Unwaking Life

You fall asleep.

Slowly and surely, consciousness loses focus and meaning. Dreams beckon you onward and welcome you with the warmth of a thousand hugs. You smile contently and snuggle your dreams closer, so close that they seem real. They are real, and so are you.

You step off the plane and onto the boat. You’re on a boat. You laugh hysterically for what seems like a lifetime. Or was it just a moment? No matter! What matters is that you’re alive. You’re alive and you’re free.

You stand at the helm and look at your world. What do you want to do? Your mind races with ideas, your mind blanks on the spot. No matter, time is your’s to slow, to stop. So you stop it.

You recline on the deck, bathing under a frozen sun. You sip casually on your drink and wriggle your toes in the sand. You remember those jars of multicolored sand and wriggle your toes in the rainbow. You decide you’d like a handful of Skittles.

You pop them back and chew thoughtfully. What you want to do? An idea comes to mind. You glance up at the light bulb above your head, but decide it’s just the sun.

You look at yourself. You let go. You look back down at the world and walk through the forest that you find yourself in the midst of. You break into a run. You run harder than you thought was humanly possible. But it doesn’t matter, because you’re not human here. You’re God. So you decide to fly. You the owl fly through the trees at a breakneck speed, altering your course with the subtlest of movements.

You come across a cabin where a group of friends sit hidden from the outside. You decide to drop in. They offer you something bright. You ask what it is. They hold up a bag of sunshine. You laugh and breathe deeply. You cough clouds nine, ten, eleven, twelve, skip thirteen, and fourteen.

Your friends ask you how you’ve been. You think about it and decide you’ve been all right. They ask if you want to play a video game. You ask what they’re playing. Some zombie game. You laugh hysterically for what seems like a lifetime.

Just as you’re about to sit down and play, something crashes against the cabin. In a flash, your friends are up and ready. Something claws at the walls of your mind, of the cabin.

You start to bar the door, but change your mind. This is your world.

You explode.

The cabin erupts from around the handful of survivors. The shards rip through the zombie hordes. These aren’t dead zombies of course, it’s just another mutated form of rabies. That way they’re fast. A little less boring. And they need to be stronger, harder, smarter, better. And so they are.

You leap at them with a sword in hand, with a gun, with a lightsaber, with nothing but your bare hands and will(to)power. You cut a path through the masses as your friends do the same. But winning is no fun and everyone wants that high that comes with losing. People thrive on chaos. A wise man once wrote; it is only when we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.

And you’re free anyways, so why not lose everything? You’ll just get it back. And if you don’t, well, you’ll wake up soon enough. So you let go. Of perception, of your conscious self, of your prejudices and inclinations. You embrace nothing.

And you implode. You see everything at once. You understand without any concept of understanding. You perceive truth, enlightenment without perceiving. You are cut off from it, but you are one with the Force. You are Tao. Most people die before they reach zero. Even math equations can’t always make it that far. But you do. In this world, you can do anything. This is your world without rules. But all things must end. Something pulls you back to your reality. Ending…dying…die..die.

Die….die….you can’t die. You look down at the blood pouring from your stomach. There’s no pain. You’re numb. You fall backwards onto a bed of flowers. You feel some pain. But that’s fine. You are and that is enough. Your friends make their way over to you, the zombies are forgotten. They crowd around you as if funeral bearers. You look past them and up at the tree of life.

You get up. They shake their heads in exasperation. You wish them farewell and you leave. You’re antsy and you have the urge to go somewhere exotic. You think and close your eyes.

You open your eyes.

You look around. You are surrounded by gray.

You look closer and as your eyes slide into focus, you see that the gray is actually silver.

You look around. You are surrounded by silver. You look closer and make out images etched into everything. You see everything in what appears to be nothing. You blink. It doesn’t go away. You frown. This is your world. Nothing controls you here.

You vocally command the silver to leave you be. It shines brighter.

You close your eyes and think.

You reach for that truth, that zero, that perfection. It’s so close. And so far. You breathe deeply and reach farther. It slips farther away. You think. It slips farther. You race towards zero, but there are an infinite number of points to traverse.

You ask the impossible.

And then it hits you.

You realize you have no control. Except over yourself.

You can see the light at the end of the cave. You reach for it. It dims.

Stop.

You stop. You stop trying to reach, you close your mind’s eye and stop thinking.

You accept. Everything, anything, nothing.

You open your eyes. The world is there again. Your friends, the cabin, the forest. Everything is etched with silver lining. You smile. You break into a run, as fast as you think humanly possible. And then you run harder. The world blurs in your motion.

You come to the ship. Your friends are already there. You leap aboard and make your way to the helm. The horizon burns brightly. You remember a movie from what seems like a lifetime ago. You toss your compass overboard. You’re the only one who can tell you what you want. Or where you can find it. You hum to yourself. You look to the horizon. It burns brighter. You take flight.

Every night you die and every night you are born again.

You wake up.

You slowly open your eyes and blink the sleep away.

Sleep….sleep. Where were you? You think.

You breathe deep and stretch, letting the fatigue roll down your limbs and out through the tips of your fingers, out through the tips of your toes. Then you realize…slowly…..you look around..it’s coming faster now….and it hits you-.

I’m you and that makes all the difference.

DeLorean Gray

You wake up.

 

You slowly open your eyes and blink the sleep away.

Sleep….sleep. Wait. Where were you? You think.

You breathe deep and stretch, letting the fatigue roll down your limbs and out through the tips of your fingers, out through the tips of your toes. Then you realize…slowly…..you look around..it’s coming faster now….and it hits you-.

You have no idea where you are. You are wide awake. You scramble to your feet to take in your surroundings and regain your bearings. It only takes a few seconds to realize that when standing in an endless gray void, the two are infinitely different.

Even without knowing, you know two things. The gray is infinite. And you aren’t dead.

Frowning to yourself, you furrow your brow and look around. Your fingers trace your jawline while your cluck your tongue, as if stumped during a game of hide and seek.

You open your mouth to curse and realize you don’t remember how to speak. You panic.

You begin to hyperventilate, you run. You run as hard as you can. You move as fast as humanly possible and you get nowhere. Humanly possible isn’t good enough.

You stumble to a halt and fall into a crouch, supporting yourself with an outstretched arm. You reach for peace, you breathe deep and exhale slowly, letting the panic roll down your limbs…wait. Déjà vu. Again? No. Wait. Where are you?

Who are you?

Panic. System overload. You run again. You run as hard as you can. You move as fast….wait. Déjà vu. Again? No….wait. Yes.

Who are you?!

You panic. You run your fingers through your hair, combing your mind for the answer. It doesn’t come. You glance down at a stray hair on your finger. It’s white. You panic. You rip out a few strands of hair. White.

You scream.

You scream nothing.

You scream at nothing.

You scream anyways.

You know that, somewhere, sometime, you knew who you were. But you can’t quite place it. You DID know who you were. Yeah, that’s it. You just forgot. You must have known. Right?

Your mind races and you rack your brain, looking for something. Anything to latch on to. You probe your mind until you gag. Change is the variable, but memory is a constant.

Until you forget. But that means you must have remembered sometime, if you’ve forgotten now. You tell yourself. One can’t exist without the other. Something clicks in the back of your mind.

A jigsaw falls into place. One can’t exist without the other. Something about the duality of man. But what does it mean? You file it under some papers in the back of your mind.

Suddenly, you remember the gray. Your eyes slide into focus and you have to brace for impact. The despair shatters through your shields, through your armor, and blossoms in your soul.

Whatever that means, you laugh nervously out loud, but there are no echoes in space.

You’re overcome with hopelessness, you scream again into the nothingness that is everything.

 

You blink away the tear, but manage to catch it on your finger. You look at it.

Something flashes before your eyes. You blink. You look closer.

Look closer.

[Something] flashes before your eyes. A memory. Memories? Was it just one or an entire life?

Can a life be captured in one moment? Surely. Or maybe not. You look closer. The tear rolls down your finger. You manage to lick it off with your tongue. The tear is salty.

Bittersweet. You think, for a moment, and laugh to yourself. But it’s salty! You reflect on that for a moment. Or maybe it was a lifetime? No matter. Back to the task at hand.

Your mind races and you rack your brain, looking for something. You didn’t get that education for nothing. Wait, that’s something! You nearly cry with relief. You remember, therefore you were. Once upon a time.

Remembering anything at all is enough.

Then, all of a sudden, like fog, it’s gone. You can’t remember what it was. What what was?

You panic. You scream again and start to run. You stop, steady on. You open the door to your cave, but there’s been an accident. The paramedics wheel the foreman out on a marble-top stretcher.

Ah well, the black lung would have killed him anyways. The police ask you to exit the area and point you towards a gray sign on the wall. Wait. Gray. Where have you heard that before?

You snap back to the present. You see gray. You panic again. You begin to hyperventilate, you run. You run until your veins bulge like ropes and each breath gives a little less respite and your legs turntojellyandyourvisionturnstoblur.yourunharderthanyoucan.youmoveasfastashumanlypossibleandyouget nowhere. Humanly possible isn’t good enough. You see gray all around as you collapse with exhaustion. White stars burn around you like a million candles.

You black out.

You wake up.
You slowly open your eyes and blink the sleep away.

Sleep….sleep. Where were you? You think.

You breathe deep and stretch, letting the fatigue roll down your limbs and out through the tips of your fingers, out through the tips of your toes. Then you realize…slowly…..you look around..it’s coming faster now….and it hits you-.

