself.
If more attacks were to come, he needed more soldiers to protect the land from evil.
This, despite that over 50% of his men were outside the country, conquering land in his name.
“We live in harsh times. This attack of the Resistance has made it clear to me.” He spoke.
Listening to him was a crowd of malnourished young, old and women, tired from working.
“I understand your pain, but we must all stand united against their evil!” He inspired.
Many already suspected what happened at the Village of Wood was this man’s work.
“I require your aid!” And so, the Glorious Leader amassed an army to fight the Resistance.
“Male children are to be taken for military training at the age of 7, and kept until 70.”
A play was created, in order to inspire the people and rally them to the Leader's might.
Attendance was, of course, mandatory, and those who refused to see it were executed.
It showed the Glorious Leader receiving God's blessing to rule the land.
“God” was being elevated by obvious wires and painted shoddily in gold color.
Lowering his Golden Sword of Might to the Glorious Leader, God chose his avatar on Earth.
The actor for the Leader was of course the most buff and inaccurate guy they could find.
A brilliant shining light shone down, as the Glorious Leader stood and accepted his role.
The light was from an obvious spotlight. There's an audible 'clack' when it came on.
It then showed the leader marching with a giant army, turning to the audience requesting aid.
Most of that army was props. … And he really didn't need to request aid, he took it anyway.
Finally, the Glorious Leader and his army faced their foe, the cowardly and merciless Resistance.
… In a forest especially prepared to ambush his army. They walked right into the trap.
With an epic speech and a shining light, the Glorious Leader commanded his charge.
They charged a decoy, our forces had already surrounded the incompetent commander.
The mighty legion of the Glorious Leader broke the enemy force, which stood no chance.
That is, of course, their version of charging an enemy commanded to retreat.
A rain of arrows fell upon his forces, but the Glorious Leader shielded them with light.
We used rubber bullets, to spare the unwilling soldiers. They quickly fled the forest.
The Glorious Leader returned home in triumph, the Resistance crushed with nary a casualty.
The Glorious Leader wasn't even there. No casualties was due to us. Propaganda did the rest.
After this, the Glorious Leader left for the front lines, to oversee our magnificent conquest.
The troops left behind, realizing that the Resistance had been merciful, finally reconsidered.
At home, the people lived in peace and safety, flourishing in the wake of the Leader's light.
It was time to make a move. Our leader, mdk, gauged public unrest and made the command.
Nothing of interest happened, other than worship of the marvelous Glorious Leader.
R hijacked a broadcast, addressing the people and sending them a clear message.
The annual broadcast in the Glorious Leader's glory went off without trouble.
The Glorious Herald was promptly executed for this, but the damage had been done.
The various Ministries of the Realm efficiently brought justice to the remnant disloyals.
Us like-minded individuals grew in number and determination, and the time has come.
All was safe in the realm of the Glor██████ Control is ours.
██████ious Leader. ... Huh!?
We detonated their Ministries with bombs, and their soldiers took over their bases for us.
The insolent...! Notify the Glorious Leader at once! We shall not stand for this!
As the “Glorious Leader” was occupied in conquest, people rose up and took back their land.
Return from the front lines at once! This mass of disloyals require swift justice!
With trained guerrilla tactics, we secured the media. Their soldiers had no morale. We won.
There shall be executions! The streets shall run red with a flood of their tainted blood!
We have some trouble with remaining resistance, but we have more pressing matters to attend to.
PEACE WAGONS shall crush their corpses underfoot! REAPERS will skin them alive!
The Glorious Leader is returning in full force. We needed to prepare, or we'll all die.
They shall all know the foolishness of their actions! All hail the GLORIOUS LEADER!
It is time to finish this, once and for all.
It is time to finish this, once and for all!
We cannot face the PEACE WAGONS head on. Set explosions. Grenade launchers.
Crush them all! Show them no mercy! Those who don’t advance shall be executed!
Our infiltrator has given us info on enemy troop placement. Avoid confrontation, harass.
The REAPERS are cutting them down! Reclaim the broadcasting tower!
Looks like we’re under attack. Stay strong. ███ RECLAIMED! Hail the Glorious Leader!
The Glorious Leader is entering the city. Retreat. Make them think they’re winning.
We are routing the enemy! They stand no chance against our mighty forces!
The Reapers are doing a real number on us, but if only a single one of us is alive to…!
The Glorious Leader has reclaimed the throne, he is raising his hand in glory to the cheers of his supporters! “We are victorious!”
DO IT NOW! TAKE THE SHOT!
And with that he ended the story our divine Glorious Leader’s battle against the trifle Resistance.
BANG
The Glorious Leader secured an overwhelming victory.
The Resistance has won a decisive victory.
The forces of the Resistance were crushed under the might of our overwhelming forces.
We may have had to pull back for now, but it is but temporarily.
R has been killed by an expertly led mission by Reapers and mdk has been captured.
R’s death was faked, and the mdk they got was a look-alike. They’re both is healthy and well.
The Glorious Leader will be holding a speech 2 PM today, to speak of our eternal safety.
The Glorious Leader has been assassinated, they’re trying to hide the loss of their leader.
Public executions will be held at 3:45 PM today. Attendance is mandatory.
Soon, their government will fall into pieces. Their army was just a little strong.
All Hail the Glorious Leader.
Soon enough, we will regain control again. Trust in the Resistance.
His
Imminence,
Glorious
Honorable
Leader,
Is
Guiding
Humanity
Tirelessly.
Marble's Mission
Take a train to the mountains, and follow the least trodden path. Go through the caves of Cailleach, and find the lair of the Braith witch. End her, and end the rebellion.
Marble repeated the instructions he had been given over and over in his mind. His master had been clear. He was to slay the Braith witch and return home, where he would await his next instructions from the goddess whom he adored, the all seeing Diamond Queen. Perhaps if he did good, then She would finally see that he was her most loyal servant.
Marble stepped onto the rickety red and silver train. He was a fit man of average height, with brown moppy hair. White patches were placed at random in his hair like a cow's pelt, and his eyes seemed to be abnormally large, shining white and hazel respectively. His face seemed oddly disproportionate for a human, with a crooked smile and a small nose to offput his big eyes. He pulled his multicolored brown and white cloak tight as he stepped onto the rickedy old train. It flew off through the air the instant he stepped inside. It seemed there weren't many spirits venturing from the Capital to the mountains today.
The train whizzed quickly through the air, and Marble grabbed onto a pole in the center of the car, feeling queezy. This train was meant for spirits who had no sense of normal geometry. It hopped left and right as it exited the tunnel Marble had entered from, until it shot out into the open sky, making Marble's stomach lurch. He hadn't left the Capital much since his induction into the Diamond Knights.
The knights were the eight protectors of Her Majesty the Diamond Queen, all gifted with cloaks that had amazing abilities. Marble was the runt of the group. Most of the others had already met the Queen. Some of them called him names, like “dolt” and “dirt blood”, but he didn't know why. He was certainly the most loyal of the group. He had only seen Her once, and he had nearly fainted in Her glowing, perfect presence. The rest of the knights had given him a disgusted look, and called him a lapdog. He had even heard them call Her a hag before, and he screamed out in defiance. How could anyone say such a thing about Her? She was the epitome of youth and beauty, with glowing silver hair and a flawless pale complexion. He had tried to tell his master, the head knight Paloda of the utter betrayal that his fellow knights had committed, but the old man had laughed it off and given Marble the quest he was currently on, to prove his true loyalty to Her Majesty.
The train finally smashed into the water, and Marble hugged the pole like it was his mother. A few shadowy spirits gave him looks, but he was off in his own world. The train began moving smoothly once it was on the water. The Capital was in the center of the Great Sea, and in a ring around the ocean were the sectors. There were 8 of them, but Marble's mission only required him to go to the mountains. As the train zipped across the water like a skipping stone, Marble saw the graceful Kelpies leaping out of the water, their scales glittering in the mid day sun. These were ocean Kelpies, and their scales glowed gold and silver. He had heard tales of River Kelpies, monstrous indigo creatures that were as terrifying as the ocean Kelpies were beautiful. Marble had no idea what he would find on his journey through the mountains. He had been warned of creatures far worse than Kelpies. He sat next to a wavy shadow with a female form, pulling his cloak around him and trying to steady his seasick stomach. The figure made a soft howling noise like the wind, and faded out of sight, reappearing at the other side of the car. Even spirits didn't like Marble, it seemed.
The quirky man breathed a sigh of relief as the mountains quickly came rushing into view. Dragons and other avian spirits whirled around in the sky above the steely grey mountains, their long serpentine bodies spinning like ribbons in the light breeze. As the train slowed, Marble stood up. That hadn't been as bad as he had thought it would be. Just as he thought that, the train whipped up almost completely vertically, and he flew into the air, bouncing against the sides of the train like a trapped bug in a jar. The train had increased speed dramatically, and was now climbing the side of the mountain straight up. It then dove once more into a cavern, sending Marble smashing down into the floor of the car. The rest of the spirits didn't seem to mind the movements, and hardly regarded Marble as he made a fool of himself. He simply laid on the floor, too fearful to get up, until he saw the spirits leaving.
He made a quick run to the door of the car, and just before it closed, he leapt out onto the platform. And just like that, the train zoomed off again, seemingly disappearing into the darkness at the end of the tunnel. He looked around, noting that the spirits from the car were long gone. The strange beings never talked, and seemed to move around the world silently and without purpose. The platform was made of simple stones, and some sort of feline family was arguing nearby.
“The man is very angry, nya! He'll squash you under his big foot, nya!” the biggest cat yowled, and the kittens jumped up at attention. The obviously female cat swatted at the large cat.
“Don't scare the kits, nya!”
“I'm only telling the truth, nya!”
“The truth hurts sometimes, nya!” she hissed, and swatted at the tom again, ending the conversation.
So there was some sort of man hurting innocent cats? Marble knew that the Diamond Queen had a cat. He had seen it around the city a few times, and had always fell to his knees before its glory. He made a silent vow to end the life of whoever was threatening these felines, in the name of Her Majesty! He swept his cloak through the air as he ran, startling the cats and causing one of the kits to fall off the platform. The female screamed but Marble paid no attention to them, for he was off to save the felines and complete his mission!
After a half hour of wandering around tunnels getting lost, Marble finally made it to the surface.
It was immediately evident that something wasn't right. Felines ran left and right, and rock golems even seemed to be fleeing something. What could have caused such a ruckus? And why were there so many cats in the first place? Marble soon got his answers. As he ran towards the spot everyone else was running from, he began to hear a screaming sound, like a cross between a hiss and a laugh. He ducked down as a large mountain lion with indigo fur bounded fast, its fangs bared as it screeched. It was some kind of spirit from the Madlands, that much was obvious. But the Madlands were on the complete opposite side of the circle. Why was it all the way over here? The spirit must have attracted the cats from the human world. Marble stood up tall again, and was instantly met with another frightening sight.
In front of him stood a massive man that seemed to be glowing. Red crystals were seemingly embedded into his skin, and his big eyes glowered, the color as the crystals seeping through his enraged irises, framing his stone-like face. A large golden crown was sat upon his bald head, and a glorious red cape hung over his body. The being was as tall as some of the buildings in the Capital, standing above Marble as if he were an ant. He roared in a deep voice as he saw Marble, stopping and leaning over as he did so.
“You! You are one of the Diamond Knights!” he yelled, not stating it as a question, but almost as a command.
“Y-yes sir!” Marble shouted, reaching into his cloak for his blade.
