NightRain/SoundOfABeatingHeart
The Sound of a Beating Heart
A story by NightRain
Tepet Bajara was having one of those days; one of those days that seems to never end, a day full of blood, ice, pain and smoke. But lately, life always seemed to be like that. All of the things that should and could happen, just never seem to eventuate. Instead, the harsh realities of life push themselves upon you, one after the other, until it's too much.
The youngest son of Tepet Sarillia, retired colonel of 4th Legions 1st Dragon, it was always inevitable that Bajara would find himself leading men in to battle. The expectations of his family left no room for argument. But then, it was also 'inevitable' that the blood of his mother would run true, and he would join his brothers and sisters amongst the ranks of the Terrestrials. How is it that of these 'inevitabilities', neither came about in the way they should have? His exaltation never happened. In spite of his blood, in spite of his education, both spiritual and practical, his blood did not sing to the elements. Yes, he was leading men in to battle, but he was leading a scale, not a legion. At least it could be said that scale leader was an officer's position, but it was a position without the glory that should have been his. Without the blood of the dragons, he was not destined to do great things it appeared
There was hope for the future of course. Time and training would give him chances to move up, to take his place amongst his house' best and brightest officers, but even time was not on his side. Doomed to die before his siblings, even before his great mother, he would never have the chance to make general let alone colonel, he would never lead a Legion to glory and fame. But he could only try, try to make the most of what he had, and try not to bring shame to himself of his family.
Of course, even those small plans were so much dust now. Standing on the wind chilled hill, the destruction of an entire Legion was laid out before him. The blood of mortals mixed with the blood of the Northern Barbarians and the blood of the Dragons as it seeped in to the ground, feeding the earth. A few scattered pockets of resistance were still shouting their defiance, but the end was a foregone conclusion. The weight of the barbaric horde was focused on them, and them alone now.
A few small hours ago, Bajara had been down there amongst the blood and snow himself. Fighting for limb and life as the tribesman kept coming. Strike one down, and another would take his place. But every time one of his brothers or sisters fell, there was no one to take their place. Of course, the Terrestrials fought amongst them like living gods, felling countless barbarians, but even their resources were limited. The barbarians did not back off, they did not stop coming, and the weight of their numbers pulled even the dragon blooded down eventually.
Like everything else in his life, today had not turned out as it 'should' have. No one stood before the might of the Empire's legions, and mere mortals did not pull down Dragon blooded warriors, however brave and courageous they might be. Yet that is exactly what had happened. Rumours of an anathema leading the barbarians did not help matters, especially when it became apparent that the Legion would not hold. What helped even less, was the appearance of the anathema in fully glory on the field of battle, surrounded in a glowing nimbus of golden light, almost too bright to look at. A giant of a man, standing nearly 7 foot tall, he strode amongst the battle, and where he walked, legionnaires died. Dragon blooded or mortal, one on one, or five on one, it made little difference. All who came within his reach died, often before they knew they were in real danger
Bajara, like the others, felt his resolve melting away when he saw the giant reaping men like so much wheat. He should have felt a sense of pride at the courage his brothers showed, how they stayed to the bitter end in spite of their fear; only he was too busy running for the cover of the nearest copse of trees. His own shame at his cowardice was a bitter medicine to swallow as he watched the few remaining members of his legion falling, one by one. He could taste the bile in his throat. But at least the fear was cooling now.
At least there was some solace to be had; by surviving this, he could carry word back to the Imperial Isle, give them some idea of what was happening here in the chill Northlands. He would have to carry his shame with him on the return journey, but he had to admit, the weight of the shame was better than the alternative, better than watching his life's blood leak away in to the frozen soil as a barbarian danced over his fallen form. They needed to know that one of the Anathema was leading the uprising, and that he was a threat they needed to be attentive to. The Game of Thrones could wait, for if this bull of a man continued unchecked, there would be no throne left to squabble over
Now that he had his direction, time was of the essence. If he was to survive this, he had to get away before the last of the fighting was finished, while the horde was distracted by the death of his brothers. Forcing himself to break eye contact was hard. The weight of his shame must have tripled as he turned his back, it was almost enough to bring him to his knees. But he couldn't let that stop him. He had a duty, and nothing was going to stop him.
Once more though, destiny, fate, or the Dragon's themselves seemed to have different ideas. The moment he broke from the tree line, a small group of barbarians mounted on large bull elks crested a hill in front of him. Whooping and hooting, they punched their beasts forward, charging towards him, their short roughly hewn bows already in hand. This time, the weight of his guilt did drop him to his knees. What was the point? It appeared as if fate itself was determined to stop him, to deny him his last chance at salvation.
Even as he was kneeling, an arrow launched by one of the riders found him. The weight of the shaft punched through his cured breastplate, and knocked him sprawling. The riders whooped and rode past him, not even bothering to check on him. They knew how deadly the environment was. A wounded man was a dead man. Even Bajara knew that. He was dead and his blood was feeding the soil after all. He knew the blow was mortal, how could he not? He could feel the blood in his mouth, and in his lungs.
As he lay there, he was aware of the beat of his heart. He could feel it in his chest, and could hear the dull thump of it. It was impossible to keep track of time, there was no way to know how long his still form was laying there. There was simply the ever slowing beat of his heart; each beat coming further and further apart, his entire body slowing down, his awareness of the world contracting.
But something was missing... The anger and fear he had felt were gone. The shame was gone. In it's place was nothing, an emptiness so deep that it seemed to swallow his pain, his fear, and his desires. He could feel the emptiness pull at him, and found it increasingly hard to resist the tugging on his soul, the desire to be pulled in to oblivion and have it all end once and for all. Fate would have no chance to continue playing it's cruel games with him, to show him what could be before ripping it away from him at the last minute.
For the last time, Bajara closed his eyes. He knew he wouldn't be opening them again, not to this world at least. With a stutter his heart beat once more, one final time. He knew it wouldn't beat again. The outside world had disappeared, he could hear nothing of it, see nothing of it, and smell nothing of it. He felt only the cold absence of perception, a growing darkness, and he welcomed it, called to it, wanted it!
The darkness was not empty however, not anymore. There was a presence growing within it, the feel of another soul touching his own, spoiling the perfect nature of the emptiness.
"Would you live"? The words echoed in the void.
Bajara felt the longing increase in him. The desire for it all to end was still there, stronger than ever. But now the darkness was not pure, there was this presence, and with the impurity of the presence came the return of the shame, the anger, the fear. He wanted it to end, he needed it to end! He knew that he simply had to ignore the presence, and he would fall in to the darkness once more, never to return. But the fear that had ruled his life ruled him in death to.
"Yes, I would live" he sobbed, hating himself, hating his cowardice, wanting to strike out at himself, at this presence that had robbed him of his chance to escape.
Even as he mouthed the words, he felt the change. A chill sank in to him, colder even than the hard ground he was lying on, the chill of the grave slowly filled his soul.
The presence departed as it had arrived leaving him alone with the darkness, the chill on his soul and a resounding silence, a silence suddenly interrupted by a new sound, the sound of a beating heart.
Comments
Quen, I actually moved this out of my user page section for a reason :) Given all the discussion on BestPractices, WikiFormatting etc, I'm basically trying to use my UserPage as nothing more than an Index of Content spawned by me, and have the actual content in the WikiCommons if you will
-- NightRain
Fair enough. But I think it'd be better to wait unti we've codified a new standard before reshuffling page names. The discussion's still in the early stages, we don't know what the final consensus will be yet. - Quendalon
True enough. It can stay here for now I guess :)
-- NightRain
Cool. Sorry if I was snarky about it. :) - Quendalon