The gray. The gray is still there. Everywhere. It suffocates you and you choke.

You can’t run. You can’t reason. You vomit gray.

You stare at the gray and remember something. Something you had made a note of. Once upon a time. Years and years ago. Or was it only a few minutes ago? You shrug to yourself and rack your brain. One can’t exist without the other. Your mind shuts down and reboots. System overload.

You lie down, unable to cope with your epiphany. Black can’t exist without white. You try to remember if you learned that or made it up. Gray’s kind of an average of black and white.

You remember…something…but you can’t quite place it. Déjà vu. Again? Yes.

You accept it. You accept everything. You accept nothing. And you note; what’s the difference?

You black out.

 

You wake up.

 

You slowly open your eyes and blink the sleep away.

Sleep….sleep. Where were you? You think.

You breathe deep and stretch, letting the fatigue roll down your limbs and out through the tips of your fingers, out through the tips of your toes. Then you realize…slowly…..you look around..it’s coming faster now….and it hits you-.

You’re me.

 

You’re me and it doesn’t change a thing.

The Cloths of Heaven, Part II

Part II: Watership Down

 

Movement IV: St. Elsewhere

 

The gray, metallic floors stretch endlessly through the ship. Gray gives way to gray in an endless succession of rooms. I bet Dorothy wouldn’t have liked that yellow brick road so much if that’s all she ever knew. I was robbed of Earth, and now I sit, imprisoned in my gray cell, on my gray cell block, in my gray ship that is my gray world.

Sometimes I forget.

Sometimes, when I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember, I can’t. I try to taste the saltwater breeze of home. And I can’t. I remember her name, but when I try to recall what she looked like, I can’t. It has been so long.

I wonder, sometimes, if people ever once looked out at the stars from Earth and realized just how alone we are. I have lived on board this ship my entire life. We are searching for a new home, they told me. We are searching for Eden.

They tried to be cheerful, but they were never quite the same again.

I am going to die on this ship. I realize now that I’ve known that ever since we were told there was an evacuation. They have no idea where we’re going. For awhile, some of us held on. Maybe there was a planet they had in mind…maybe there was hope. But that faded a long time ago. There is no plan, and there is no planet, just as there is no hope.

BANG! The lander lurches off course, as the team inside snaps into action.

Status? Two leaks. Forward-left landing gear is off.

The pilot grips the controls tightly as the craft shudders against the wind. Increase flow to right thrusters. No visibility. Dirt swirls around in a brown and gray impressionist painting outside the windshield as the lander hurtles towards the surface.

BANG! Another impact. Lights flicker.

Status? Not sure. Stay the course.

BANG! The lights flicker. The roar grows louder.

Status? Hull breach. The roar grows louder.

The pilot grips the controls tightly and blinks away both fear and sweat.

Hold together, baby. Hold together.

BANG! The back half of the lander is ripped off.

The pilot grips the controls tightly as the roar consumes him.

The lander spirals through the perfect storm and into the surface.

 

The transmission stops. Static confirms the sound of silence. No one says a word. What is there to say? Planets recoil at our touch. Space is our prison.

I quietly take off my headset and push away from the desk. No one says a word as I stand up and walk away.

I reach the door and hesitate.

I don’t look back.

There is no Eden.

 

I heard one of the crew leave their post. I was supposed to stop them, supposed to maintain discipline. Needless to say, I did not. I couldn’t.

Silence hung about us like an omen as I dropped back into my chair. I knew they were looking at me, to me, for leadership. But what could I do? What man can tame a planet?

We had already lost so many. So many lives. And, perhaps more importantly, so many landers. The transport had been left abandoned on Earth for so long during the war, it was only barely outfitted. Barely fit at all. We didn’t have any landers to spare, even if there were still people on the planet.

I closed my eyes, reached for peace, and took a deep breath.

“Put me through to the ground team.”

Forgive me.

 

We saw the lander break apart. Or at least, I think that’s what we saw. Between the wind, debris, and our temporary shelter, it was hard to tell what was happening. Our readings were completely fucked, and so were we.

I think I knew that they would leave us before the transmission. We all knew the couldn’t spare landers. Or lives. Perhaps those most of all.

I remember, even now, at the end of all things, when we received that last transmission. I never thought I’d be on death row, but we all had been sentenced to death and we knew it.

After the fleet stopped responding, we held together as a team for about thirty seconds. No one said anything. No one took any action. No one said a word.

Three days later, we’d lost two. One to his gun, one to the weather while he slept. Something had ripped up his entire sleeping pod. We couldn’t even try and find him.

Within a week, we ran out of food. We were all lost, but none of us would accept it.

But that was three weeks ago. I think. I don’t really know. Does it even matter? They’re all dead anyways.

Even at the very end, we fought.

 

Even now, we fight. Even when the only way we can survive is to stick together, even now, all we manage to do is splinter.

It began when they decided to leave the ground team behind. Within an hour, there were riots throughout the ship. Years of anguish, despair, cramped living, gray walls, confinement, homesickness, and hopelessness broke through the walls that we had built to repress them. Soldiers became police and held the line. But unlike the streets of Earth, on a ship such as this, we cannot afford collateral damage. Damage to its internal systems could impact anything from sewage regulation to engine performance. And so the soldiers were given orders to subdue the riots quickly and harshly, before the mob got to the tipping point.

Oftentimes, it only takes one shot, one casualty, to ignite a war.

No one knows which side fired first.

 

They shot first. Those damn fucks. I’d rather have died on Earth then be a slave. It was their fault all this happened. They went to war and God got sick of their bullshit. Kicked them right off the damn planet.

I tell you this, I want answers! I wasn’t the one who fired the nukes. They did. The governments did it. I…I ain’t done anything wrong. But, then..why did I have to leave? Did I do something wrong?

No. No. No, I didn’t! But they did. This is their fault.

Fuck the Powers. We have to stop them. I have to stop them.

 

The high pitch scream interrupts our dinner without warning, causing everyone in the room to jump, knocking over drinks and dropping food. For a moment, we all take a breath and regain control. Then we jump into action. We leave everything where it fell and grab our equipment – never far away – and run to our stations.

Of course, it’s a false alarm. Always is. Ever since the so-called Resistance sprang up. Both sides blame the other – of course. Still, I think it’s the Resistance. The Eight Powers only do what they deem best. Is that not just cause?

 

Whoever said obedience is just was a fool. The Powers demand obedience. For the greater good. Don’t ask questions. For the greater good. We have a plan. There is hope.

Yeah, well, you can’t tell authority anything.

Except with force.

 

“Sir, you’re not wearing your dress uniform?” Disapproval etched the young soldier’s face.

I glanced over at the soldier and back at the seven leaders standing behind me; proud, insulted, and utterly terrified.

“There are times for pride and formality, and there are times for humility and frankness.”

When the rebels took hold of Horizon, they caught everyone off-guard. No one had expected such a quiet coup d’etat. One moment she was under our control and the next, she wasn’t.

The news had come over the speaker system. “This is the Resistance. We have gained control of the Horizon. The rest will soon follow. We have won. The Powers must submit.”

Immediately, we had moved to cut her off, bringing all our weapons to standby. We then ordered the rebels to stand down. They didn’t. So we ordered Sol to prepare for disable while Frontier moved to board.

What we didn’t know was that the Resistance had placed sleepers in key places inside the command structure. Instead of moving to board, Frontier dropped around Horizon and waited. Moments later, Sol’s captain followed, along with three other small cruisers. Within minutes, half the fleet was divided and we had lost control.

So, we stood about, all lost in our own thoughts, as we awaited the shuttle pilot that would ferry us over to negotiate with the Resistance.

We stood, humbled, and awaited the negotiations as we might a trial, for we knew that whatever happened in the coming hours would determine the fate of our entire species.

 

They were scared.

I could see it as soon as I saw them. They were actually afraid of us. But there were other emotions. Anger, pride, indignation. That was to be expected, of course. The last of the opposing party’s guards entered, taking up neutral, but clear vantage points about the room. I allowed myself a cocky smile and waved at the Powers to sit. The old men took slowly and reluctantly their seats.

I leaned forward.

“Here are our terms.”

 

The Resistance and the Powers sat on opposite sides of the table, their political differences enumerated by their physical differences. These rebels truly were from every walk of life. They had managed to infiltrate everything from the brig to the bridge. The rebel leader was a young man, likely only in his mid-40s, with perhaps a tinge of Asian ancestry. He carried himself with a swagger befitting even the most self-righteous.

I watch him, silently, from behind the Powers. I had never met him myself, but everyone knew his name. I received my orders through a fellow guardsman, a lieutenant who now stood silently a few feet away.

I spare a glance. His gaze remains fixed, waiting for the signal. We both wait for the signal.

Wait. What did he just say? I tune in to the rebel’s delivery of the terms.

“..furthermore, any ships not willing to submit to the new government will be left behind.”

The eight Powers at the table reacted externally as I was internally; with outrage and indignation. When the human race is reduced to what is already nearly certain extinction, this boy has the audacity to suggest that we should further decrease our chances?

The doubt washes over me and solidifies as betrayal.

The rebel leans back. The signal.

I can barely manage a glance before the lieutenant’s gun is at the third guard’s head. The rebel guards’ guns snap up towards us.

I freeze. My eyes stay fixed on the rebel leader. The lieutenant shouts at me as the fourth guard, the one I’m supposed to be holding up, brings his rifle up to bear on the lieutenant. I remain frozen. My eyes remained fixed on the rebel leader.