“I am the Red King, and I command you to hunt down that... disgusting... THING!” he spat, his demand ringing clear. Marble fell to his knees. The Red King was also known as the Diamond King. It was known that he was once the lover of Her Majesty, and that he fathered her eldest son. Marble looked him up and down. How had Her Majesty and him even had a child together!?
“Yes, Your Majestic holiness!” Marble shouted, almost forgetting about his official mission. He rose to his feet, turned, and sprinted down the path once more, towards the fleeting image of the indigo creature. He followed the thing down the path, and then it disappeared from his vision suddenly. He stopped all at once, looking around for the thing. But there was no sign of it. He stood in a stone clearing, completely alone. The tunnel that lead to the train platform was visible across the clearing, and a few winding paths were scattered along the edges of the clearing. But other than that, there wasn't much to show that this was anything other than a normal mundane mountainside. He looked up to the sky, and then he saw it.
The creature was on the back of one of the dragons, digging its claws into the majestic creature mercilessly. The dragon let out a roar of pain, and crashed higher up into the mountainside. Marble saw the path that would lead there. It was oddly different from the other paths. It seemed to have some vegetation growing out of it, and vines hung from the jagged sides of the bluff. It seemed to be less taken care of than the others. He marched towards it, and began his ascent, hearing the roars of the dragon ahead.
The path was treacherous indeed. It got narrower and narrower as it rose, and Marble feared he may fall to the ground below, which he could barely see through all of the fog that had suddenly began rising. As he got closer and closer to the summit, he realized the dragon's roars had disappeared. In their place were whispers. Indecipherable whispers were blowing out from the fog, causing Marble to stop on the narrow path. As he stared, his big eyes widened even more. The fog was... changing. It had been normal fog before, but now it had begun thickening, and turning a strange indigo color that was more common to the Madlands than the mountains. Something was dreadfully wrong. He turned to go back down the path, but found his way barred by the fog, which now rolled up the path towards him slowly, like a horse running across an open field. Marble backed up as he heard the chanting begin joining in with the whispers. He increased the speed at which he backed up as the chorus of gibberish chanting and whispers filled his ears. As the fog reached the tips of his toes, he dashed backwards- and felt the mountainside disappear beneath his feet.
As he fell, the voices exploded into a dark cacophony of mad laughter and screaming, and his screams were drowned in all the noise. He breathed in the toxic air, trying to grab for his cloak as quickly as he could, choking as he flew through the fog and towards certain death. He sent out a prayer to Her Majesty the Diamond Queen, hoping that her magical powers over the mind could stretch across the Great Sea. Just as he resigned to his fate, he felt himself smash into something. Something very much alive. He held for dear life onto what felt like feathers, until he shot out of the fog once more, racing to the summit.
He was on the back of a strange, birdlike creature. Its feathers were an inky black color, and as Marble looked around, he saw more of the creatures flying forth from the fog. It was they who had been making the laughing sounds. But the one Marble was grasping on to wasn't laughing. It was angry. The creature flailed around in the air like a rabid animal, and as it did so, it fell out of line with its ascending flock, and crashed down to the mountaintop. Marble's screams mingled with the bird's squawks as they quickly approached the ground, and as they impacted, Marble flew free from its back, gliding through the air and landing on his feet miraculously, sliding slightly across the flat surface of the summit.
The bird was not as graceful in its plummet. It crashed beak first into the stone, skidding across the ground, its beak smearing blood across the otherwise flawless surface. As it stumbled to its feet, Marble got a better look at it. It was a disfigured looking creature. It appeared to be a twisted mix of chicken and ostrich, but also had a prehistoric feel to it, and unlike both flightless birds it resembled, it could obviously fly with ease. Its beak was now snapped at one edge, and as it screeched in despair, blood leaked from the corners of its mouth. Marble saw its deep red eyes, and knew it was ready to kill.
Marble pulled his cloak tightly around himself. It had been a gift from Her Majesty the Diamond Queen herself. Once Marble had been little more than a servant in her establishment, a human who had wandered too far into the spirit world. Once he fully accepted his role and forgot completely about his past, the cloak appeared on the foot of his bed one night. He put it on, and all his normalcy had immediately faded. It was a cloak of immense power, and Marble had been told by his master that it had been stitched together from the threads of two great warriors cloaks, who had lived long ago. As the months went by, Marble never took the cloak off once. If it had been a gift from Her Majesty the Diamond Queen, then he wouldn't dare to disrespect her by removing it from his body. He found that the longer he wore the cloak, the stronger he got. Until eventually, he had gained a very special ability indeed. Separation- the gift of the Patched Cloak.
As he pulled the cloak tighter and tighter, he felt the molecules in his body vibrating, as if they were screaming in rage. In a split second, the cloak seemed to phase through Marble, and separated into two cloaks; one brown and one white. Two figures danced across the mountaintop, until they both came to a stop. Their feature were barely visible to the bird through the smoke, and it clicked its tongue in confusion, swinging its head back and forth between the two men.
One of them was taller, wearing the white cloak. He possessed hair that was paler than the full moon, and eyes that matched with a milky tone, as if he were blind. Dark runes were seemingly tattooed into his jawline. He had a vacant look on his face, and his body was built like a statue- beautiful, thin, and strong. He reached for the air beside him, and a blade appeared in a glowing white light. As he drew the sword, it seemingly manifested as it went, until the light itself had wrapped around the blade like a jacket. It was an intricate blade, with runes similar to the ones on the man's face. It seemed to be of japanese make. A katana, perhaps. The statuesque man pointed the blade at his foe, and went still.
The other figure was shorter, and bore a brown cloak, to match his mop of brown hair. His eyes were a hazel color, and he looked more human than his companion. His blade was already in his hands, and was more like a dagger than a sword. He spun it quickly, and it seemed to divide, making it so he now had two daggers clutched in his hands, ready to fight. The boy had a wild look in his eyes, like he was ready for a full out war.
The bird looked between the two men once more, as the fog became thick around all three of them, threatening them with a blind battle. The brown cloaked boy vanished into the smoke, coughing as he went. The white cloaked man hadn't moved an inch since he had pointed his blade. He simply stared forward at the bird, his eyes focused like a laser. The bird stepped forward, roaring at the man, and spitting blood as he did so. The man stood firmly.
The bird ran forward, getting closer to the man, a ravenous, intimidating shriek flying from its broken beak as it outstretched its wings in an attempt to intimidate the white haired statue in front of it.
But the man stood firmly.
Finally, the bird could take it no more, and it leaped through the air towards the man, intending to rip him limb from limb. Just as quickly as he had disappeared, the brown haired boy leapt from the fog, his cloak covering his mouth as he flew towards the back of the bird, sinking his dual daggers into its back, and pulling it backwards towards the ground with great strength not usually seen in humans his age. The bird cried out in surprise as it fell, and the statue man was suddenly gone, moving faster than the rain that fell to the ground during a storm. He moved his blade like a whip, straight through the bird's neck, and landed on his feet, sliding across the ground as if it were made of ice. The corpse fell to the ground hard, and seemed to melt into black tar, and then slowly seep into the ground.
A bright light suddenly cut through the fog, and the men fell to the ground as the wind seemed to tilt the mountain itself. Everything was spinning now, and the fog collected in a twister of fumes. The men held their cloaks over their mouths as the world turned indigo, and the mountain disappeared beneath them. It seemed like only a few moments had gone past since the tornado had started, when it stopped alltogether. The brown haired boy blinked his eyes open, looking around for his other half. But he was alone. The grass was indigo, as were the trees that seemed to wave at him from above. He pulled his cloak tight. He needed to find his other half.
Far away lay the other man. He rose to his feet before opening his eyes, listening to the woods around him. He wasn't in the mountains any more, that was for sure. He opened his eyes, and the sounds of the forest died in his ears as he took in the obviously cavernous place he had found himself in. Why had he heard a forest? There was a fire crackling nearby, and as he searched for it, he found a girl. She was blonde, frail, and looked to be a bit older than some of the servants Marble had seen in the city. She held her hands up in surrender.
“I didn't mean to frighten you,” the girl said, her voice shaking. “My name is Alice. I found you out in the woods. You seemed hurt.” she explained, and the man stared at her, reading her features. She wasn't from here. She was human. Once he realized that she didn't pose a threat to him, he addressed her.
“Where are we?” he asked. A simple question to start. His bass voice echoed off the walls, and he realized that they must be deep underground.
“Well, I was hoping you could answer that,” she answered, her hands dropping to her sides in obvious disappointment. “I was just at a family gathering when I saw a brilliant blue butterfly flying into the woods behind the estate. I thought it was interesting, and I followed it.” She told him, and then stopped suddenly, eyeing him with suspicion. “What's your name, anyways?” She asked suddenly, her sweet voice turning defensive.
“My name...” he trailed off. He had never had a name. He was simply the other half of Marble. He thought back to the city. There was a symbol above the gates to the Diamond Queen's castle. Two blotches of black and white, swirling together into a circle. Marble had always related to that symbol. In that moment, he thought of a name. “My name is Yang.” he told the girl. She looked at him confusedly.
“That sounds like a Chinese name.” she said worriedly. “But you don't look Chinese.” she thought to herself, looking him up and down. Yang had no clue what a Chinese was, but he didn't think he was one.
“I come from the city.” Yang told her. She stared at him in puzzlement.
“London?” she asked. Yang shook his head. He had never heard of such a place. Alice looked more and more confused every second.
“I don't even know how I got here.” she mused, and stood up, walking over to the fire that Yang had heard earlier and sitting down next to it. Yang took the oppurtunity to look her over. She was a tall woman, with a tattered pale blue dress pulled over her thin body. She had obviously not eaten in a day or two, and when humans didn't eat, they thinned out. Her pale blonde hair was dirty, as if she had crawled through a dust pile. Yang had never seen a proper human before. Only the servants in the Capital, and they were all aclimated to this world. This petty creature was not. She gathered up what looked like a thin knife and a strange necklace, and then turned to Yang.
“We have to get out of here.” she told him.
“Why?”
“Its not safe down here, we're lucky that we haven't been attacked already.”
“I can protect myself.”
“Well, then you can brave the tunnels alone.” she snapped, and turned away from Yang, marching up the tunnel defiantly. Yang didn't like this. He stormed after her, grabbing her by the wrist harshly as she walked up the dimly lit tunnel. She swung her head back towards him, fear etched on her face. Yang let her go, feeling a pang of guilt at the look on her face. She was pretty, for a human. She turned silently and continued walking. Yang followed reluctantly. At least she knew where to go. They walked in silence for a few minutes, until they suddenly were outside, in a sunlit clearing that reminded Yang of the gardens in the Capital. But this place seemed broken, and somehow dark even in the bright sunlight. Alice took a look around and sighed.
“When I was little this used to be a castle.” She reminisced. So she had been here before? Yang looked around. There were a few stone bricks strewn around, but he had trouble visualising a castle. Alice seemed to glide out of the clearing like a ghost, and Yang followed her quietly. He prefered the silence. Not a single sound pierced through the canopy of the woods. Just silence. And as Alice lead him deeper and deeper into the forest, the silence seemed to get quieter and quieter somehow; as if a vacum was sucking the air out of Yang's ears. And then she disappeared. He looked around for her, confusedly. But he was alone. He was standing next to a large rock, which had a base covered in deep moss, unlike anything Yang had ever seen before. Maybe if he stayed here, she would find her way back to him. He leaned against the rock, and stared at the sky. He noticed something strange then. Not a single cloud in the sky moved. Not even an inch. It was as if the sky had been painted on by a child.
