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AxiomFable — Hope Runs Deep by-nc-nd
Published: 2010-03-21 02:01:34 +0000 UTC; Views: 180; Favourites: 0; Downloads: 1
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Description It was the thought of death.

It permeated from the shells as they were fed to the artillery battery lying dormant beside him. The artillery observer rattled off orders, processing the scene through his binoculars. They were often confused with each other: same chiselled features, watery grey eyes and gravelly tone. Like a machine.

Turning away he tried to focus on the statue of Saint Michael dominating the plateau and followed his watchful gaze onto the city bowed down below. A tortured shell of a city that had finally submitted, no longer pleading for salvation from above. It was a sickened animal begging to be put down by a firestorm. The sight must have been one he had witnessed dozens of times before, albeit at different locations in different seasons. As routine as summer passing to winter, the resounding roar of cannons passed to the diaphragm rattling reverberation of denotations. Half thinking, he raised his hand in some attempt to ward off the reappearing mongrel of death and was disciplined by a painful bite of memories. Glimmering in the dawn light, the tags around his bandaged hand clinked innocently with the soft dull tone of wind chimes and water drops. And he remembered...

They fell during the rainstorm. They fell like the rainstorm. The reaper's scream heralded heavy gauge shells as they scattered in and out of the streets thick and fast, quaking the ground with every impact. The constant shriek thrashing mindlessly in his head, trapped  by the stench of  ozone and fear. There was no rational thought, that had gone to ground faster than his body had. Only training and doctrine held fast now, braced by the iron heel of discipline. Bursting into the nearest building, he ran crouched as each shrill cry shattered windows and sent shards of shrapnel flying. Transparent agony lacerated him and he twisted in vain, staggering, stumbling down a shell shocked corridor. Half blind he soldiered on, pressing against each door until one gave way, plunging him into a pool of silence.

Drip. Drip.
Blood tears streamed down his hand. One of his eyes deemed that he was in a private ward, now a morgue after a deluge of despair had inundated the original purpose of the room. The other merely informed him that first aid was required.
"You are dead."
His hand snapped to his holster, the morphine autoinjector he was preparing clattering on the floor as he cocked his sidearm. One of the bodies was still alive. There in the fractured light, an incredibly pale girl was prostrate on a gurney. She tilted to him as he edged closer, her raven hair cascading down the trolley in lavish waves. There was an unsettling intensity in her liquid gold eyes as if the depths of her soul was burning. He assessed her warily. What was the protocol for civilians? Expendable? Anyone else around here? Intel? But fixated on her lively eyes he found himself saying:
"What do you mean dead?"
She closed her eyes for so long that he thought she was the one who was dead.
Drip. Drip.


"You are dead. A slave first and a man second."
Her eyes flickered open again and unbridled emotion spilled from them. It perturbed him to see such vitality in a pallid youth. "A man chooses, a slave obeys. Why are you here?"
"The shelling... Military operations on urban terrain's standard procedure is to get under cover."
"Why are you in the city?"
"That's classified." His textbook response was icy but had no real edge.
"Because they told you to. They told you to fight here and that's what you do. You ran here because that's what training told you to do. You stand a metre away from me, angled with your hand on your gun because that's what they told you to do. Is a dying girl a threat to you?" She spoke softly, tone flowing with disappointment. He blinked and tried to articulate a response whilst releasing the weapon he was unconsciously gripping. Her timeless eyes. He managed to deracinate his eyes to her crux pendant.
"Dying." He crouched to her level, "Dying isn't the worst. You will have an afterlife in a better place."
She managed a dismissive exhale that was overcome by a wave of spasms.
"You don't have to tell stories to make me feel better. I'm ready to die."

Just a child and ready to die.
"I lived my life. I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to make a difference in the world. When everyone swamped the evacuation centres I chose to stay behind. I'm not seeking death, but I know I've postponed someone else's rendezvous. To know you're close to death is a kind of freedom. All the time in the world to think. Out of all the nightmares, this is the one I chose for myself."
She seized up in another series of spasms and he found himself placing his hand on hers. Even now he felt heat radiating through her sickly skin, or was his hand too cold? Fever? She should not have to end in pain. His free hand slid down towards his holster, past it to the autoinjector on the floor. Fingers stinging as he manipulated the device, he still felt the shudder as it activated. She recognised the gesture and made a smile.

The shelling had stopped but her words still impacted in his mind. He decided to stay there, hand on hers. They talked some more, mainly him pooling a river of thoughts. Why am I here? How could I have chosen to fight when I had not even fought to chose? What do I want to do with life? The girl had opened the floodgates of his mind and it had overflowed his mouth. He decided to stay there until the reservoir had emptied and her breath had stopped.

Under Saint Michael he glanced at the dog tags in his hand: dull, prefabricated tokens of death; members of his squad that did not survive the friendly fire incident, and the crux pendant of the young girl. Nobody is ever really dead unless we forget them. I will protect, and remember those I cannot. The roar of the howitzers broke his reverie and he focused on the artillery officer's face as the crump of explosions filtered up the plateau. They may have been the same but not anymore. He watched the officer's stony eyes reflect the blossoms of fire in the distance, his mouth preparing another order, his mind obeying without question. Like a puppet. He saw it in his eyes.

It was the death of thought.
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Comments: 1

xEmoMuffinx [2010-03-21 03:00:38 +0000 UTC]

typo: "response was icily" - icy

I like the beginning and end. How it's really similar and kind of cyclic.

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