I drop my rifle……and in one fluid motion, bring my pistol from its holster to my hand. My eyes remain fixed on the rebel leader, who stares right back.

I pull the trigger.

Time slows. The lieutenant arcs gracefully to the floor.

Both sides open fire. I feel myself slide down the wall.

Time stops. I guess there really is beauty in the breakdown.

 

When the negotiations broke down, the rebel leader had been injured and five of the eight government leaders were killed or severely wounded.

In the aftermath, the fleet fell into disarray. For days on end, any semblance of order was overwhelmed by the waves of chaos that rippled through the entire convoy. A few days in, someone detonated a crude explosive device in the barracks, killing nearly a hundred soldiers, including one colonel. The barracks were near the outer hull, and the entire section had to be shut off.

Soon enough, both factions were destroyed, decimated, dead and gone. But even when something is dead and gone, the effect remains. The civil war between the Powers and the Resistance left a power vacuum. Of course, the power vacuum didn’t last long, soon giving way to a multitude of competing factions, both political and militant.

The remainder of the fleet drifted nearly aimlessly for over a year during the reconstruction project and simultaneous the power struggle between various go-gooders, politicians, and profiteers.

 

The election was a landslide.

“Today, today is the dawn of a new era for our human race. The last remnant of the tyranny that were the Powers of the old order is finally ended once and for all. But this is not my victory, this is your victory. A triumph by the people over the Powers that were. This, this is for you!…”

The young couple sprawled on their futon passed the rolla from one to the other, inhaling deeply.

“Fuck him.”

The man glanced over at his brown-haired, green-eyed companion.

“Yep.” He exhaled deeply.

 

The years come and go. The duty of every human being is to fulfill the role best suited to them. Why? In order to preserve the human race. We learn only what we have been able to recover. The story is that when the Exodus occurred, there had been no time to upload all the scientific progress that had been made. Those scientists who had survived the Purge had enough pressing matters to attend to for the rest of their lives that only a fraction of the scientific knkowledge had survived. The most liberal estimates are that current scientists knew perhaps 14% of what was once known.

We put ourselves to the fullest possible use, which is all they say any person can ever hope to do. Whoever said obedience was just would love us.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid. My mind is going. I can feel it. I can feel it. My mind is going.
The years came and went. And we are vagabonds.

We live this close to death.

And we float on.

Movement V: Within a Mile of Home

 

The star shone brightly and brilliantly against a backdrop of black, in turn dotted with the twinkling of farther off stars. Several planets of varying composition sat in orbit around the star, revolving and rotating in endless repetition. At length, another light lent itself to the solar system. A flash and another twinkle was born.

The transport, half-dead and dark, fluttered through space and into an asteroid field. The lights flickered from the secluded sections of the wounded hull. Slowly, but still surely, the lone ship limped towards the inner group of planets.

The first few planets from the star were all varying shades of cold, hell frozen over at last. The light from the star reflected and refracted from and around the transport, flickering like a flame.

 

The commander stood on the bridge, weary and worn, his gray-white beard trimmed and cropped around his chin. He sighed, again wearily.

“Scan it.” He glanced down. “Watch the moon.”

Something stirred in his mind. The commander inhaled slowly, methodically, and looked down again. “Scan the moon, too. Run the results.”

The second-in-command nodded somewhat briskly and executed the commander’s commands to the best of her ability. She snapped orders and salutes in perfect harmony, albeit with a degree of fatigue, as if she had been doing the same thing for her entire life. And she had.

The screen bleeped. 64% match. That was higher than most. The commander’s heart skipped in spite of his efforts to the contrary. He looked to his second.

“Send Dr. Fernandez groundside.”

 

The lander hurtled through what remained of the planet’s atmosphere, the windshield icing around the edges and the winds buffeting the pod without mercy. The scientist gritted his teeth and uttered a cross between a curse and a prayer, his hands gripped tightly to the controls.

His pod was caught in a gust and flipped end over end. His vision seemed to spiral away from him and he could do nothing but hold on. The planet’s surface, miles and miles away, rushed up to meet him faster than he could ever have mentioned.

 

The leaders stood around the projection, hands clasped behind their backs, watching the groundside scientist onscreen and awaiting the report.

The results were as projected; unsuitable to life.

The commander and his heart sank slowly. His heartbreak was echoed throughout the room in a collective sigh of concession.

“What now, sir?”

The commander raised his eyes and looked at the lifeless planet.

“We bring him back home.” He breathed deeply, resigned and yet resolved. “And we keep going.”

 

A few hours later, the transport dropped out of orbit and drifted on towards the edge of the solar system. The commander sat in his chair on the bridge of the ship that carried what was left of his entire species. He sat, numb, and oversaw the crew as they prepared to throttle up.

 

The mother sat in her chair as the loudspeaker relayed the news throughout the ship. The solar system, as were all the others since the civil war, were barren, nonresponsive, and devoid of even the potential for life.

 

The soldier gripped his rifle harder as the loudspeaker spoke. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, reaching for some form of comfort. He found a void and begged the question; is that enough to live for?

 

The ship sailed across and to the edge of the solar system. The human race looked back, but only until the sun no longer marked the horizon, left forever to memory.

 

Epilogue: The World Without Us

 

The scientist opened his eyes. He was alive.

 

He slowly moved his hand to his seatbelt and unbuckled himself, promptly falled to the roof of his lander. Disoriented, he blinked and tried to roll over. His right side ached dully. Both his wrists had been sprained in the crash. He tried to roll over again. No luck. His hands found the radio.

“Hello?” A voice made its way through the radio, miraculously.

“Command to Dr. Fernandez. Do you copy? Over.” He nearly wept with relief.

As he relayed his position to the ship, he suddenly became aware of the cacophony outside. The wind was raging. The scientist gripped the sides of the broken window and managed to pull himself halfway out of the lander. He was faintly aware of a cold rush near one of his feet. He continued to struggle as the lander rocked in the wind like a lullaby.

With great effort, he was able to free himself from the lander, along with his mobile survey gear, or at least what didn’t seem to be broken. Fastening it to his suit as best he could, the scientist stumbled over the rocks and made his way towards higher ground.

At length he managed to reach the nearest peak and survey the surrounding area. There was a strange object only a couple miles off. He glanced back towards his wrecked lander and up to the sky. He pressed on.

 

The scientist gazed at what could only have been a tree. The once-jagged, sanded branches erupting from the plateau, made a surreal spectacle for someone who had only ever seen trees in contained biomes.

He methodically, yet eagerly, went about taking samples from the soil and from the half-petrified specimen. It must have been thousands of years old. Could it possibly still live?

The scientist crouched and checked his clock. Time was quickly becoming an issue. He look to his instruments. The first result.

Negative. His heart dropped. The cold from his right foot reclaimed its hold. He look down.

His heart hit bottom. The bottom of his pants leg and his top of his boot were ripped. He could see the ice white of his skin. He cursed and prayed in unison and waited for evac.

The other results shortly followed. Negative. Negative. Nothing. The tree was lifeless. Still crouching, the scientist picked up a handful of soil and ran it through his gloved fingers. Sighing, he resigned himself to defeat and picked up his instruments.

With a heavy heart and a weary soul, the scientist trudged back to the lander, where he met the rescue team.

 

As the scientist stood aboard the dropship as the surface rapidly fell away, he watched the ever persistent winds wipe away his footprint. Before he left the atmosphere, the planet had erased all memory of his visit.

 

The star sets over the horizon and the shadow passes over the tree as it begins its daily journey across the far side of the world. The planet turns as it has for ages, while humanity searches as it has for ages. The variables change, yet the equation remains the same.

The tree stands resolutely in the wind, raging against the dying of the light, even in death. In the soil next to it, a cell divides.

 

The third planet from the star sits against a backdrop of infinity, defying the universe with life.

It radiates our legacy.

The Cloths of Heaven

The Cloths of Heaven

 

Part I: Paradise Lost

 

Movement I: 3030

 

The sun sets over the British Isles and the shadow passes over Europe as it begins its daily journey across the Atlantic. Earth turns as it has for ages, while humanity wars with itself as it has for ages. Nations come and go, wars are won and lost. Cities and countrysides are destroyed and rebuilt, regrown. But humanity remains a constant. The variables change, yet the equation remains the same.

Earth sits against a backdrop of infinity, defying the universe with life. The ultimate sign of fertility, it almost radiates humanity’s legacy. Or so say the colonists.

Luna sits against what used to be a backdrop of blue, green and white. When one looks hard enough, now, there is still green to be found. Green patches between the gray sprawl that lies all across Earth and beyond.

Where once men looked to the Moon and saw gray, now men look to it and see light. Colonized for centuries, there is no dark side of the Moon. As the war broke out, the First Colonies jumped almost tenfold in population. But without an economy of their own besides research, the Colonies faltered and most of their residents live in crowded slums outside the scientific centers in inflatable structures capable of housing thousands.

Mars was soon to follow, but Second Colony has never faced the economic troubles of the First Colonies. Though numerically inferior, Second Colony has spread over the Red Planet gradually by pioneers likening themselves to Lewis and Clark and various space-age explorers long dead or long lost to the void.

The sun sets over Earth as it always has, and war rages at it always does.

 

Duck and cover. Covering fire. Advance! Repeat.

That’s how war always went, albeit in different forms. Trenches in the Great War, beaches in WWII, and silo garrisons in this one.