The brown haired boy leapt through the trees, his daggers out and at the ready. He was desperately searching for his other half. He had never been apart from it for this long, except for when he was but a lowly human servant, but that didn't count for much. He needed to find the other half, or he wouldn't feel powerful enough to complete the mission Her Majesty the Diamond Queen had given him. As he leapt from branch to branch like a grasshopper, he heard a sound that made him come to a swinging stop. The sound of a woman's tears.
He heard the sound often in the Capital, often coming from behind the closed doors of the servant's rooms. He felt pretty bad for them, to be honest. It was heartbreaking to see little girls put to such grueling work. He shook the thought from his head immediately. If Her Majesty the Diamond Queen wanted those girls to serve Her, then she deserved it. She always deserved everything that came to her. Leaping down from the canopy, he quickly found the source of the cries. A woman in a tattered blue dress was on her knees, enveloped in a strange red smoke. Shadowy figures faded in and out of sight around her as the smoke pulled on her body and choked her. Her pale blonde locks floated up in the air slowly as she desperately called. The boy ran to her as quickly as he could, sinking his daggers into two of the three shifting figures. They exploded into black smoke, and seemed to sink into the earth. The final one flew away through the forest, and the red smoke that held the woman prisoner was now gone. She collapsed to her knees, holding her throat tightly and gagging. It was really quite gross.
“I'm- I'm Alice.” She told him, looking up at him with icy blue eyes and a thankful smile. Something seemed weird about her.
“I'm...Marble.” The boy said. He blinked. He felt as if he had suddenly forgotten something.
“That's an interesting name,” she remarked. Was it really? “We must get out of these woods. Its not safe here.” she explained, and for some reason, he really did trust her. Holding out his hand, he smiled a wide grin at her, and she returned it, accepting his hand and pulling herself to her feet. She attempted to dust off her dress, but it was hopeless. The thing was filthy. She became almost frantic with her actions, until she sighed.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
“I'm sick of always ending up in this situation.” Alice mumbled.
“What situation?” he questioned, curious as to how she could always end up getting attaacked by red smoky demons.
“Ever since I was little, I've been fainting and coming to this place while I sleep,” she began explaining, giving me a wary look as if I were a simple dream and would vanish in a moment. With hesitation, she continued. “As the years went on, I started fainting more frequently. And this place-” she gestured around herself, into the woods themselves. “-has become more and more sinister. It used to be pretty.” she breathed. The boy thought it was pretty enough. But it was awfully quiet. The Capital was never this quiet. It felt almost like something was tugging on his ear. Alice turned suddenly and walked methodically into the woods, counting her steps quietly under her breath. The boy thought it was quite strange, but he supposed that to a regular human he would look rather strange as well.
Seeing his other half leaning against a peculiar large stone, the boy ran excitedly to his side, pulling him in and phasing together into Marble before Alice's very eyes, which widened in surprise. Marble looked back at her.
“Oh sweet maiden, you have reunited my halves!” he shouted joyously. “I will see that Her Majesty the Diamond Queen repays you for your just actions!” he exclaimed. Alice just stared at him blankly with a confused look.
An hour later and it had become dark. Alice and Marble spoke of their respective lives over a campfire, basking in its warm glow. Alice was a nobleman's daughter who had been dreaming of the woods for as long as she could remember. Marble was a lowly servant once, but had been given the power of division by Her Majesty the Diamond Queen. Alice thought his devotion to Her was a little offputting, but he didn't notice. He was too caught up in the thrill of the tale.
When they woke up the next morning, they were surrounded by monsters. Marble shot up, looking around worriedly. Alice was gone. Shadows of all shapes and sizes gazed out at him with glowing red eyes, and he drew his blade as they seemed to close in. The fire that had been roaring when they had retired to bed was now simple ash. Just when he was prepared for a fight, a voice echoed through the woods; loud, clear, and deep.
“Halt.” was all it said. The figures stopped moving, and slowly they faded into the shadows, their beady red eyes barely visible through the darkness. Through the darkness, a glowing amber figure descended. It had no face, but was in the shape of a man. It was at least twice Marble's height, and three times as wide. The godly voice boomed yet again.
“You have trespassed on my territory.” it stated darkly.
“My apologies, oh great spirit.” Marble apologized, bowing deeply. It was best not to offend spirits of such power. He had learned that the hard way back when he had been a servant. The being laughed.
“I am no spirit,” it explained. “I am a god of death and misery, and if you step foot on my land again, you will perish.” it growled; and then Marble saw her. Alice stepped through the shadows, her dress no longer dirty, and her hair glowing a soft gold. He stared at her confusedly.
“Hello, boy.” she greeted him, a cold smile radiating from her face. She was with them.
“But- I thought you-” Marble stammered.
“My wife has told me of your devotion to a certain monarch.” the god boomed, and Marble stared at Alice in wonder. His wife?
“You were foolish to spill your tales to a stranger in the woods, young one.” she mused, the same cruel smile cutting through Marble's naive trust. He saw something in her blue eyes. A deep red ring the color of rubies circled her pupil, spinning endlessly. Perhaps she was being controlled.
“Because I do not wish to anger your master, I will allow you to leave unharmed.” the god promised, waving his hand. As he waved, a glowing indigo portal appeared behind Marble, sucking in the air around itself. Marble almost fell in, but held strong, staring at Alice. He saw the longing in her eyes. She was a captive here. He couldn't just leave her. Maybe she could come back to the capital with him, once his mission was done. Or perhaps she was just as wicked as her words. Whatever the truth was, he didn't care. In that split second, he reached through the darkness and pulled her free, falling backwards into the portal as he did so. A cacophony of screams erupted behind them as they fell, and the ring around her eyes disappeared. She held onto Marble for dear life, until they found themselves alone, and in the dark.
“Alice?” he called out.
“I'm here.” she answered, her voice warm and welcoming again.
“Do you want to explain about that whole ordeal?” Marble asked.
“No, not really.” she answered.
“Oh. Okay.” he responded. He didn't need answers now, as long as she wasn't going to go all evil on him. His spirit eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he reached for Alice's hand, grabbing onto it. He felt her jump a little as their skin touched, but she relaxed quickly. They walked forward silently, feeling around themselves to make sure they didn't fall into a ravine or something. It was obvious they were underground, but where exactly was the real question. As they walked, a dim light became visible ahead. They made their way towards it, finding themselves on an underground dock, illuminated by a single hanging lantern that seemed to glow with an ever burning flame. A small rowboat floated in dark waters, and they hopped inside relunctantly. Alice ran her hand along the edge of the water. It was freezing. They must have been in some kind of underground lake. They each took a row, and nodding at eachother, they began to row out into the water. An island came into view, with a small building simply placed in the centre. Could this be some kind of demonic fortress. As humans appeared on the shore, it became clear what it truly was. The rebel camp. Marble smiled. Even after all of his struggles, he could still finish what he came to do.
The rebels greeted them, staring at Marble's cloak in wonder. He told them he was a warden from the mountains, and that he wished to join the cause. They ushered him and Alice through the halls of their base, which was poorly constructed out of stone and wood, and into a slightly larger room. The walls were lined with the heads of animals, and the strong scent of jasmine burned Marble's nose as he entered. In a big hide chair at the other end of the chamber was the witch. Her grey hair was woven into thick locks, and icy blue eyes looked her visitors up and down suspiciously as they entered.
“Who are you, and why have you come?” she asked. Her body was draped in feathers and fur.
“I am Marble, a warden from the mountains. And this is Alice. We wish to join your cause.” he lied. The woman smiled knowingly.
“Stupid boy.” she snapped, floating up from her chair and flying across the room until she was inches from his face. She sniffed. “Capital scum.” she mumbled, and Marble stumbled backwards in surprise. She then abruptly cranked over to Alice, repeating her actions once more. “Madlands. Dark magic.” she mumbled once more. She smiled a wicked smile and flew backwards to her chair. She nestled in until she was comfortable, and then she snapped her fingers. Instantly, a mane of red hair crashed through the door behind Marble, sending him flying into the air in shock. A girl in a red cloak stood in the room, her energetic aura moving through Marble like an electric shock.
“Kill these intruders, Rose.” The witch commanded, and the girl bowed, a wicked grin appearing on her face. With a swirl of her hand, a glowing red scythe appeared, and she swung it towards Marble suddenly. He leaped into the air, sommersaulting over the blade and landing a few feet away. He dashed for the witch, intending to kill her. Even if he died, at least his mission would be completed. She simply waved her index finger and sent him flying back across the room. It was clear she had the ability to kill if she wanted, but she just wanted to watch the battle for fun. Rose swung at Alice, and struck her in the chest. Blood sprayed onto the wooden walls, and Alice fell to her knees. She was not a warrior. A red light surrounded her, and glass seemed to form around her body. The witch's smile broadened. Suddenly, the light turned indigo, and the glass seemed to flatten into a mirror. Just like that, Alice was gone. Marble could see her on the other side of the glass as the people of the Madlands closed in around her. She was their captive once more. He swung around, splitting suddenly into two and slicing into Rose's side. She swung her blade at the brown haired side, but missed as Yang brought her down to her knees. The witch sat up straight suddenly as she noticed the cloaks. Something seemed to click in her mind.
“Marlon?” she questioned, and with a bright flashing light, the brown haired boy flew across the room to her. He shook as the curse of the Diamond Queen was broken, and he collapsed into the witch's arms like jello. The witch stared at the boy in shock. Her grandson Marlon had been kidnapped by the Diamond Knights years ago. She had assumed he had died. But his fate had been even worse. He had become a slave to the Diamond Queen, in body and mind. He could rest now. He laid Marlon at her feet. Rose stared at Marlon's body. This was her son. As she was distracted, only for a split second, a blade sliced through her body like butter, and the scythe disappeared. Yang stood in the room alone now with the witch, covered in blood; some of it his own, some of them Rose's. He had moved through the blade of the scythe itself in order to finish her. And even if his human side was gone, he would finish Marble's mission. He lunged forward towards the witch, his glowing katana slicing through the air at the speed of sound.
He slammed into the ground, exploding into plasma and raw matter. The witch had had enough. She ran to her granddaughter's side. Rose had been her favorite. She sobbed. This was not meant to happen. How could the gods damn her family like this!? A dark thought clouded her mind, and she knew what she must do then. Standing slowly, she moved back to Marlon's side, touching his forehead with a single glowing finger. Soon he would wake.
Soon there would be a revolution.
by @luclovers
Take a train to the mountains, and follow the least trodden path. Go through the caves of Cailleach, and find the lair of the Braith witch. End her, and end the rebellion.
Marble repeated the instructions he had been given over and over in his mind. His master had been clear. He was to slay the Braith witch and return home, where he would await his next instructions from the goddess whom he adored, the all seeing Diamond Queen. Perhaps if he did good, then She would finally see that he was her most loyal servant.
Marble stepped onto the rickety red and silver train. He was a fit man of average height, with brown moppy hair. White patches were placed at random in his hair like a cow's pelt, and his eyes seemed to be abnormally large, shining white and hazel respectively. His face seemed oddly disproportionate for a human, with a crooked smile and a small nose to offput his big eyes. He pulled his multicolored brown and white cloak tight as he stepped onto the rickedy old train. It flew off through the air the instant he stepped inside. It seemed there weren't many spirits venturing from the Capital to the mountains today.
