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      There's a cloud of black dust now. The wind picks up and begins to whittle away at the ashen piles of what were once soldiers. No. At what were once men, women and children. There are very few survivors, most of whom were fortunate enough to be under someone or something as the Black Mages set their sin upon the battlefield. Every single one of them looks lost, confused, with eyes empty and void of reason. Aramis is not excluded from this group.
      He walks around for a while, spear dragging along the ground, carving tiny canals that immediately fill with a rushing crimson river. Eventually, a hand rests on his shoulder. A superior officer, the leader of Legion XIV. "E'met'i ten'en gir." Time to go.
      Aramis follows the orders. There are no horses to mount today, and he's oblivious to almost anything else in the world at this point. He focuses on the Legion commander, because looking anywhere else would showcase the meaningless bloodshed he'd participated in. He keeps his eyes lowered, only to see that his boots splash in pools of collecting blood, leaving tiny crimson droplets clinging to his greaves. His view is darkened by the helmet. He removes it, and holds it under his left arm. The pain in the right one began to return.
      A rock makes contact with the back of his head, but only sparingly. He's grazed, but he's caught enough of it to stumble forward and bleed anew. The armor constricts. He whips around, enraged, and sees the boy again, standing defiant. So he lived. No. He survived. The boy begins to limp towards him, but collapses in the blood-soaked ground beneath his feet and falls to his knees, hissing. His leg is badly burned. A Crusader stops and backtracks, the sword in his hand raising steadily higher.
      Aramis stays the Crusader's hand and sends him off with a few choice words and a hard shove to show he means business. This is someone's son, he says angrily. Blacken your souls with the murder of children, but not mine. The boy doesn't want the help he's offering, but Aramis doesn't take "no" for an answer. He hoists him up and carries him on his back, a load no other Crusader will carry. He'll get reprimanded for this later. But everyone is too stunned to protest against it now.
      What remains of Legion XIV merges with Legion XIII and Legion XII. Legion XI has already gone ahead and set up base camp seven miles outside of Mabus Siiq. They're in riotous celebration over a victory that was pulled off without a hitch. Although the Astalonians were well aware an attack was coming, they never expected such a large force pouring straight into the capital. The fields were lit aflame and burned into dust, and the land was rendered completely useless for growing future crops. Even if they tried again, the Crusaders declared, the blood soaking into the soil would ruin it.
      Aramis doesn't join in on the celebratory chatter. Instead, he spends much of the day defending the Astalonian boy from threats and attack, and even holding the boy still in order to apply a salve and bandages to his burned leg. The boy screams in that foreign tongue of his, curses and damnation, he's sure, but he takes the blows, both physical and verbal, with quiet resolve. If the kid runs off once treated, so be it. He'll watch his back until he's out of sight. If he chooses to stay, for whatever reason, he'll protect him as best he can.
He doesn't have to.
      As soon as Aramis ties off the bandage securely, he gets a kick to the face and the boy hobbles off, opposite the direction of the singing, celebrating Crusaders. The coppery-tasting liquid fills his mouth, and he spits it out. Everyone's too busy to notice the boy growing smaller in the distance. Good. He's safe.
      Days pass. The king of Astalon sends word that his county will convert, and he will lead the way with his own conversion. Anything to stop the slaughter. The Crusaders declare victory. A military victory, with a moral death in tow. They force Astalon into conversion. But at what price?
      It's a long ride back to Gaia. Aramis and a few others climb onto spare horses and head back home. There's nothing to denote direction or distance here but shadows and the sun. No distinguishing landmark. No trees. Nothing but barren, wind-swept sandy wasteland. A few hours pass. He sees a dot in the horizon, and dismisses it as hallucinations resulting from dehydration. Goddess, he was thirsty. No water to spare, the Commander says. His lips aren't so dry.
      He can't even sweat anymore. It's only after one of the Crusaders nearly falls off of his horse that the higher-ups start passing water around. He doesn't even try to ration it out. He takes it all in, though he knows he shouldn't. At this rate, he could get sick and vomit it all out. The dot in the horizon gets bigger. It begins to take shape. Eventually, the army passes right by it.
      It's the boy from Darlis Kesh. He ran straight into the desert and probably died of heatstroke. Damn it. Well. At least he's in a better place. Aramis manages to catch a glimpse at the boy's leg. He'd removed the bandage. Aramis lets out a mirthless laugh. Defiant little b*****d, wasn't he?
      Sparse bursts of water-starved green pock-marks the landscape. Green. He's missed that color, and missed it more than he thought. They'd be within Gaia's borders again soon.
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Wed Mar 07, 2007 @ 09:50pm · 1 Comments |
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