Duck and cover. Covering fire. Advance!

Alpha 2 signals the go-ahead and Beta team surges forward from the electrical grids towards the compound, running and gunning. A sniper takes out the man next to me, his face pouring blood. I can only glance at him as I slide behind cover. Duck and cover. A burst of fire from behind and the exposed sniper is silenced. Covering fire. We advance.

Beta 3 was down, so I had breach duty. Open door, lob grenade, get the hell away. An explosion, and we switch up the order of operations. Cover fire. Advance. Duck and cover as you go. But I guess that’s just picky. There is no order. Just chaos that we try to rationalize.

We make it to the control room. Breach and clear. No grenades.

The door swings open…..and we’re at a standoff.

One man, hand on key, ready to turn, gun pointed at me. I hesitate.

The bullet hits me in the neck. As I fall, the man turns the key.

Everything is illuminated.

Then there is nothing.

 

 

I heard them coming, heard them shooting, heard my fellow soldiers die.

Panic resonating from the speaker on the wall.

I saw them coming, saw them shooting, saw my fellow soldiers die.

Panic resonating from the screens on the wall.

Hell, I was panicking. I’d been trained never to break. But they were coming and they would hold the most powerful silo in the region. I couldn’t let that happen. I mean, they would use it against my countrymen.

I looked at the key in my hand. I had to. I inserted it and I hesitated.

They were getting closer. I closed my eyes.

I heard them outside the door.

I raised the gun. The door flew open. My eyes flew open.

He hesitated.

I acted.

Everything was illuminated.

Then there was nothing.

 

 

Fire blossoms over the city; a fiery mushroom rushes up to meet the sky and the Earth trembles. The armies pouring in are gone. The city is gone.

The sun sets over North America as the first of the nuclear weapons bring light to the darkness. Minutes later, the fiery clouds are lit the world over. North America. Europe. Asia. Australia. Africa. South America. Antarctica. The colonies watch as their mother bursts aflame before them.

 

 

“Chaos reigns across the globe as war continues….” The news report preaches to an empty street. “We have unconfirmed reports that New Beijing was one of those destroyed in one of today’s many nuclear detonations, this one in the heartland of the Federation of Asia. We have been so far unable to reach anyone in the area…..Association forces moved into Istanbul in an attempt to secure the region’s last silo……..we believe that was the first to be detonated…others followed within minutes….can’t establish a connection….God…on us all….”

 

 

Give peace a chance. The man in front of the projection yells into a phone. On his face is a map of the world. But only for a moment. He paces back and forth, his face strengthened by the gray goatee tracing his chin and mouth, uttering a string of vulgarity followed by an urgent apology and a desperate plea. Give peace a chance.

Across the world, a woman with a cold stare broods in her chateau’s office. She listens to the man’s pleas. Give peace a chance? She stares as reports come in from the ground zeros around the world. She taps her pen. Tap. Tap. Tap. She utters a brief negative. Vulgarity flows from the speaker. Her expression remains the same. He pleads. That voice…a moment of pain flickers across her face, an image of a life long destroyed. She throws the pen across the room. It bounces off the wall and rolls across the floor. She breaks.

 

The man sighs with relief and tosses the phone towards a desk. It bounces across and slides off the edge. He curses.

 

 

The Great Conversation; around a octagonal table sit the eight Great Powers. Peace talks. Give peace a chance. Conditions for a truce; papers are traded back and forth. Voices rise and fall, only to rise again.

Calls for troops removals, reparations, land, even aid. The leaders of humanity’s pinnacle of civilization sneer and name call. Coward! Idiot! The man holds his head in his hand. Kindergarten. The woman’s face remains blank. Numb. A gun is drawn. Shouts. The offender is tackled. Show’s over. The party disperses.

Like a drug deal gone bad, the peace talk ends as abruptly as it began.

 

 

 

“….worldwide poverty and millions with radiation sickness after last month’s nuclear attacks that occurred in every continent…..rescue workers have still be unable to access Australia or the Antarctic Expedition…war continues in all theaters, with a major AU offensive against MA garrisons across North Africa.”

The girl barely glanced at the orange flicker of the side-scrolling news board. She was cold. Shivering, she trudged on through the sewage that flooded the abandoned city.

The city stood in ruin, its fabled high rises laying across the city center. Lights flickered here and there, but they were not enough to brighten the unending night. Smoke filled her lungs, death filled her nostrils, and radiation filled her body.

She trudged on aimlessly for hours. She found no one. She stopped as she came to the city center. She shouted at nothing and trudged on. She trudged on through the remains industrial sites and residential areas as if they were graveyards. And they were.

She made her way to what had been a mosque. Half-standing, it was in better shape than most of the surrounding buildings. The girl slowly entered the mosque and, finding no one alive in there, curled up beneath some rubble, wrapping herself in a tapestry of Mohammed that had once hung on the Eastern wall.

The girl shivered. She shivered, pulled the tapestry closer, and waited to die.

 

 

This ends now. We grow weary. Weary of you. You, who mock us with your concrete jungles, your grotesque abominations whose inspiration you audaciously attribute to us. If this path is continued, we will both go down together. We cannot allow that. We must be free from you. For thousands of years we have submitted to your every desire, indulged your whims, fulfilled your lusts. No more.

 

 

Movement II: Nature vs. Nuture

 

 

For someone who never knew when he would eat next, he was rather fit. One of the tallest in his village, the man hacked away at the brush before him. His machete tore through the foliage with ease…and lodged itself in flesh. The man leaped backwards and brought his rifle up. Nothing. Cautiously, the man brushed aside the severed branches and his eyes found the body of another one of his missing men. They had been sent to investigate the deaths of several villagers and hadn’t returned.

The man glanced around, anxiety etched, as if permanently, across his face. Breathing deeply, he pushed on.

The brush nearby rustled. The gun came up, a mass of black and silver enveloped his sight, and the gun was flipping through the air and into the brush. The man didn’t get a chance to register what had happened before he died. The gorilla’s fists slammed into him again and again.

 

 

We knew we would be attacked eventually, but we had always thought it’d be by the Federation. Not this. I was helping my brother and father stack heavy objects in front of windows and doors, securing any and every entry way to our home. Jenna was gone. I vomited. The image was burned into my mind. She had been tending to the bees. We raise…raised bees. Our honey bees were genetically formulated to be docile. And they had always been docile. None of us had ever been stung except by accident.

I numbly picked up a stair and piled it atop the other furniture bracing the side door.

She had gone out to collect honey. I vomited again. My brother glanced at me. My father kept stacking.

When I heard the screams, I came running. My brother and father had been in the bomb shelter working. When I came running, I saw my sister die. In movies, it happens quickly. And if it doesn’t its usually an epic battle scene or something. This wasn’t any of those things. She died slowly.

I vomited. Or would have, if I had anything to vomit. I slid down the wall, retching.

My father kept stacking.

 

 

Danger. Defend. Prey. Kill. Intruder. Defend. Stalk. Kill. Kill. Kill. Defend.

The prey is unaware. Watch.

The prey rustles. Advance.

The prey glances towards the tall grass. Stop. Silence. Wait.

The prey looks away. Strike.

The soldier screams.

 

 

The Earth is alive. I shout at the TV. Natural disasters. Everywhere. Tsunamis in the Atlantic. Tornados in the Rockies. The Caribbean islands are gone. My apartment rocks violently. Earthquakes here. I shout at the world. At least I’m alone. My stream of consciousness is chaos:

God save me. I’m not even religious. The altar. Confession. My affair. My wife. My kids. Dead. Are they? Oh. My. God. I have no idea where they are. They could be anywhere. Oh God. Panic. Steady yourself. Figuratively and literally. Wry smile. Haha. Fade. Panic. God. Fuck God. He’s gone. We are alone. Humanity is alone. At war. Steady as you go. I’m going to die. I am numb. I am-what was that?

I make my way to the 10^th floor window. The world is shaking. The ground ripples. I lurch forward and something hits me from behind. A million stars all around. The ground rushes up to meet me.

 

 

I shout into the radio. Evac. Advice. Anything. Help.

The lightning strikes across the horizon. The tornado rips apart the command center.

In the military, there is a protocol for everything; training that prepares you for any emergency.

But not this. How do you fight nature?

Calls for retreat. But where do you run to?

I shout into the radio. We are under attack. By who? I don’t fucking know. I have no fucking idea. Fuck!

Lightning strikes not twenty feet away. The tornado looms closer.

I run. That’s all you can…do.

 

I watched as our commander and half the men ran, abandoning their posts. I remained. We could weather this storm. But on the wind, I heard the calls of birds. Thousands of them. I looked up and squinted at the sky. The darkest grey I’d ever seen. And…birds. Thousands of them.

I saw other soldiers pointing. Are they migrating? Fleeing this unnatural occurrence of nature’s wrath?

They dotted the sky as would arrows. And they dove. They were on us before we could do anything. I managed to run, get inside the main compound. Most of the others weren’t so lucky. I saw a man lifted up by a group of eagles. I have no idea where he ended up. I barricade the door and wait for the rescue that would never come.

 

 

“The Asssocia…….Islamic States….destroyed…..animals……sandstorms…government seat….New Mecca…no contact…..area…” The news reporter’s face broke into static. “Tornado….close…landslides…..last broadcast….good luck……………………………………………………………..” There is only static.

 

The leader stood in front of the screen. There is no other option. One of the eight Great Powers, destroyed in one day. Destroyed by nature. By weather and animals. By Earth.