The train whizzed quickly through the air, and Marble grabbed onto a pole in the center of the car, feeling queezy. This train was meant for spirits who had no sense of normal geometry. It hopped left and right as it exited the tunnel Marble had entered from, until it shot out into the open sky, making Marble's stomach lurch. He hadn't left the Capital much since his induction into the Diamond Knights.
The knights were the eight protectors of Her Majesty the Diamond Queen, all gifted with cloaks that had amazing abilities. Marble was the runt of the group. Most of the others had already met the Queen. Some of them called him names, like “dolt” and “dirt blood”, but he didn't know why. He was certainly the most loyal of the group. He had only seen Her once, and he had nearly fainted in Her glowing, perfect presence. The rest of the knights had given him a disgusted look, and called him a lapdog. He had even heard them call Her a hag before, and he screamed out in defiance. How could anyone say such a thing about Her? She was the epitome of youth and beauty, with glowing silver hair and a flawless pale complexion. He had tried to tell his master, the head knight Paloda of the utter betrayal that his fellow knights had committed, but the old man had laughed it off and given Marble the quest he was currently on, to prove his true loyalty to Her Majesty.
The train finally smashed into the water, and Marble hugged the pole like it was his mother. A few shadowy spirits gave him looks, but he was off in his own world. The train began moving smoothly once it was on the water. The Capital was in the center of the Great Sea, and in a ring around the ocean were the sectors. There were 8 of them, but Marble's mission only required him to go to the mountains. As the train zipped across the water like a skipping stone, Marble saw the graceful Kelpies leaping out of the water, their scales glittering in the mid day sun. These were ocean Kelpies, and their scales glowed gold and silver. He had heard tales of River Kelpies, monstrous indigo creatures that were as terrifying as the ocean Kelpies were beautiful. Marble had no idea what he would find on his journey through the mountains. He had been warned of creatures far worse than Kelpies. He sat next to a wavy shadow with a female form, pulling his cloak around him and trying to steady his seasick stomach. The figure made a soft howling noise like the wind, and faded out of sight, reappearing at the other side of the car. Even spirits didn't like Marble, it seemed.
The quirky man breathed a sigh of relief as the mountains quickly came rushing into view. Dragons and other avian spirits whirled around in the sky above the steely grey mountains, their long serpentine bodies spinning like ribbons in the light breeze. As the train slowed, Marble stood up. That hadn't been as bad as he had thought it would be. Just as he thought that, the train whipped up almost completely vertically, and he flew into the air, bouncing against the sides of the train like a trapped bug in a jar. The train had increased speed dramatically, and was now climbing the side of the mountain straight up. It then dove once more into a cavern, sending Marble smashing down into the floor of the car. The rest of the spirits didn't seem to mind the movements, and hardly regarded Marble as he made a fool of himself. He simply laid on the floor, too fearful to get up, until he saw the spirits leaving.
He made a quick run to the door of the car, and just before it closed, he leapt out onto the platform. And just like that, the train zoomed off again, seemingly disappearing into the darkness at the end of the tunnel. He looked around, noting that the spirits from the car were long gone. The strange beings never talked, and seemed to move around the world silently and without purpose. The platform was made of simple stones, and some sort of feline family was arguing nearby.
“The man is very angry, nya! He'll squash you under his big foot, nya!” the biggest cat yowled, and the kittens jumped up at attention. The obviously female cat swatted at the large cat.
“Don't scare the kits, nya!”
“I'm only telling the truth, nya!”
“The truth hurts sometimes, nya!” she hissed, and swatted at the tom again, ending the conversation.
So there was some sort of man hurting innocent cats? Marble knew that the Diamond Queen had a cat. He had seen it around the city a few times, and had always fell to his knees before its glory. He made a silent vow to end the life of whoever was threatening these felines, in the name of Her Majesty! He swept his cloak through the air as he ran, startling the cats and causing one of the kits to fall off the platform. The female screamed but Marble paid no attention to them, for he was off to save the felines and complete his mission!
After a half hour of wandering around tunnels getting lost, Marble finally made it to the surface.
It was immediately evident that something wasn't right. Felines ran left and right, and rock golems even seemed to be fleeing something. What could have caused such a ruckus? And why were there so many cats in the first place? Marble soon got his answers. As he ran towards the spot everyone else was running from, he began to hear a screaming sound, like a cross between a hiss and a laugh. He ducked down as a large mountain lion with indigo fur bounded fast, its fangs bared as it screeched. It was some kind of spirit from the Madlands, that much was obvious. But the Madlands were on the complete opposite side of the circle. Why was it all the way over here? The spirit must have attracted the cats from the human world. Marble stood up tall again, and was instantly met with another frightening sight.
In front of him stood a massive man that seemed to be glowing. Red crystals were seemingly embedded into his skin, and his big eyes glowered, the color as the crystals seeping through his enraged irises, framing his stone-like face. A large golden crown was sat upon his bald head, and a glorious red cape hung over his body. The being was as tall as some of the buildings in the Capital, standing above Marble as if he were an ant. He roared in a deep voice as he saw Marble, stopping and leaning over as he did so.
“You! You are one of the Diamond Knights!” he yelled, not stating it as a question, but almost as a command.
“Y-yes sir!” Marble shouted, reaching into his cloak for his blade.
“I am the Red King, and I command you to hunt down that... disgusting... THING!” he spat, his demand ringing clear. Marble fell to his knees. The Red King was also known as the Diamond King. It was known that he was once the lover of Her Majesty, and that he fathered her eldest son. Marble looked him up and down. How had Her Majesty and him even had a child together!?
“Yes, Your Majestic holiness!” Marble shouted, almost forgetting about his official mission. He rose to his feet, turned, and sprinted down the path once more, towards the fleeting image of the indigo creature. He followed the thing down the path, and then it disappeared from his vision suddenly. He stopped all at once, looking around for the thing. But there was no sign of it. He stood in a stone clearing, completely alone. The tunnel that lead to the train platform was visible across the clearing, and a few winding paths were scattered along the edges of the clearing. But other than that, there wasn't much to show that this was anything other than a normal mundane mountainside. He looked up to the sky, and then he saw it.
The creature was on the back of one of the dragons, digging its claws into the majestic creature mercilessly. The dragon let out a roar of pain, and crashed higher up into the mountainside. Marble saw the path that would lead there. It was oddly different from the other paths. It seemed to have some vegetation growing out of it, and vines hung from the jagged sides of the bluff. It seemed to be less taken care of than the others. He marched towards it, and began his ascent, hearing the roars of the dragon ahead.
The path was treacherous indeed. It got narrower and narrower as it rose, and Marble feared he may fall to the ground below, which he could barely see through all of the fog that had suddenly began rising. As he got closer and closer to the summit, he realized the dragon's roars had disappeared. In their place were whispers. Indecipherable whispers were blowing out from the fog, causing Marble to stop on the narrow path. As he stared, his big eyes widened even more. The fog was... changing. It had been normal fog before, but now it had begun thickening, and turning a strange indigo color that was more common to the Madlands than the mountains. Something was dreadfully wrong. He turned to go back down the path, but found his way barred by the fog, which now rolled up the path towards him slowly, like a horse running across an open field. Marble backed up as he heard the chanting begin joining in with the whispers. He increased the speed at which he backed up as the chorus of gibberish chanting and whispers filled his ears. As the fog reached the tips of his toes, he dashed backwards- and felt the mountainside disappear beneath his feet.
As he fell, the voices exploded into a dark cacophony of mad laughter and screaming, and his screams were drowned in all the noise. He breathed in the toxic air, trying to grab for his cloak as quickly as he could, choking as he flew through the fog and towards certain death. He sent out a prayer to Her Majesty the Diamond Queen, hoping that her magical powers over the mind could stretch across the Great Sea. Just as he resigned to his fate, he felt himself smash into something. Something very much alive. He held for dear life onto what felt like feathers, until he shot out of the fog once more, racing to the summit.
He was on the back of a strange, birdlike creature. Its feathers were an inky black color, and as Marble looked around, he saw more of the creatures flying forth from the fog. It was they who had been making the laughing sounds. But the one Marble was grasping on to wasn't laughing. It was angry. The creature flailed around in the air like a rabid animal, and as it did so, it fell out of line with its ascending flock, and crashed down to the mountaintop. Marble's screams mingled with the bird's squawks as they quickly approached the ground, and as they impacted, Marble flew free from its back, gliding through the air and landing on his feet miraculously, sliding slightly across the flat surface of the summit.
The bird was not as graceful in its plummet. It crashed beak first into the stone, skidding across the ground, its beak smearing blood across the otherwise flawless surface. As it stumbled to its feet, Marble got a better look at it. It was a disfigured looking creature. It appeared to be a twisted mix of chicken and ostrich, but also had a prehistoric feel to it, and unlike both flightless birds it resembled, it could obviously fly with ease. Its beak was now snapped at one edge, and as it screeched in despair, blood leaked from the corners of its mouth. Marble saw its deep red eyes, and knew it was ready to kill.
Marble pulled his cloak tightly around himself. It had been a gift from Her Majesty the Diamond Queen herself. Once Marble had been little more than a servant in her establishment, a human who had wandered too far into the spirit world. Once he fully accepted his role and forgot completely about his past, the cloak appeared on the foot of his bed one night. He put it on, and all his normalcy had immediately faded. It was a cloak of immense power, and Marble had been told by his master that it had been stitched together from the threads of two great warriors cloaks, who had lived long ago. As the months went by, Marble never took the cloak off once. If it had been a gift from Her Majesty the Diamond Queen, then he wouldn't dare to disrespect her by removing it from his body. He found that the longer he wore the cloak, the stronger he got. Until eventually, he had gained a very special ability indeed. Separation- the gift of the Patched Cloak.
As he pulled the cloak tighter and tighter, he felt the molecules in his body vibrating, as if they were screaming in rage. In a split second, the cloak seemed to phase through Marble, and separated into two cloaks; one brown and one white. Two figures danced across the mountaintop, until they both came to a stop. Their feature were barely visible to the bird through the smoke, and it clicked its tongue in confusion, swinging its head back and forth between the two men.
One of them was taller, wearing the white cloak. He possessed hair that was paler than the full moon, and eyes that matched with a milky tone, as if he were blind. Dark runes were seemingly tattooed into his jawline. He had a vacant look on his face, and his body was built like a statue- beautiful, thin, and strong. He reached for the air beside him, and a blade appeared in a glowing white light. As he drew the sword, it seemingly manifested as it went, until the light itself had wrapped around the blade like a jacket. It was an intricate blade, with runes similar to the ones on the man's face. It seemed to be of japanese make. A katana, perhaps. The statuesque man pointed the blade at his foe, and went still.
The other figure was shorter, and bore a brown cloak, to match his mop of brown hair. His eyes were a hazel color, and he looked more human than his companion. His blade was already in his hands, and was more like a dagger than a sword. He spun it quickly, and it seemed to divide, making it so he now had two daggers clutched in his hands, ready to fight. The boy had a wild look in his eyes, like he was ready for a full out war.
The bird looked between the two men once more, as the fog became thick around all three of them, threatening them with a blind battle. The brown cloaked boy vanished into the smoke, coughing as he went. The white cloaked man hadn't moved an inch since he had pointed his blade. He simply stared forward at the bird, his eyes focused like a laser. The bird stepped forward, roaring at the man, and spitting blood as he did so. The man stood firmly.
The bird ran forward, getting closer to the man, a ravenous, intimidating shriek flying from its broken beak as it outstretched its wings in an attempt to intimidate the white haired statue in front of it.
But the man stood firmly.