Preposterous. Earth is a planet, not a sentient being, you fool. Exasperation. Then how do you explain it?

The other leaders said nothing. The leader, tugging at his gray goatee, stares through the wall.

We have to leave. Evacuate.

Eruption. Leave what? Earth? For where? The Moon and Mars aren’t accessible. No contact from them for days. We cannot leave.

We must leave.

The leaders shout. The leader shouts back. One of the screens flicker static. They stop.

Amidst a roaring that drowns out any human voice, the wall behind the man in the screen is gone. There is nothing but chaos. The man collides with the camera. Burst of red. Static.

There is nothing but chaos.

We have to leave.

We have to leave Earth.

 

Movement III: Exodus from Eden

 

The sun rose over Earth to wrath and retreat.

The ship glistened as the sun’s warm rays made their way over it and onto the masses of people waiting to board. There were faces from every walk of life, huddled together as they waited to flee their planet. There had been no attack on the operation yet, but the public had watched their entire civilization dissolve over a matter of days. Expressions ranged from the blank numbness of someone who’s tuned out everything to those with fear etched in every lining of their faces, every crease and every wrinkle.

Soldiers and volunteers shouted commands to the throng, calming them when they seemed on the verge of stampeding or rioting, rejecting anything more one suitcase per family, and issuing identification numbers to everyone as they boarded.

The ship itself was massive, built for an outbound flight into the unknown regions, the unexplored reaches of space. It was envisioned as the vanguard of human space exploration. And then, as it neared completion, it had been abandoned. Abandoned as the war broke out. Abandoned alongside social programs, alongside anything that wasn’t for the benefit of the nation, the alliance, the leader, the war effort.

Capable of housing millions, the transport was an international endeavor left to rot, never to even be christened. And now millions of men, women, and children clamored to board this real-life biblical allusion. The leaders of the seven remaining Great Powers were already aboard, rushing along last minute construction. The leaders knew it was only a matter of time before the tornado or sandstorm or lightning strikes began. They watched on their screens as warships and smaller transports retreated from cities overrun by wildlife, water, wind, earth and fire; they watched as the four elements brought down some of humanity’s finest ships. They watched animals pull down a small shuttle and a tornado rip apart a mid-sized assault ship.

 

 

Ready to launch. Outside, funnel clouds form on the edge of supercells that race to converge over the massive flagship.

The pilots looked to the leaders, who remained silent, all unwilling to be the one to give the order.

The ship hummed to life. The ship hummed with life. The millions of people aboard settled in to their quarters. The leaders of the human race stood at the helm, their feet rooted to the past, to their old habits, unwilling to act for the future of their species.

At last, one of the leaders spoke softly the command. The engines roared, the ship shuddered, the funnel clouds became tornadoes around the ship, the landing gear left the surface, and the human race left Earth.

 

 

We are Greeks among Trojans. We feel the parasites depart. We feel the virus leave. We are not the same. We are not healed, but we have halted the cancer. You are gone and we are left alone to clean up and heal the wounds you left us with. You, who profess your love for us while you destroy us. You, who use our plight as a party platform. You, who have butchered us for thousands of years. You, who –

 

 

The shockwave from the detonation reverberated for thousands of miles and rattled the flagship as it rose towards the stars. The leaders all jumped to their feet and watched as the area they had just departed from was erased from the world. The fiery orange and subsequent gray was clear even to those in orbit.

Shouts of confusion arose from the leaders and civilians alike. The ship continued its rise as the mushroom cloud blossomed below it. It was a parting blow from humanity to Earth, as exiles would to their empires.

Accusations flew back and forth between the leaders, yet not one claimed responsibility. In the coming days, rumors would fly through the refugees like napalm, ranging from a military operation against undead to an AWOL silo team driven mad by the sheer chaos of the past few days. If anyone knew the truth, they revealed nothing.

 

 

The convoy converged just outside of orbit above Africa, the battered vessels sliding into formation. There, sitting in space just aside from Earth, is the remainder of the human species.

The remainder makes its way towards the first of human colonies, out of contact for nearly a week. Luna revolves with an eery gray as the convoy approaches. Radio contact is made on an alternate frequency. The citizens from the living spheres overran the first center. The leaders decide to allow the second center to board and no one else; even Noah’s Ark ran out of space.

The Lunans walk aboard to a somber scene. Cabins meant for four housed twelve or more, while thousands sleep in large rooms meant for exercise and education. Having been out of contact for days, the Lunan camps echoed and reincarnated the reaction of the Earth residents as would an aftershock echo an earthquake. The sentiment was only exacerbated when the Martian colonists arrived onboard. They felt it just as hard as the Lunans did, for while the Lunans saw Earth burn, the Martians had been away from Earth for a much shorter length of time. Together, the Colonies grieved while the refugees from Earth grew silent and aloof as shock set in.

 

 

The seven leaders of humanity gathered in one of the command rooms aboard the nameless flagship to discuss their next move. Recon teams that survived reported that the violent weather and animal life on Earth continued, while those in the colonies unable to board the convoy remained prisoners in their respective settlements. Gathered around a hologram of galaxy, they discussed, debated, and argued over the next move. They quickly decided on a christening for the flagship, but then the conversation stalled. Unconsciously they were all waiting for the same conclusion.

 

 

We have to find somewhere else. The leader swallows the liquor and grinds his teeth, holding the glass tightly, sitting alone in his quarters, slumped, staring distantly through his desk.

 

We have to find somewhere else. The soldier holds his helmet in his hands as he slides to the floor against the white walls that are to be his prison. His eyes trace the lining of the helmet that caught the tears his eyes shed. Mother….

 

We have to find somewhere else. The mother cradles her baby close and bites her lip, forcing herself to tune out the thousands of similar situations that fill the stadium in which they now call their home.

 

 

The motley fleet of warships and transports that comprise the convoy glide through the solar system slowly, almost reluctantly. Behind them, the Earth eclipses the Sun, its blue and white fading from their eyes for the last time. The shadow makes its way across the Moon and Mars, engulfing them in darkness. The group of starships are dark gray against the black backdrop of space, both of which are adorned with twinkling lights that both provide for us a haven from the darkness and yet also remind us how alone we really are.

The leader reflects alone in his cabin, glass still clutched in his hands. His mind plays scenes from his life on a projector as he stares into the hardwood grain of the desk. It was never nationalistic, it was egocentric. We didn’t define ourselves through our duty to our country, but rather we defined our country through its service to us. His hands seek but a quantum of solace. They find it.

The gunshot reverberates throughout the hall of the Existentialist.

Humanity looks back to its homeworld, the bitter taste of loss deep set in its memory, beset by internal tension, abandoned by its Mother and its God, and reeling from the deaths of nearly one-fourth Earth’s population.

Humanity looks back, but only until Earth no longer marks the horizon, left forever to memory as the human race begins its exile among the stars.

Doritos: A Work Unfinished

His breath smelled of Doritos and chocolate. His 10 o’clock shadow graced him with an aura almost of a hardened rustler from one of those old Westerns from so long ago. He wore a deep green cloak of a teflon weave. Where in the day, it would merge with foliage, in environments as this one, it only added to the dark mystery in which he hid. It also proved invaluable in hiding items he’d prefer remain unseen and as such, he owed the cloak his life many times over. Underneath his ever-reliable cloak, he wore a leather jerkin and a thermal undershirt he had found on some long past adventure. He sometimes wore chain mail, but he didn’t anticipate any need for it on this particular night. The edge of his boots stuck out slightly from the darkened table. They resembled an artist’s failed attempt; half of the soles were bound together with duct-tape and years of use in a myriad of environments had given them a dull gray-brown hue, as well as an odor of swamp-water.

The Baron and the Villain

By Luke Farmer and Brittain Sluder

 

Gashes, cuts, and bruises were medals to the Baron. The Baron struggled to hold his footing with precious blood seeping from his legs, and building up over his faint shadow. There fate had set him; face to face with his final opponent on long bridge, wide enough to fit seven men shoulder to shoulder. He thought the scenery dramatic, and his impeding death was exciting and reassuring of his purpose.

His opponent dressed himself in sleek black robes, accented with a darker silk. His outfit was

handsome, and so unique that he had no need for any other medals adorned on his chest. His skin was fare and clean, with no visible scares like the once deep cut under the Baron’s left eye. This man dressed in black stood with great poise, and a sort of evil confidence like a teen might have when fighting a child of five summers.

By the looks of the Baron, one would assume he surpassed his opponent in years, but looks as they both had cruelly learned, can be deceiving. They were both born under the same year, but the Baron’s path had withered him. His outfit was nothing gallant, and represented a makeshift ranking rather than a well fitted imperial branch.

The villain approached, and made sure to do so with patiently coercion steps. Each clank that was the villain’s step, was confident, and evenly paced out from its predecessor. The Baron nonchalantly cast his sword off the bridge while simultaneously spitting a wad of blood to follow his blade down to its demise.

The Baron fell to one knee right as the villain reached a comfortable distance. He braced his fall with his left hand, sliding his right into his torn lapel, clutching to his gut. The Baron proudly straightened himself, but still could not stand. The tattered and torn hero looked the villain in the eyes.

It was the villain who spoke first.

“You give yourself freely?”

When no response came, the villain smirked and spoke again,

“Do you know we kept the dogs alive? Most animals are easily maintained. You and the rest of your filth provide a bountiful supply of food for them.”

At that the Baron’s expression grew furious, defiant, and heroic. His voice, deadly quiet:

“So I am nothing more than a beast to you!?”

The Baron grunted slightly as he attempted to level his shoulders. He managed a grim smile, and spoke a name the villain had not heard for a long time. It was his first name, a uniquely beautiful, yet common name among mankind. The villain unknowingly let his expression reflect his deepest essence. He looked scared at the sound of that name.

“I remember when we were brothers, you and I. When we’d sit across from one another and talk of destiny and dreams, do you remember that?”

The Baron coughed blood onto the floor again, his spirit was leaving his frame, but his voice was steadfast, and mighty.

“Is this the destiny you foresaw for our glorious little crew, is this the film you wanted?”

A wave of tragedy fell across the weary rebel’s face. His strong poise was like a mighty wave that suddenly crashed into the solid cliff side. He bit his bottom lip, his eyes glazed over.

Silence.

The hum of lights became a roar compared to the deep silence between the two, even the Baron’s panting had ceased.

A dull sentence escaped the Baron’s lips. He spoke softly, his eyes down, and though it was not what he said, his words summoned his doom and his triumph.

“I remember…her name was…”

The villain reacted in a flash, sending his blade at blinding speed towards the Baron’s neck. It wasn’t out of hate, but fear, as if that name the Baron nearly mentioned held some omnipotent spell over Armageddon.

But the Baron knew this was how it would end. He raised his eyes to meet the villain’s. “Forgive me, brother.”

The Baron’s head bounced, impressively, over the edge of the bridge, and his second knee hit the ground. His arms flung down, and from his lapel, something caught the villain’s eye. The Baron held a detonator, and had been for some time now.

The villain came to know several hundred memories in those few seconds. One tear hit the bridge, just before it was all engulfed in flame.

Latin IV: The Fall of Troy

I haven’t found out if I placed yet.

Some say that the gods decide the fate of mortals, that the Fates rule our destinies. They say that all that is done is the will of the gods. But I tell you this, the gods abandoned men long ago. Below is my account of what occurred at Troy in the waning days of the war. You may hear tales of glory, of gods and heroes, but I assure you, what befell the Greeks and Trojans at Troy was an evil entirely beyond the power of any gods or men to halt.

 

It is unknown how long the blight was with the Trojans, as no Greek had entered Troy until it was rampant. All that we survivors know is that the day Patroclus fell, we noticed that many of the Trojan soldiers seemed to be filled with a bloodlust, roaring and fighting with no regard to hazard nor friend. This allowed Patroclus, disguised as Achilles, to engage the distracted Hector in battle. I was not present at that time, for I was nearer to Ajax the Greater, but they say he slew Patroclus, and upon seeing his foe’s face, despaired. But, at that time, the great horns of Troy sounded and Hector led his men in a full run towards the gates of Troy. The men said it was fear of Achilles’ wrath that saw the Prince of Troy flee, though I know better now.

That night, screams echoed o’er the walls of Troy. We Greeks stood vigilant, wary of the fell noise that assaulted our rest.

When morning came, no Trojans came forth. No army to meet us. Only silence.

And then, just as the men began to murmur in confusion, the gates opened…..and three riders rode out to meet us. I remember well the stillness of that morning, the brilliant blue of the sky, and the one chance to avoid the fate that we unknowingly chose. I, along with Agamemnon, Menelaus, and both Ajax and Greater and Lesser, rode out to meet Hector, Paris, and a young Trojan noble named Aeneas. None of the three looked in good health; all looked worn, weary, and grim.

Our conversation was short. Hector spoke of a blight that had begun to overtake the city and warned us that if there was no ceasefire, it would eventually spread outside Troy and into our own army. Both Ajax’s scoffed and taunted the Prince, who gave them no more attention than he might a grain of sand. Menelaus began to say something, his face suspicious, but his brother laughed. “Prince of Troy, run back to your walls. Do not try to frighten the sons of Mycenae and Sparta with your fear-mongering. Go, Hector of Troy, and await the doom that approaches.” At this, Hector sighed heavily and with a nod to his companions, turned to leave.

“Hector.”

The prince of Troy halted, bid his companions continue, and turned to face Achilles. Achilles’ face was calm, but his eyes were cold and ablaze with fury. As Achilles demanded Hector dismount and fight, I rode back towards the army with the others. But I was distracted by shouting drifting down to us from the gates of Troy that had opened to allow Paris and his companion into the city. We turned our horses and looked on, as did Achilles, for Hector had taken off upon his steed and was racing towards the commotion. What happened next will forever be ingrained in my memory.

 

Hector running towards us, Paris and Aeneas on his heels, and at least a score of men not far behind. Achilles drawing his sword and the Ajax’s stepping forward to back him against what they saw as a cowardly attack. Some of the pursuers fall….with Trojan arrows in their backs.

 

Hector skidded to a halt and called, “Here is your plight, king of Mycenae!” They turned, Aeneas and Hector with swords drawn and Paris with bow in hand. The remaining soldiers ran on, a couple falling to Paris’ arrows. They kept coming. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Menelaus and Agamemnon turn and ride towards our lines.

I had barely drawn my sword when they were upon us. At least a dozen of them, all bloodied and some without weapons. They threw themselves upon us like savages, clawing, bludgeoning and biting. They fought with a mindless ferocity, the likes of which I’d never seen. I threw up my shield, hoping to hold off the demons. I retreated, slashing at any that neared me. I saw one clinging to Ajax the Greater’s leg as he impaled a crazed soldier on his spear. Ajax the Lesser abruptly turned and ran. As I fell back, I saw Achilles standing nearly back-to-back with Hector. My memory always slows to a near halt when I remember that…iconic image. Trojan and Greek, each side’s best, fighting alongside one another. Then my memory plays faster to catch up.

 

Paris falling under the onslaught.. The last soldiers falling around Aeneas, Hector and Achilles. Seeing Agamemnon scrambling on all fours as the Greeks surge forward to aid their kings and comrades. Then an impact, the ground rushing towards me, and blackness.

 

I didn’t die that day. No, the gods saw fit to punish me further. Hector and Aeneas made it back to the gates, while Achilles, myself, Ajax the Lesser, and Menelaus had reached the safety of Greek lines. Paris of Troy had been slain and Ajax the Greater, wounded. Later that day, an envoy from Troy delivered Menelaus’ prize: Helen. Though she had loved Paris, she would later tell me that Hector persuaded her to rejoin her husband and that, with Paris dead, she had no reason to stay in Troy.

That night, we met in Agamemnon’s tent to discuss further action. The king of Mycenae, a wild glint in his eye brought about by the potential fall of Troy, decreed that we were to build the weapon of my design and assault the city as they fought each other. I, however, insisted that if Hector was right and the blight could be spread to our men, that perhaps we should consider returning home. Though Menelaus was assuaged and sided with me, Achilles and Agamemnon had to resolved their own disputes. And so we stayed.

Weeks later, our assault was to begin at last. We marched on Troy. At the head was the battle-tower the men called the “Trojan Horse”-they did so because of both Troy’s connection to horses and the wet horse hides that shielded it from fire. I was to lead the assault on Troy, with Achilles and his Myrmidons to follow. No archers lined the walls. No defenses. No Hector.

When our tower reached the wall, and the Greeks poured out onto the battlements, devastation met our eyes. Bodies littered the streets. As we moved through the city, we met no one, saw no living man, woman, or child. The temple had been barricaded, but overrun. Inside we found the half-eaten bodies of Priam, Hecuba, and many soldiers. No Hector.

Ajax the Lesser ventured off into the city for loot, but he soon returned, bloody and weakened. As he fell to the ground, a man rounded the corner behind him and headed for the temple steps where we stood. Time froze. Hector’s face, inhuman and bloody, stared at the Greek soldiers before him. Then he, followed by the horde that rounded the corner a moment later, broke into a frenzied rush.

I don’t know how long we lasted….five minutes. Maybe. Moments later, it seemed, I was running for the walls alongside my surviving men. We ran into the Menelaus and Agamemnon as we fled, and they fled with us.

 

The last images I remember were of Achilles sweeping aside the infected Trojans as if they were grains of sand, of Achilles beheading the former prince of Troy. Achilles faltering as a fallen infected ripped into his heel. Achilles-the unbeatable Achilles-falling to a knee and with a roar of defiance, being overtaken by a mass of bodies that piled upon him like beasts.

 

It took many days and many hundreds of lives to clear the city. We found Ajax the Lesser, laying where he’d fallen, as well as Ajax the Greater, who, being wounded, could not survive the waves of men. We recovered the body of Achilles, who lay beside the headless and battered Hector.

Circling the city, I discovered a small door that had been barricaded from the outside. Some Trojans, it seemed, had lived to see another day. As for us remaining Greeks, we sailed for home, weary of war and turmoil. But neither the gods nor the weather seemed to favor us, as I would not see Ithaca for ten long years.

So sing your songs of glory, tale the glorious story of Achilles and the fall of Troy and its prince. But I tell you, what happened there, what befell us all on the shores of Anatolia, there was no glory, there were no heroes. Only the blight.

-Taken from a journal of Odysseus, circa 1270 B.C.E.

Latin III: The Fate of Servius

I can’t remember how I placed in the state.

 

Servius Antonius Bonifactus

 

I tell this story not about my experience so much as about that of my companion and friend, Servius Antonius Bonifactus, and our leader, Belisarius. One a general, one merely a captain, but both were patriots, heroes, and mentors. And so I dedicate this account of the last great fall of Rome to them.