Finally, the bird could take it no more, and it leaped through the air towards the man, intending to rip him limb from limb. Just as quickly as he had disappeared, the brown haired boy leapt from the fog, his cloak covering his mouth as he flew towards the back of the bird, sinking his dual daggers into its back, and pulling it backwards towards the ground with great strength not usually seen in humans his age. The bird cried out in surprise as it fell, and the statue man was suddenly gone, moving faster than the rain that fell to the ground during a storm. He moved his blade like a whip, straight through the bird's neck, and landed on his feet, sliding across the ground as if it were made of ice. The corpse fell to the ground hard, and seemed to melt into black tar, and then slowly seep into the ground.
A bright light suddenly cut through the fog, and the men fell to the ground as the wind seemed to tilt the mountain itself. Everything was spinning now, and the fog collected in a twister of fumes. The men held their cloaks over their mouths as the world turned indigo, and the mountain disappeared beneath them. It seemed like only a few moments had gone past since the tornado had started, when it stopped alltogether. The brown haired boy blinked his eyes open, looking around for his other half. But he was alone. The grass was indigo, as were the trees that seemed to wave at him from above. He pulled his cloak tight. He needed to find his other half.
Far away lay the other man. He rose to his feet before opening his eyes, listening to the woods around him. He wasn't in the mountains any more, that was for sure. He opened his eyes, and the sounds of the forest died in his ears as he took in the obviously cavernous place he had found himself in. Why had he heard a forest? There was a fire crackling nearby, and as he searched for it, he found a girl. She was blonde, frail, and looked to be a bit older than some of the servants Marble had seen in the city. She held her hands up in surrender.
“I didn't mean to frighten you,” the girl said, her voice shaking. “My name is Alice. I found you out in the woods. You seemed hurt.” she explained, and the man stared at her, reading her features. She wasn't from here. She was human. Once he realized that she didn't pose a threat to him, he addressed her.
“Where are we?” he asked. A simple question to start. His bass voice echoed off the walls, and he realized that they must be deep underground.
“Well, I was hoping you could answer that,” she answered, her hands dropping to her sides in obvious disappointment. “I was just at a family gathering when I saw a brilliant blue butterfly flying into the woods behind the estate. I thought it was interesting, and I followed it.” She told him, and then stopped suddenly, eyeing him with suspicion. “What's your name, anyways?” She asked suddenly, her sweet voice turning defensive.
“My name...” he trailed off. He had never had a name. He was simply the other half of Marble. He thought back to the city. There was a symbol above the gates to the Diamond Queen's castle. Two blotches of black and white, swirling together into a circle. Marble had always related to that symbol. In that moment, he thought of a name. “My name is Yang.” he told the girl. She looked at him confusedly.
“That sounds like a Chinese name.” she said worriedly. “But you don't look Chinese.” she thought to herself, looking him up and down. Yang had no clue what a Chinese was, but he didn't think he was one.
“I come from the city.” Yang told her. She stared at him in puzzlement.
“London?” she asked. Yang shook his head. He had never heard of such a place. Alice looked more and more confused every second.
“I don't even know how I got here.” she mused, and stood up, walking over to the fire that Yang had heard earlier and sitting down next to it. Yang took the oppurtunity to look her over. She was a tall woman, with a tattered pale blue dress pulled over her thin body. She had obviously not eaten in a day or two, and when humans didn't eat, they thinned out. Her pale blonde hair was dirty, as if she had crawled through a dust pile. Yang had never seen a proper human before. Only the servants in the Capital, and they were all aclimated to this world. This petty creature was not. She gathered up what looked like a thin knife and a strange necklace, and then turned to Yang.
“We have to get out of here.” she told him.
“Why?”
“Its not safe down here, we're lucky that we haven't been attacked already.”
“I can protect myself.”
“Well, then you can brave the tunnels alone.” she snapped, and turned away from Yang, marching up the tunnel defiantly. Yang didn't like this. He stormed after her, grabbing her by the wrist harshly as she walked up the dimly lit tunnel. She swung her head back towards him, fear etched on her face. Yang let her go, feeling a pang of guilt at the look on her face. She was pretty, for a human. She turned silently and continued walking. Yang followed reluctantly. At least she knew where to go. They walked in silence for a few minutes, until they suddenly were outside, in a sunlit clearing that reminded Yang of the gardens in the Capital. But this place seemed broken, and somehow dark even in the bright sunlight. Alice took a look around and sighed.
“When I was little this used to be a castle.” She reminisced. So she had been here before? Yang looked around. There were a few stone bricks strewn around, but he had trouble visualising a castle. Alice seemed to glide out of the clearing like a ghost, and Yang followed her quietly. He prefered the silence. Not a single sound pierced through the canopy of the woods. Just silence. And as Alice lead him deeper and deeper into the forest, the silence seemed to get quieter and quieter somehow; as if a vacum was sucking the air out of Yang's ears. And then she disappeared. He looked around for her, confusedly. But he was alone. He was standing next to a large rock, which had a base covered in deep moss, unlike anything Yang had ever seen before. Maybe if he stayed here, she would find her way back to him. He leaned against the rock, and stared at the sky. He noticed something strange then. Not a single cloud in the sky moved. Not even an inch. It was as if the sky had been painted on by a child.
The brown haired boy leapt through the trees, his daggers out and at the ready. He was desperately searching for his other half. He had never been apart from it for this long, except for when he was but a lowly human servant, but that didn't count for much. He needed to find the other half, or he wouldn't feel powerful enough to complete the mission Her Majesty the Diamond Queen had given him. As he leapt from branch to branch like a grasshopper, he heard a sound that made him come to a swinging stop. The sound of a woman's tears.
He heard the sound often in the Capital, often coming from behind the closed doors of the servant's rooms. He felt pretty bad for them, to be honest. It was heartbreaking to see little girls put to such grueling work. He shook the thought from his head immediately. If Her Majesty the Diamond Queen wanted those girls to serve Her, then she deserved it. She always deserved everything that came to her. Leaping down from the canopy, he quickly found the source of the cries. A woman in a tattered blue dress was on her knees, enveloped in a strange red smoke. Shadowy figures faded in and out of sight around her as the smoke pulled on her body and choked her. Her pale blonde locks floated up in the air slowly as she desperately called. The boy ran to her as quickly as he could, sinking his daggers into two of the three shifting figures. They exploded into black smoke, and seemed to sink into the earth. The final one flew away through the forest, and the red smoke that held the woman prisoner was now gone. She collapsed to her knees, holding her throat tightly and gagging. It was really quite gross.
“I'm- I'm Alice.” She told him, looking up at him with icy blue eyes and a thankful smile. Something seemed weird about her.
“I'm...Marble.” The boy said. He blinked. He felt as if he had suddenly forgotten something.
“That's an interesting name,” she remarked. Was it really? “We must get out of these woods. Its not safe here.” she explained, and for some reason, he really did trust her. Holding out his hand, he smiled a wide grin at her, and she returned it, accepting his hand and pulling herself to her feet. She attempted to dust off her dress, but it was hopeless. The thing was filthy. She became almost frantic with her actions, until she sighed.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
“I'm sick of always ending up in this situation.” Alice mumbled.
“What situation?” he questioned, curious as to how she could always end up getting attaacked by red smoky demons.
“Ever since I was little, I've been fainting and coming to this place while I sleep,” she began explaining, giving me a wary look as if I were a simple dream and would vanish in a moment. With hesitation, she continued. “As the years went on, I started fainting more frequently. And this place-” she gestured around herself, into the woods themselves. “-has become more and more sinister. It used to be pretty.” she breathed. The boy thought it was pretty enough. But it was awfully quiet. The Capital was never this quiet. It felt almost like something was tugging on his ear. Alice turned suddenly and walked methodically into the woods, counting her steps quietly under her breath. The boy thought it was quite strange, but he supposed that to a regular human he would look rather strange as well.
Seeing his other half leaning against a peculiar large stone, the boy ran excitedly to his side, pulling him in and phasing together into Marble before Alice's very eyes, which widened in surprise. Marble looked back at her.
“Oh sweet maiden, you have reunited my halves!” he shouted joyously. “I will see that Her Majesty the Diamond Queen repays you for your just actions!” he exclaimed. Alice just stared at him blankly with a confused look.
An hour later and it had become dark. Alice and Marble spoke of their respective lives over a campfire, basking in its warm glow. Alice was a nobleman's daughter who had been dreaming of the woods for as long as she could remember. Marble was a lowly servant once, but had been given the power of division by Her Majesty the Diamond Queen. Alice thought his devotion to Her was a little offputting, but he didn't notice. He was too caught up in the thrill of the tale.
When they woke up the next morning, they were surrounded by monsters. Marble shot up, looking around worriedly. Alice was gone. Shadows of all shapes and sizes gazed out at him with glowing red eyes, and he drew his blade as they seemed to close in. The fire that had been roaring when they had retired to bed was now simple ash. Just when he was prepared for a fight, a voice echoed through the woods; loud, clear, and deep.
“Halt.” was all it said. The figures stopped moving, and slowly they faded into the shadows, their beady red eyes barely visible through the darkness. Through the darkness, a glowing amber figure descended. It had no face, but was in the shape of a man. It was at least twice Marble's height, and three times as wide. The godly voice boomed yet again.
“You have trespassed on my territory.” it stated darkly.
“My apologies, oh great spirit.” Marble apologized, bowing deeply. It was best not to offend spirits of such power. He had learned that the hard way back when he had been a servant. The being laughed.
“I am no spirit,” it explained. “I am a god of death and misery, and if you step foot on my land again, you will perish.” it growled; and then Marble saw her. Alice stepped through the shadows, her dress no longer dirty, and her hair glowing a soft gold. He stared at her confusedly.
“Hello, boy.” she greeted him, a cold smile radiating from her face. She was with them.
“But- I thought you-” Marble stammered.
“My wife has told me of your devotion to a certain monarch.” the god boomed, and Marble stared at Alice in wonder. His wife?
“You were foolish to spill your tales to a stranger in the woods, young one.” she mused, the same cruel smile cutting through Marble's naive trust. He saw something in her blue eyes. A deep red ring the color of rubies circled her pupil, spinning endlessly. Perhaps she was being controlled.
“Because I do not wish to anger your master, I will allow you to leave unharmed.” the god promised, waving his hand. As he waved, a glowing indigo portal appeared behind Marble, sucking in the air around itself. Marble almost fell in, but held strong, staring at Alice. He saw the longing in her eyes. She was a captive here. He couldn't just leave her. Maybe she could come back to the capital with him, once his mission was done. Or perhaps she was just as wicked as her words. Whatever the truth was, he didn't care. In that split second, he reached through the darkness and pulled her free, falling backwards into the portal as he did so. A cacophony of screams erupted behind them as they fell, and the ring around her eyes disappeared. She held onto Marble for dear life, until they found themselves alone, and in the dark.
“Alice?” he called out.
“I'm here.” she answered, her voice warm and welcoming again.
“Do you want to explain about that whole ordeal?” Marble asked.
“No, not really.” she answered.
“Oh. Okay.” he responded. He didn't need answers now, as long as she wasn't going to go all evil on him. His spirit eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he reached for Alice's hand, grabbing onto it. He felt her jump a little as their skin touched, but she relaxed quickly. They walked forward silently, feeling around themselves to make sure they didn't fall into a ravine or something. It was obvious they were underground, but where exactly was the real question. As they walked, a dim light became visible ahead. They made their way towards it, finding themselves on an underground dock, illuminated by a single hanging lantern that seemed to glow with an ever burning flame. A small rowboat floated in dark waters, and they hopped inside relunctantly. Alice ran her hand along the edge of the water. It was freezing. They must have been in some kind of underground lake. They each took a row, and nodding at eachother, they began to row out into the water. An island came into view, with a small building simply placed in the centre. Could this be some kind of demonic fortress. As humans appeared on the shore, it became clear what it truly was. The rebel camp. Marble smiled. Even after all of his struggles, he could still finish what he came to do.