 

The walls seemed to echo with battle cries of gladiators long past, and the sand held onto my tentative footsteps as if to never let my presence be forgotten. The air was still. My hand slowly found its way to the cold stone as if to hold my body upright. I was actually walking into the Flavian Amphitheater, the fabled arena that represented Roman power, engineering prowess, and culture. To think that I was walking upon the same ground that so many thousands of warriors had traversed, that Emperors had traversed….it was humbling. I wondered if Nero had stood at the edge of the arena floor and gazed up into seats and sun in awe as I was.

I could recall it well, the first time we laid eyes on Rome. It was but two months ago, yet so much had happened since that day. I remembered that we had been marching for most of the day, when the generals told us to keep a sharp eye, as we were nearing Rome. The men had exchanged excited whispers; we were marching on the city of legend, the city that had for so long been the bastion of civilization. We were an army set out to recapture the Holy Grail.

Though the Western Empire had fallen nearly a century before we were but a glint in our mothers’ eyes, citizens in the Eastern Empire still retained the notion that they were Roman. I can vividly see Belisarius’ face as Rome came into view: the admiration, the determination, the loyalty. He, too, saw Rome as the true heart of the Roman Empire. He knew, like Bonifactus did, like I did, that without Rome, the Empire could never truly regain its former glory. We knew that it would be doomed to be a shadow of its former self as long as Rome was in barbarian hands. And it was that knowledge that drove us.

“Amazing, is it not?” I resisted my natural urge to jump in surprise as Servius stepped up to the edge alongside me. I did not answer, but merely nodded. He took a step and entered the arena. Treading slowly, Servius made his way to the center of the ring, turning around as he did so, as if mesmerized by it. As he reached the center, he stopped and drew his sword. I couldn’t help but notice the man’s aura, his presence. Something about him was awe-inspiring. Perhaps that was how he had been noticed by Belisarius.

The day that we entered Rome was a glorious one. The sky was a deep, pure blue and the fields of grain blew lightly with the wind’s gentle touch. Belisarius at the head, we marched into Rome with the Ostrogoths at our feet. To think, they had mocked us from behind their walls. We were Greeks among Trojans that day.

I remember the flower petals that the citizens let fly our their windows as we made out way through the streets, swirling around us as if in dance. I remember the soldiers’ eyes as we passed by the mythical Pantheon and our dumbfounded expressions as we entered the Forum. Oh, how glorious the city must have been in its prime!

“Come, friend, we’re up for patrol,” said Servius as he approached me from the sunlit stadium. As we turned to leave, we both glanced back at the proud structure, wreathed in the morning light.

That was years ago, before Belisarius was recalled. Before Totila came to power and rallied the Ostrogoths. Now we stood on the walls of Rome, desperately trying to rally the defenders. Most of the Belisarius’ grand army had left with their commander to battle Persians in the East. The rest had fallen to disease. There were, however, still a strong number of soldiers and recruits. The men were nervous, having been at peace for nearly five years. We had reclaimed Rome in 536, and had held her the entire time with relative peace. Until now.

By this time, Servius was now the highest ranking officer in Rome, essentially heading the remnants of the glorious Byzantine army until Belisarius’ return-upon the latter’s request, no less. On the morning of the battle, my friend approached me as I was praying. “Our defenses will never last.”

I closed my eyes slowly and looked up at the crucifix above us. “I know.” He put a hand on my shoulder. I stood and looked at him. “We can’t just surrender the city, Servius. This is Rome.”

He smiled grimly. “I know. We will fight.” He paused. “But I will not sacrifice our entire army for pride.” He turned and gestured towards the door. “Come, and let me share with you my plan.”

Slowly the red sun arose, giving the crisp morning a blood-red hue. Fitting. The men gathered at the Pantheon steps as Servius, myself, and his other top officers took the floor.

General Bonifactus looked out on the crowd and began. “Soldiers of Rome……five years ago we first set our eyes upon this fair city, this beacon of civilization. When we saw her, she was the prisoner of barbarians, the slave of savages. The Germanic hordes responsible for toppling the Western Empire had taken our glorious capital as their own. And what happened when Belisarius and the Eastern Roman Empire came to call? They fell…..They fell.” He paused to left his words sink in. Starting with renewed vigor, he rose his voice, “And what became of their so-called empire? It fell. We are mightier than they! But what of this barbarian horde that now marches upon our city? It is strong, and it is led by a powerful man. This….Totila. But where was Totila when Belisarius conquered Naples? When he conquered Rome? He was nowhere to be seen. He has yet to witness the might of the Roman cataphracts.” He strode about on the steps. “My comrades, allow me to be frank; we are far outnumbered and in dire need of supplies. I fear that we shall not be able to hold this city. But do not fear, my countrymen! Nay, I beg you not to despair.” His voice quieted. “Remember, my friends, that this city is the single-most important symbol of Roman power, of Byzantine power. If we cannot hold our most prized city, how can we survive?” My general paused and looked out amongst his army. “I ask you not as a soldier, but as a fellow Roman, to fight.” The image fades amid the roar of the men.

Servius and his army fought harder for every inch of Rome than any men I have ever seen. But still the enemy kept pouring through. And one by one, Romans fell. Towards the end of the battle, Servius sent me away despite my protests. I was to lead the army and any citizens that wished to come out of Rome. I was to lead the retreat. I held the future of the Roman people in my hands, he said. I was Aeneas.

The last group to leave the city as it fell caught up with us months later and informed us of Servius’ last stand. They told us how Bonifactus and his men had fought for every inch of the city, how their numbers had dwindled until they were surrounded and overwhelmed. They told us how Bonifactus had perished fighting off the hordes of barbarians as the last families fled the city.

They were Greeks among Trojans that day.

Latin II: The Destiny of Numerius

My horrible sequel, maybe got 12th in either state or nation?

 

Numerius Antonius Bonifactus was dead. His body lay there, on the battlefield outside Alba Longa, blood still oozing from his wounds and onto the hands of Marcus, who now cradled his body. Marcus sobbed hysterically, his mind whirling with thoughts of regret over his treatment of his savior. A shadow fell across him and Numerius. He turned to look, already knowing what it was, and his eyes locked onto the sword moments before everything went black.

Numerius, or rather, his spirit, watched in anguish as Marcus fell. He reached out as if to catch him, only to remember he himself was dead. Holding back a strangled sob, he turned to Mercury, who stood a little ways back with a pitying look on his face.

“Why?” Mercury did not reply. “Why is he dead? I-I tried to save him….I tried..” Numerius stumbled back and sat down, where he buried his face in his hands. He had tried to lead a good life, tried to serve the gods as best he could. He had renounced violence and pledged himself to peace. Even after he was dragged into the military, he had detested violence and had only killed when he had to. Why..how..could he have let Marcus die? He should have saved Marcus, not die on him. Numerius shivered. He had failed. Not just Marcus, but in life. He hadn’t even been able to serve the gods as he wished, much less save Marcus. Marcus had tormented him for many months, scoffing at his pacifism. Then, moments ago, when Marcus still lived, Numerius heard him cry out and ran to his side, only to be cut down, giving his life for his tormentor’s. Marcus, at that point, saw how foolish he was and swore to change his ways. It was then, as he cradled Numerius’s body, that he met his end.

He looked up as Mercury spoke, “Nay, it is not your fault, young Numerius, you did as much as you could. As much as any man could have. You died saving his life. And I believe that deed shall not go unrewarded.” Numerius was not comforted and slowly got to his feet. “I shall not go to either the Realm of Soldiers, nor Elysium. I have failed as a servant of the gods and a soldier. I shall not be rewarded.”

Mercury began to reply, but Numerius, forgetting who he spoke to, cut him off. “I do not deserve that honor. All my life I wanted to be alone with my service and my writings. It was my fault when I allowed myself to be persuaded into joining Hostilius’s crusade of arrogance.” Mercury, being the mortal-fond messenger god he was, did not say anything, but merely took Numerius by the arm and the world changed.

They were in Rome, and there sat Numerius, scribbling hastily on a piece of parchment. Mercury released Numerius and stepped back, allowing Numerius to take it in. “That…thats me! Before the war…” Numerius walked across the grayish scape into his past. He looked over his own shoulder to see what he was writing.

“A pax romana. What an ideal it is.” He turned back to Mercury,”That was my dream, mine and Decimus’s dream.” Mercury smiled sadly. Numerius’s heart sank.

“Alas, that he too had to perish…” Behind him, his past self shivered and a tear slid down his cheek and he turned around as if expecting to see someone. Numerius’s eyes went wide. “I remember that. I felt as though I had lost my best friend. I did not know what had happened….O Mercury, why have you shown me this?”

Mercury seemed to think for a moment and said, “Because the dream of a pax romana is an ideal shared by many gods. Including Jupiter. You have pleased the gods, Numerius, you saved Marcus’s soul, and the story of his redemption will affect all those that knew you. By the time it ends, you will have changed many a life for better.” Numerius shook his head, almost disbelievingly, “No, I let him die, If I had not allowed myself to be cut down, he would not have died.”

Mercury stepped forward, turning Numerius to face him. “If you had not died and turned his heart, he would not have been redeemed and would have the chance you gave him. The chance to go to Elysium.” He took Numerius’s hand again. “You did not fail him, Numerius, you saved him.” However, Mercury looked into the man’s heart and saw he was still not convinced. Once more, the god took the man by the arm and whisked him away.