The rebels greeted them, staring at Marble's cloak in wonder. He told them he was a warden from the mountains, and that he wished to join the cause. They ushered him and Alice through the halls of their base, which was poorly constructed out of stone and wood, and into a slightly larger room. The walls were lined with the heads of animals, and the strong scent of jasmine burned Marble's nose as he entered. In a big hide chair at the other end of the chamber was the witch. Her grey hair was woven into thick locks, and icy blue eyes looked her visitors up and down suspiciously as they entered.
“Who are you, and why have you come?” she asked. Her body was draped in feathers and fur.
“I am Marble, a warden from the mountains. And this is Alice. We wish to join your cause.” he lied. The woman smiled knowingly.
“Stupid boy.” she snapped, floating up from her chair and flying across the room until she was inches from his face. She sniffed. “Capital scum.” she mumbled, and Marble stumbled backwards in surprise. She then abruptly cranked over to Alice, repeating her actions once more. “Madlands. Dark magic.” she mumbled once more. She smiled a wicked smile and flew backwards to her chair. She nestled in until she was comfortable, and then she snapped her fingers. Instantly, a mane of red hair crashed through the door behind Marble, sending him flying into the air in shock. A girl in a red cloak stood in the room, her energetic aura moving through Marble like an electric shock.
“Kill these intruders, Rose.” The witch commanded, and the girl bowed, a wicked grin appearing on her face. With a swirl of her hand, a glowing red scythe appeared, and she swung it towards Marble suddenly. He leaped into the air, sommersaulting over the blade and landing a few feet away. He dashed for the witch, intending to kill her. Even if he died, at least his mission would be completed. She simply waved her index finger and sent him flying back across the room. It was clear she had the ability to kill if she wanted, but she just wanted to watch the battle for fun. Rose swung at Alice, and struck her in the chest. Blood sprayed onto the wooden walls, and Alice fell to her knees. She was not a warrior. A red light surrounded her, and glass seemed to form around her body. The witch's smile broadened. Suddenly, the light turned indigo, and the glass seemed to flatten into a mirror. Just like that, Alice was gone. Marble could see her on the other side of the glass as the people of the Madlands closed in around her. She was their captive once more. He swung around, splitting suddenly into two and slicing into Rose's side. She swung her blade at the brown haired side, but missed as Yang brought her down to her knees. The witch sat up straight suddenly as she noticed the cloaks. Something seemed to click in her mind.
“Marlon?” she questioned, and with a bright flashing light, the brown haired boy flew across the room to her. He shook as the curse of the Diamond Queen was broken, and he collapsed into the witch's arms like jello. The witch stared at the boy in shock. Her grandson Marlon had been kidnapped by the Diamond Knights years ago. She had assumed he had died. But his fate had been even worse. He had become a slave to the Diamond Queen, in body and mind. He could rest now. He laid Marlon at her feet. Rose stared at Marlon's body. This was her son. As she was distracted, only for a split second, a blade sliced through her body like butter, and the scythe disappeared. Yang stood in the room alone now with the witch, covered in blood; some of it his own, some of them Rose's. He had moved through the blade of the scythe itself in order to finish her. And even if his human side was gone, he would finish Marble's mission. He lunged forward towards the witch, his glowing katana slicing through the air at the speed of sound.
He slammed into the ground, exploding into plasma and raw matter. The witch had had enough. She ran to her granddaughter's side. Rose had been her favorite. She sobbed. This was not meant to happen. How could the gods damn her family like this!? A dark thought clouded her mind, and she knew what she must do then. Standing slowly, she moved back to Marlon's side, touching his forehead with a single glowing finger. Soon he would wake.
Soon there would be a revolution.
by @luclovers
BY THE TRAITOR JERK @RomanAria!
“Alex Johnson? Are you Alex Johnson?” The police officer, his face stony but his eyes full of grief, stares at me with barely-veiled suspicion. I can understand it, too; what would Anna Victor, the valedictorian and gymnast and all-state orchestra member, have had to do with a failing delinquent like me?
“Yes sir, I am. The phone call said you had a letter for me, from Anna?”
The policeman frowns, but holds out a warped, crinkled envelope. I snatch it quickly, in part so that it won’t get soaked by the misting rain, but also so that the officer can’t see my hand trembling, and move as if to leave.
“Stop. Where are you going?”
“Home. To read the note in private.” It’s a half-truth; I don’t intend to go home, but I just want to be out from under his disapproving look already.
“I don’t like that. I have the authority to take that letter back from you and read its contents right now—“
“You have no such authority. There is no search warrant related to this case and the fourth amendment prohibits you from taking that letter without a warrant.” The voice comes from an unexpected source; I whirl around and see Anna’s best friend walking up the sidewalk. She flashes a smile at me but it’s strained; she looks like she’s about to cry. “And I will not hesitate to report you to your commanding officer for interfering with my best friend’s final wishes without a warrant to do so.”
The police officer laughs, but soon falls silent. He shifts awkwardly and mutters something unintelligible, then relaxes. “Then go read the letter and quit lingering around here. This IS a crime scene.”
I try to say something to Anna’s friend, but she turns and walks quickly back the way she came, and I am left with the police officer glaring accusations at me. So I hurry out of there. I walk to the park, sit on the bench under the oak tree, gaze at the playground. We used to play there as kids; it had always seemed so bright and lively. But today, with the rain, not a child was to be seen playing on the now-rusty monkey bars and merry-go-round. Like a graveyard for childhood dreams.
Alex.
I hope you’re proud of yourself. With me out of the way you should have an easy ride of valedictorian—oh wait, I forgot, you ruined your life back in middle school.
My hand clenches on the fragile, warped paper. The words are blurred, the page just a fragile page from a sketchbook, further weakened by water and time, and my rage is enough to tear it. Even in death she taunts me.
You never could bear being second-best, could you? So you ruined my life, but you ruined yours first. You’re the one who brought about your own demise. Just remember that.
Knowing you, you’re probably so mad you could tear this paper up and throw it away right now. Well, don’t. I’ve got more to say and I’m sure you want to hear it. Indulge my final whim, would you, dearest?
Damn you, Anna. You knew me too well.
I just want you to know how much I regret the things I did. I was a selfish bitch. I used to always rub it in your face how much superior I was, because I got this special class, or I aced an exam that everyone else failed. I can see how you would have gotten frustrated and angry at that.
But what I can’t see is why you hated me as much as you did. I never saw it as anything more than friendly banter, friendly teasing. But I guess it never was friendly to you. I guess you always really did dislike me that much. The teasing wasn’t sarcastic; you meant every hateful thing you said.
Why did you hate me so much? I had just been trying to push you to be better. I never meant for you to hate me, I never meant for you to want me dead. And you said it once, more than once, yourself. You wanted me dead. Your life would be so much easier if I was dead.
Well, you’ve got your wish, but it’s too late for any good to come of it for you.
Tears are running down my face and splashing on the paper and I don’t even know why. I hate this girl. I’ve always hated her for showing me up, for making me seem inadequate by comparison. I hate her...don’t I?
I should be angrier at you, for pushing me onto this spiral of demise, but I’m not. Maybe because I saw that you would ruin yourself to ruin me. And that’s enough of a victory for me. Because at the end of the day, I’ll be remembered, the genius who died far, far too young. But the same can’t be said of you. The delinquent, in and out of juvie, suspended from school on a pretty much weekly basis? You’re nothing. At least I was something. At least I have a legacy. I’ll be remembered.
I’m trembling, clenching my fists so tightly that my knuckles are white. The paper, already fragile, tears in my hands. There’s another two paragraphs but I can’t bother to read them.
Fumbling in my pocket, I finally manage to produce my lighter. My hands are shaking so badly that I can’t even strike the flame. But eventually I get it, eventually I get the spark to light, the paper to burn, letting off blue sparks from the salt soaked into the page. She was crying as she wrote it.
I crumble what’s left and kick the ashes into the dirt. Walk back up the hill to her house, cordoned off with police tape. The thin, needling rain mists my eyes and soaks my clothes.
The police officer is waiting for me. “Well, what did it say?”
It isn’t entirely the rain that makes my eyes wet as I say, “Her final will. She wants to be buried in an unmarked grave.”
“Alex Johnson? Are you Alex Johnson?” The police officer, his face stony but his eyes full of grief, stares at me with barely-veiled suspicion. I can understand it, too; what would Anna Victor, the valedictorian and gymnast and all-state orchestra member, have had to do with a failing delinquent like me?
“Yes sir, I am. The phone call said you had a letter for me, from Anna?”
The policeman frowns, but holds out a warped, crinkled envelope. I snatch it quickly, in part so that it won’t get soaked by the misting rain, but also so that the officer can’t see my hand trembling, and move as if to leave.
“Stop. Where are you going?”
“Home. To read the note in private.” It’s a half-truth; I don’t intend to go home, but I just want to be out from under his disapproving look already.
“I don’t like that. I have the authority to take that letter back from you and read its contents right now—“
“You have no such authority. There is no search warrant related to this case and the fourth amendment prohibits you from taking that letter without a warrant.” The voice comes from an unexpected source; I whirl around and see Anna’s best friend walking up the sidewalk. She flashes a smile at me but it’s strained; she looks like she’s about to cry. “And I will not hesitate to report you to your commanding officer for interfering with my best friend’s final wishes without a warrant to do so.”
The police officer laughs, but soon falls silent. He shifts awkwardly and mutters something unintelligible, then relaxes. “Then go read the letter and quit lingering around here. This IS a crime scene.”
I try to say something to Anna’s friend, but she turns and walks quickly back the way she came, and I am left with the police officer glaring accusations at me. So I hurry out of there. I walk to the park, sit on the bench under the oak tree, gaze at the playground. We used to play there as kids; it had always seemed so bright and lively. But today, with the rain, not a child was to be seen playing on the now-rusty monkey bars and merry-go-round. Like a graveyard for childhood dreams.
Alex.
I hope you’re proud of yourself. With me out of the way you should have an easy ride of valedictorian—oh wait, I forgot, you ruined your life back in middle school.
My hand clenches on the fragile, warped paper. The words are blurred, the page just a fragile page from a sketchbook, further weakened by water and time, and my rage is enough to tear it. Even in death she taunts me.
You never could bear being second-best, could you? So you ruined my life, but you ruined yours first. You’re the one who brought about your own demise. Just remember that.
Knowing you, you’re probably so mad you could tear this paper up and throw it away right now. Well, don’t. I’ve got more to say and I’m sure you want to hear it. Indulge my final whim, would you, dearest?
Damn you, Anna. You knew me too well.
I just want you to know how much I regret the things I did. I was a selfish bitch. I used to always rub it in your face how much superior I was, because I got this special class, or I aced an exam that everyone else failed. I can see how you would have gotten frustrated and angry at that.
But what I can’t see is why you hated me as much as you did. I never saw it as anything more than friendly banter, friendly teasing. But I guess it never was friendly to you. I guess you always really did dislike me that much. The teasing wasn’t sarcastic; you meant every hateful thing you said.
Why did you hate me so much? I had just been trying to push you to be better. I never meant for you to hate me, I never meant for you to want me dead. And you said it once, more than once, yourself. You wanted me dead. Your life would be so much easier if I was dead.
Well, you’ve got your wish, but it’s too late for any good to come of it for you.
Tears are running down my face and splashing on the paper and I don’t even know why. I hate this girl. I’ve always hated her for showing me up, for making me seem inadequate by comparison. I hate her...don’t I?
I should be angrier at you, for pushing me onto this spiral of demise, but I’m not. Maybe because I saw that you would ruin yourself to ruin me. And that’s enough of a victory for me. Because at the end of the day, I’ll be remembered, the genius who died far, far too young. But the same can’t be said of you. The delinquent, in and out of juvie, suspended from school on a pretty much weekly basis? You’re nothing. At least I was something. At least I have a legacy. I’ll be remembered.
I’m trembling, clenching my fists so tightly that my knuckles are white. The paper, already fragile, tears in my hands. There’s another two paragraphs but I can’t bother to read them.
Fumbling in my pocket, I finally manage to produce my lighter. My hands are shaking so badly that I can’t even strike the flame. But eventually I get it, eventually I get the spark to light, the paper to burn, letting off blue sparks from the salt soaked into the page. She was crying as she wrote it.
I crumble what’s left and kick the ashes into the dirt. Walk back up the hill to her house, cordoned off with police tape. The thin, needling rain mists my eyes and soaks my clothes.
The police officer is waiting for me. “Well, what did it say?”
It isn’t entirely the rain that makes my eyes wet as I say, “Her final will. She wants to be buried in an unmarked grave.”
by THE JERK @Dark Wind
Imagine. Imagine this place where the road ran straighter than the drawn line in a mathematics textbook. New and recently paved with inky black perfection. The kind of surface that makes young kids run as fast as they can during the summer so the soles of their feet don’t burn right off. On both sides of that road are divided seas of delicately mowed grass, emerald green blades shaved by fatherly work ethic; or sometimes a son earning his first dollars. All squared up houses, nice and neat. Built by fathers, kept by mothers, and pulsating liveliness with the fast steps of children. A man took one look and knew the sun shone here. The sun shined, and it was bright. It was a wonderful place on Harmony Avenue.
Johnny remembered. He lived on that street, grew up there. His parents, Marsha and Howard, remembered the day they brought him home he had a tremendous smile. That cheeky grin seemed plastered forever. Little Johnny troublemaker who wrought havoc the moment curiosity set in. Forget walking, that boy could do just as much damage crawling. One time, Johnny knocked over the garbage bin. He sat in the kitchen amidst all the trash sitting with that eternal smile and one of his dad’s unfinished cigarettes hanging out his mouth. “Can you believe that? Just sitting there like ‘Yeah, I did this. What are you gonna’ do about it?’ I always knew Johnny was gonna’ be trouble when he got older.” His father said, looking at a photo on the mantle above the fireplace. The photo of Johnny with the cigarette. He shared that moment with the neighbor, the father of Jake who was over for Johnny’s thirteenth birthday. Five years before Johnny left.
Jake was but one of the five man posse spearheaded by Johnny. The other three devilish daredevils were Grant, Harvey, and Eric. Howard watched with nostalgia pooling in his gaze as Johnny lead the charge of an imaginary game of soldier. Jake stood by as his right hand man, always looking to do as Johnny did or trying to outdo him. Quiet Harvey just went along for the ride while Grant and Eric sometimes disobeyed orders, going off to play pranks on the adults outside. Johnny eventually found himself leading the trouble as well, until his mother took him by the ear into the dreaded timeout corner.
Timeout corners graduated into detentions although always in good nature. “Just a bunch of silly kids. Boys will be boys.” The teacher’s said and were so happy to see these young boys grow into men. Johnny walked proud with the cap on his head, tassel spinning about as he shook hands and grabbed the piece of paper his parents were so proud of. But, college wasn’t quite the time in a summer rife with conflict across the borders, over the ocean, into a jungle far, far away. No need for his name in a hat, because when it came to the call the call was duty. Johnny left home one day.
His friends went with him too. Young kids with dreams and aspirations. Harvey wanted to write like the authors who transported him to imaginative lands where heroes were real and problems were black and white. Grant and Eric wanted to be mechanics like their fathers before them, and Jake was going to be a doctor. Johnny just wanted to live and figure things out.
Far off from home, the five friends were poured into the crucible for breaking down and remanufacture. The people they met didn’t need boys, they needed men. Elders molded them to their iron design, adding them onto the list of bodies for their advertised bravery engine where the fuel was heroism. Smiles and bright eyes, even there the trouble never really ended. Johnny didn’t meet time outs or ear pulls, but rather smacks and brutal cutting words. He wanted to live, learn to live. They taught him how to kill.
Johnny went to the jungle one day. Mechanical blades whirled above him as he sat with his four friends, hovering above the vast green below. Leaves and branches twisted and turned, coming alive as though they were entering the beating heart of the forest. All alive, all moving, and the unseen would soon be seen. Things went normally. Johnny, Jake, and the rest told stories and talked like they always did. More of a glorified camping trip than anything else. Like they were playing soldiers in the backyard woods again.
They whistled tunes through the jungle paths, bitching about the incredible heat and the mosquitoes. And the rain, the rain that pelted down upon them with unrelenting brutality. One day it was more than just rain that came soaring down. One summer night they sat around in their positions when blazes of light flashed and the dirt flew up into the air. Like they came from everywhere and nowhere. Like little kids at a campfire after ghost stories, the darkness was full of ghouls again. Except it was more than that Johnny would find later.
Playing soldier was over. The long treks through the trees became longer. Faces of strangers in a foreign land, enemy or foe, no one could know. Grant collapsed to the ground one day. Johnny could see where the first bullet carved its way through his head. Grant bled. Johnny could have sworn he felt it was himself that was staining the grassy, dirt floor. He fired back into the forest. The claws of his rage searched for comfort but grasped nothing.
Eric sat alone. Harvey wasn’t so quiet anymore. Johnny and Jake sat in silence together, staring into the dark. “He was right in front of me. Right in front of me. There was nobody around.” Harvey said.
“Shut the fuck up, Harvey.” Eric spat.
“Right in front of me. He dropped. We were talking about what were going to do when we got home. Just like that, he dropped.”
Eric threw his helmet at him. Harvey quieted for a time.
“I’ve never seen a man’s brains before…”
No one answered. None of them had seen a man’s brains before. Johnny remembered. He could still see the pinkish red clumps glued to the grass. Devilish look in Grant’s eyes had gone out, like the flame was whisked away. Eric didn’t talk much anymore, and one day he tripped a wire and never talked again. Johnny always remembered the smell of smoke. The stinking rot and the scratching of wood when he cleaned Eric off the trees.
Harvey wrote a lot of letters. Every moment he could find, the pen was rubbed against muddied paper. The three sat with tired eyes that spoke a shared language.
“Let’s kill them.” Harvey said. “Let’s kill all the fucking bastards.”
Johnny inhaled and puffed out smoke. “Yeah…”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Johnny never thought much about the next months. They walked into the darkness of the jungle and bathed in it. Out there in a world they didn’t belong. Shed the boy, and warriors were forged. Cloaked in the honor of duty, bolstered by red and blue ideals. At least that’s what Johnny remembered before coming in.
Johnny came home one day. Stepped out of the car on Harmony Avenue. Picture perfect houses resting on sun-tinted paradise. It was quiet. There were no more neighborhood boys running around playing soldier. Five boys went into the jungle and none came back. Johnny did, didn’t. No parade, no welcome except the tearful embrace of his mother and the hug of his father. “Look at all those medals. I’m so proud of you, Johnny.” His father said.
They didn’t talk much about the others. Even when they did, Johnny didn’t say much. “They’re dead. What does it matter?” Johnny didn’t sleep well anymore. Every time he looked into the woods where he once played, he saw the jungle staring back at him with Harvey on the ground silent; blood staining his stack of letters.
Johnny never gave those letters to his father. No one at home would understand the words imprinted on the page. “No one wants to read about that shit.” He told his father.
“What shit?”
“The shit we did.”
“What did you do?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
People wanted to talk about medals. Heroes. The world was black and white back then. Johnny remembered Harvey’s stories, and all his books. The bad guys were bad, and the good, good. Simple and easy. Johnny had a hard time with the word. Would his father think him a hero in the months following Eric and Grant’s death?
“Did you kill anybody?”
“What was your first kill?”
“What did Jake say before…”
Johnny couldn’t say a single thing. Yes, he killed. His first kill was a young boy approaching their position. No older than ten. Any Vietnamese person could be lethal. The kid killed the kid, and the one kid was no longer a kid. Truth was Johnny wanted to pull that trigger. He hated every last one of them. Bomb them, burn them, shoot them. Johnny shot a man once and watched him bleed out. Pressed his foot against the wound to torture out the last painful gasps. He couldn’t tell his father about that. Couldn’t tell Jake’s dad that the last things he heard from his best friend was the slow gurgling of bubbling blood.
Johnny cried that day.
He didn’t go out much. Johnny drank more than he ate. Smoked more than he talked. Marsha and Howard didn’t know what to do with Johnny. “What’s wrong with Johnny?” She said. “He just needs something to do.”
The perfectly arranged furniture and stacked papers formed a jungle in which Johnny was no longer familiar. Packing groceries while people thanked him for his service brought no smiles. Johnny didn’t know why he went there anymore, or why they were even sent. Grant and Eric would fix no cars, Jake never listen to the heartbeat of a patient. And, Harvey’s only writings were the nightmares which man does not want to confront.
Darkness came again that day. Johnny sat in his room and stared it down the barrel. He could see his friends on the golden shores waving back to him, welcoming an old friend. He remembered the boy on the ground, staring up at him. He saw the monster torturing the man. The monster had tears in his eyes. Jake came to him that night.
“Never known you to lose it.”
“It’s like I can’t leave. This place has me. All I see is Grant and Eric. I clean up the mess and I feel nothing. When I see them out there all I feel is that nothing grabbing me. I want them to feel it too.”
Jake put his hand on Johnny.
“This place will be full of those lost in the darkness on both sides. When you get out of here, promise me one thing. Don’t let this place take you.”
“What do you mean?”
Jake looked out into the jungle.
“Wounds heal. Others longer than others. I doubt we’ll be forgetting any time soon. But, this doesn’t have to be forever.”
Johnny looked down the barrel. Those were the last words Jake ever spoke to him. Long hours of silence passed until he opened the drawer and returned that steel piece of the jungle. Johnny would not die this day. One day, Johnny might come home.
BONUS MATERIAL: This story was inspired by this poem I wrote. (Note: I'm entering the story, not the poem. Also don't be alarmed if you find the poem on another forum, I can confirm that the user who posted it is me so it is not plagiarized!)
Johnny Came Home One Day
Johnny came home from school one day
Thoughts imprinted ever to remain
Stories of the previous brave do stay
With promises of glory to claim
Age old expressions revived
Blood and iron and duty
Packed up in a travel bag
No raffle hat, he would go, by choice
Johnny left home one day,
Poured into the crucible
Where elder smiths mold him
To their iron design
Clothed in honor and sacrifice
Selflessly armed with heroic bullets
Individual broken down to one sculpted gear
In the churning bravery engine
Johnny went to the jungle one day
Equipped belief of dutiful will
Draped in red and blue stripes
Painted with dreamed ideals
First steps down the darkened
Jungle corridors, halls of vine
Leaf green life casting shadows of,
The unseen
Camaraderie charm keeps the ease
Til' one man stepped out of line, and
The mine says "One less brother in arms."
With blood trickling from fiery tongue
Dark nights lit with bursting terror
Never sleep with death on the doormat
Knock, knock, knocking
With double tapped fists
Johnny felt the dark that day
Creeping fingers of the reaper
Carved down his spine
Etching the echoes of inevitable loss
Heat scars with steamed sweat
Mud and rain drowns the face of hope
But the boy closes his eyes and tries to remember
"With a will of iron, you will be great."
Old voices silenced
Blood and bodies form
Trails from My Khe to Saigon, to
Darkness that swallows whole
Johnny stared into the jungle deep
Infinite black unafraid of iron shells
He walked in and walked out alive, but never came back;
Johnny came home one day.
Imagine. Imagine this place where the road ran straighter than the drawn line in a mathematics textbook. New and recently paved with inky black perfection. The kind of surface that makes young kids run as fast as they can during the summer so the soles of their feet don’t burn right off. On both sides of that road are divided seas of delicately mowed grass, emerald green blades shaved by fatherly work ethic; or sometimes a son earning his first dollars. All squared up houses, nice and neat. Built by fathers, kept by mothers, and pulsating liveliness with the fast steps of children. A man took one look and knew the sun shone here. The sun shined, and it was bright. It was a wonderful place on Harmony Avenue.
Johnny remembered. He lived on that street, grew up there. His parents, Marsha and Howard, remembered the day they brought him home he had a tremendous smile. That cheeky grin seemed plastered forever. Little Johnny troublemaker who wrought havoc the moment curiosity set in. Forget walking, that boy could do just as much damage crawling. One time, Johnny knocked over the garbage bin. He sat in the kitchen amidst all the trash sitting with that eternal smile and one of his dad’s unfinished cigarettes hanging out his mouth. “Can you believe that? Just sitting there like ‘Yeah, I did this. What are you gonna’ do about it?’ I always knew Johnny was gonna’ be trouble when he got older.” His father said, looking at a photo on the mantle above the fireplace. The photo of Johnny with the cigarette. He shared that moment with the neighbor, the father of Jake who was over for Johnny’s thirteenth birthday. Five years before Johnny left.
Jake was but one of the five man posse spearheaded by Johnny. The other three devilish daredevils were Grant, Harvey, and Eric. Howard watched with nostalgia pooling in his gaze as Johnny lead the charge of an imaginary game of soldier. Jake stood by as his right hand man, always looking to do as Johnny did or trying to outdo him. Quiet Harvey just went along for the ride while Grant and Eric sometimes disobeyed orders, going off to play pranks on the adults outside. Johnny eventually found himself leading the trouble as well, until his mother took him by the ear into the dreaded timeout corner.
Timeout corners graduated into detentions although always in good nature. “Just a bunch of silly kids. Boys will be boys.” The teacher’s said and were so happy to see these young boys grow into men. Johnny walked proud with the cap on his head, tassel spinning about as he shook hands and grabbed the piece of paper his parents were so proud of. But, college wasn’t quite the time in a summer rife with conflict across the borders, over the ocean, into a jungle far, far away. No need for his name in a hat, because when it came to the call the call was duty. Johnny left home one day.
His friends went with him too. Young kids with dreams and aspirations. Harvey wanted to write like the authors who transported him to imaginative lands where heroes were real and problems were black and white. Grant and Eric wanted to be mechanics like their fathers before them, and Jake was going to be a doctor. Johnny just wanted to live and figure things out.
Far off from home, the five friends were poured into the crucible for breaking down and remanufacture. The people they met didn’t need boys, they needed men. Elders molded them to their iron design, adding them onto the list of bodies for their advertised bravery engine where the fuel was heroism. Smiles and bright eyes, even there the trouble never really ended. Johnny didn’t meet time outs or ear pulls, but rather smacks and brutal cutting words. He wanted to live, learn to live. They taught him how to kill.
Johnny went to the jungle one day. Mechanical blades whirled above him as he sat with his four friends, hovering above the vast green below. Leaves and branches twisted and turned, coming alive as though they were entering the beating heart of the forest. All alive, all moving, and the unseen would soon be seen. Things went normally. Johnny, Jake, and the rest told stories and talked like they always did. More of a glorified camping trip than anything else. Like they were playing soldiers in the backyard woods again.
They whistled tunes through the jungle paths, bitching about the incredible heat and the mosquitoes. And the rain, the rain that pelted down upon them with unrelenting brutality. One day it was more than just rain that came soaring down. One summer night they sat around in their positions when blazes of light flashed and the dirt flew up into the air. Like they came from everywhere and nowhere. Like little kids at a campfire after ghost stories, the darkness was full of ghouls again. Except it was more than that Johnny would find later.
Playing soldier was over. The long treks through the trees became longer. Faces of strangers in a foreign land, enemy or foe, no one could know. Grant collapsed to the ground one day. Johnny could see where the first bullet carved its way through his head. Grant bled. Johnny could have sworn he felt it was himself that was staining the grassy, dirt floor. He fired back into the forest. The claws of his rage searched for comfort but grasped nothing.
Eric sat alone. Harvey wasn’t so quiet anymore. Johnny and Jake sat in silence together, staring into the dark. “He was right in front of me. Right in front of me. There was nobody around.” Harvey said.
“Shut the fuck up, Harvey.” Eric spat.
“Right in front of me. He dropped. We were talking about what were going to do when we got home. Just like that, he dropped.”
Eric threw his helmet at him. Harvey quieted for a time.
“I’ve never seen a man’s brains before…”
No one answered. None of them had seen a man’s brains before. Johnny remembered. He could still see the pinkish red clumps glued to the grass. Devilish look in Grant’s eyes had gone out, like the flame was whisked away. Eric didn’t talk much anymore, and one day he tripped a wire and never talked again. Johnny always remembered the smell of smoke. The stinking rot and the scratching of wood when he cleaned Eric off the trees.
Harvey wrote a lot of letters. Every moment he could find, the pen was rubbed against muddied paper. The three sat with tired eyes that spoke a shared language.
“Let’s kill them.” Harvey said. “Let’s kill all the fucking bastards.”
Johnny inhaled and puffed out smoke. “Yeah…”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Johnny never thought much about the next months. They walked into the darkness of the jungle and bathed in it. Out there in a world they didn’t belong. Shed the boy, and warriors were forged. Cloaked in the honor of duty, bolstered by red and blue ideals. At least that’s what Johnny remembered before coming in.
Johnny came home one day. Stepped out of the car on Harmony Avenue. Picture perfect houses resting on sun-tinted paradise. It was quiet. There were no more neighborhood boys running around playing soldier. Five boys went into the jungle and none came back. Johnny did, didn’t. No parade, no welcome except the tearful embrace of his mother and the hug of his father. “Look at all those medals. I’m so proud of you, Johnny.” His father said.
They didn’t talk much about the others. Even when they did, Johnny didn’t say much. “They’re dead. What does it matter?” Johnny didn’t sleep well anymore. Every time he looked into the woods where he once played, he saw the jungle staring back at him with Harvey on the ground silent; blood staining his stack of letters.
Johnny never gave those letters to his father. No one at home would understand the words imprinted on the page. “No one wants to read about that shit.” He told his father.
“What shit?”
“The shit we did.”
“What did you do?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
People wanted to talk about medals. Heroes. The world was black and white back then. Johnny remembered Harvey’s stories, and all his books. The bad guys were bad, and the good, good. Simple and easy. Johnny had a hard time with the word. Would his father think him a hero in the months following Eric and Grant’s death?
“Did you kill anybody?”
“What was your first kill?”
“What did Jake say before…”
Johnny couldn’t say a single thing. Yes, he killed. His first kill was a young boy approaching their position. No older than ten. Any Vietnamese person could be lethal. The kid killed the kid, and the one kid was no longer a kid. Truth was Johnny wanted to pull that trigger. He hated every last one of them. Bomb them, burn them, shoot them. Johnny shot a man once and watched him bleed out. Pressed his foot against the wound to torture out the last painful gasps. He couldn’t tell his father about that. Couldn’t tell Jake’s dad that the last things he heard from his best friend was the slow gurgling of bubbling blood.
Johnny cried that day.
He didn’t go out much. Johnny drank more than he ate. Smoked more than he talked. Marsha and Howard didn’t know what to do with Johnny. “What’s wrong with Johnny?” She said. “He just needs something to do.”
The perfectly arranged furniture and stacked papers formed a jungle in which Johnny was no longer familiar. Packing groceries while people thanked him for his service brought no smiles. Johnny didn’t know why he went there anymore, or why they were even sent. Grant and Eric would fix no cars, Jake never listen to the heartbeat of a patient. And, Harvey’s only writings were the nightmares which man does not want to confront.
Darkness came again that day. Johnny sat in his room and stared it down the barrel. He could see his friends on the golden shores waving back to him, welcoming an old friend. He remembered the boy on the ground, staring up at him. He saw the monster torturing the man. The monster had tears in his eyes. Jake came to him that night.
“Never known you to lose it.”
“It’s like I can’t leave. This place has me. All I see is Grant and Eric. I clean up the mess and I feel nothing. When I see them out there all I feel is that nothing grabbing me. I want them to feel it too.”
Jake put his hand on Johnny.
“This place will be full of those lost in the darkness on both sides. When you get out of here, promise me one thing. Don’t let this place take you.”
“What do you mean?”
Jake looked out into the jungle.
“Wounds heal. Others longer than others. I doubt we’ll be forgetting any time soon. But, this doesn’t have to be forever.”
Johnny looked down the barrel. Those were the last words Jake ever spoke to him. Long hours of silence passed until he opened the drawer and returned that steel piece of the jungle. Johnny would not die this day. One day, Johnny might come home.
BONUS MATERIAL: This story was inspired by this poem I wrote. (Note: I'm entering the story, not the poem. Also don't be alarmed if you find the poem on another forum, I can confirm that the user who posted it is me so it is not plagiarized!)
Johnny Came Home One Day
Johnny came home from school one day
Thoughts imprinted ever to remain
Stories of the previous brave do stay
With promises of glory to claim
Age old expressions revived
Blood and iron and duty
Packed up in a travel bag
No raffle hat, he would go, by choice
Johnny left home one day,
Poured into the crucible
Where elder smiths mold him
To their iron design
Clothed in honor and sacrifice
Selflessly armed with heroic bullets
Individual broken down to one sculpted gear
In the churning bravery engine
Johnny went to the jungle one day
Equipped belief of dutiful will
Draped in red and blue stripes
Painted with dreamed ideals
First steps down the darkened
Jungle corridors, halls of vine
Leaf green life casting shadows of,
The unseen
Camaraderie charm keeps the ease
Til' one man stepped out of line, and
The mine says "One less brother in arms."
With blood trickling from fiery tongue
Dark nights lit with bursting terror
Never sleep with death on the doormat
Knock, knock, knocking
With double tapped fists
Johnny felt the dark that day
Creeping fingers of the reaper
Carved down his spine
Etching the echoes of inevitable loss
Heat scars with steamed sweat
Mud and rain drowns the face of hope
But the boy closes his eyes and tries to remember
"With a will of iron, you will be great."
Old voices silenced
Blood and bodies form
Trails from My Khe to Saigon, to
Darkness that swallows whole
Johnny stared into the jungle deep
Infinite black unafraid of iron shells
He walked in and walked out alive, but never came back;
Johnny came home one day.
1x Laugh