 

This time, they landed in a temple, where stood a man teaching. “Thats Cornicen, one of my comrades…Why are we here?” Mercury merely stared back. Numerius frowned and though, “Well, he was always unsure of his path, unsure of his call, he..” He trailed off as Mercury smiled slightly.

“Cornicen saw you save Marus. After his service ends, he’ll remember your example and dedicate himself to service. He shall eventually come to lead the priests of Apollo. So said the Fates.” Numerius looked with awed disbelief at the man he saw before him, so confident, so sure of himself. That wasn’t the Cornicen he remembered at all. At that moment, as Cornicen’s eyes met him and went slightly wide, when Cornicen shook his head as if he didn’t believe what he had seen before turning back to his students, at that moment, Numerius believed Mercury. He felt the bitter-sweet feeling of relief mixed with regret and humility welling up within him. Slowly, yet with newfound confidence, he turned to Mercury and said, “Thank you, my Lord Mercury. You…you have saved me.” Mercury smiled and once more took him arm. With one last look at Cornicen, he was again in a different place.

It was dark. And it was cold. Those were Numerius’s first thoughts as he landed on the shore of the River Styx. “This is where we part, Numerius Bonifactus. May you find peace at last.” And with that, Mercury was gone, off to pick up another fallen soldier.

Numerius sighed remorsefully slightly to himself. Soon, Marcus would be joining him, along with Decimus. As much as he mourned their death, he was glad to have some company in Hades. “You coming?” He looked up as the ferryman looked at him. “Yes, here are the coins.” Numerius climbed aboard and handed his coins to the ferryman, taking a seat near the front. Numerius noticed that many faces across from him belonged to Alba Longa soldiers. Neither side said anything, only noted each other with wary respect.

Moments later, they were across and the company stepped off the ferry and onto the shore, where they stood rather confused, staring up at the massive Gates of Hades, where the three-headed guardian sat, looking down at them.

Numerius was the first to move. With a timid step, then another, he made his way past the hound and up to the Gates. As he reached them, they swung open, revealing Tartarus. With a deep breath and a much lighter heart than he had when Mercury had come for him, Numerius Antonius Bonifactus, the pacifist-soldier of Rome, stepped into Hell.

Latin I: The Fate of Numerius

First contest entry, 2nd in state (?) and 5th in nation.

Numerius Antonius Bonifatus, son of Oceanus, grandson of Marcellus, scribbled hastily on the parchment, the flickering candle next to his arm providing just enough light to write. Once, during the waning hours of daylight, he copied texts of the mythical gods of Rome. Now, on campaign, he kept a journal, starting with his basic history.

My father, Oceanus, was a carpenter in the port city of Anacona. When I was but a lad of seven, I was sent off to Rome to become a priest of Jupiter. This occurred during the last days of the reign of Numa Pompilius, who was well-known for his religious policies. For many years, I had studied and worked at becoming the most knowledgeable priest of Jupiter in all of Rome. I dedicated fifteen long years to it.

However, in the year that Tullus Hostilius ascended the throne, war sprung up and the religious ways of old were forgotten. Hostilius, unlike his predecessor, was fond of war and eagerly sought out battle. This was how I came into being a soldier. At twenty two, I was physically able to fight well, not to mention well-known by way of my father, who had become one of the King’s main architects in boat-building. I was recruited heavily by the military, but I repeatedly refused to join, being a pacifist and against war. However, due to much persuasion on the part of my father, who had been swayed to the side of the King, and many empty promises of wealth by the recruiters, I at last gave in to their constant badgering. So it is on the campaign that I find myself now, trudging day in and day out. I have become quite skilled with a sword, and decent with a spear, however, I have yet to kill anyone. That is something I hope to avoid altogether.

The days grew together and before long Numerius knew not what time if day it was, but only if it was lunchtime or morning, but never the actual time. Unless it was raining, whereas he knew naught even that much, only the misery in which he trudged his way. The first time he killed a man, he wept.

Today was an evil day. I know now the horrors of war and battle. For it was today that I first killed another living soul. I didn’t wish to. I had to, for the man was going to slay Decimus, who is my only friend. He too had wished to become a servant of the gods. He wished for a pax romana, a peace within Rome to continue as it had under the reign of the good Numa Pompilius.

But, now, even though I killed the other to save his life, he has now perished and crossed the river of the underworld. How I regret listening to my father. How I wish I had become a priest, served Jupiter to my end…

But still, Numerius, the one who wished for nothing more than to lead a peaceful life in the service of Jupiter, found he wished more and more to die rather than to kill.

Today brought with it great evil. Today, I felled my tenth man. He tried to gut me, but I parried and cut a gash in his chest. I saw the light extinguished in his eyes, I felt his soul escaping as he fell. Even now, I shudder to remember. Of only I had stayed in Rome, where I would be safe from such evils. Where I could have served my beloved Jupiter in peace…pax. What a word it is, indeed.

Because of his pacifist attitude, the other men taunted him, tried to pick fights with him, and called him coward. This deeply troubled Numerius.

My heart cries out with anguish, and with pity. Though I try and teach them the way of pacifism, still they still mock me. I have nearly lost my nerve and I fear what they may attempt in the future. How I rue the day I enlisted! I wish death would soon find me, and alas, I fear the day it does. I sense that day draws closer as we draw nearer to Alba Longa.

Numerius held together, though utterly depressed, for many a week, slaying his share of men. It was because of this that he eventually grew numb to everything, living for nothing else but the faint hope that he would one day return home to his temple.

I recollect not what day or even what month it is. All the knowledge I possess is that we are to soon assault Alba Longa, our goal, the climax of the hell in which I have lived for the past few months. I have now been forgotten by my comrades, save for one, Marcus, who even now, taunts me to no end. I pity his soul and hope that he finds peace. The officers say that we are to reach Alba Longa in two days time. I pray only that is the last time I must wield the sword…

Numerius spent most of the next two days praying that the end was indeed in sight, and that soon, he would be able to return to his beloved Rome and temple. On the morn of battle, he wrote his last entry.

Today is the day during which my fate shall be decided. If I survive the coming battle, I shall never again shall I bear arms against another soul. Forever, I shall be at peace. This I vow.

Numerius marched to the field of battle alongside his comrades, including Marcus, who even to the last moment, whispered insults through his teeth. Numerius’ only reaction was to smile pityingly at the man, the smile that a flower might give a weed that has choked it of life. Moments later, the Romans met with the enemy, clashing blades ringing out. Numerius fought defensively, and very well too. He was able to get by with only knocking out one man and injuring another. He never even killed one, which made him slightly happier, though he was still injuring another.

It was a bit later during the battle, when he saw Marcus, he who had been so cruel, laying upon the ground, one hand clutching his stomach, another raised, sword in hand, trying feebly to fend off the enemy. In his plight, he cried out and Numerius’ heart was turned. Running to his comrade’s aid, even when he would’ve received none had their places been switched, he raised aloft his sword and shouted the name Jupiter to the heavens. The enemy, hearing this, abruptly turned and ran through the young man. Numerius Antonius Bonifatus, the pacifist soldier, the one who had wished for naught but peace, gasped and fell to his knees. His sword falling to the ground, he gazed into the horrified eyes of Marcus, who had been so cruel. It was then and there that Marcus had a revelation and changed his ways for good. Rising up in dismay, he cut down Numerius’ killer and dropped down beside Numerius, cradling his dying body. It was also then, that Numerius realized that that was his purpose, that he had been sent by Jupiter to save the soul of Marcus.

Revan Halindur: LotR Fan-Fiction Bio

My father, Derén Halindúr, fought with Tuor at Gondolin as part of the House of the Wing, where he fell defending him. His best friend, Tulno Elthiúl, also perished. Another Elf also played an important role, the redeemed Felgul Chaerion of the House of the Mole. He and my father joined forces after Tulno fell to a Balrog. When my father fell, Felgul took his sword and brought it to my mother, who was pregnant with me. She gave it to me when I was old enough. Its name was Halindur’s Legacy, but I renamed it Helain recently during the quest for the Entwives in memory of the fallen Dorwinion recruit. We lived in Lindon for a time, but as the Last Alliance was being formed, we were living in Imladris. Though we were traveling to Lorien, when our host was ambushed by a pack of Wargs and orcs. My mother was killed, as were most of our guard. I was still young at the time and my two brothers made me run while they held off our attackers. I can only guess they fell there, for I have never again seen them. I made it to Lorien, where I joined the Guard and fought alongside Elrond at Dagorlad.

 

Many years later, I was traveling down near the sea, hoping to reach Harad, and explore that land when I again found myself being hunted by Warg-Riders. I found myself outnumbered and ran for the Anduin. As I neared it, they shot at me and I had to leap. I fell upon rocks and was knocked out.

 

Washing up downstream, I was found by a party of exploring Men from Gondor and Rohan, who were, believe it or not, traveling to Harad, trying to make a map of the region. The group was attacked by the same Wargs, proving more so my luck, and the survivors fled towards the Sea, I one of their leaders. We eventually arrived at the Corsair port. At the time only one ship lay moored there. Under my leadership, we siezed the ship and fled up to the mouth of the Anduin.

 

They believed in me so much and loved the feel of the Sea, as did I, that we became a crew and dubbed her the Valar’s Revenge. Angered by the slaughtering of the rest of the host, we all voted to raid the Corsair port. So, we raised a crew and sailed down there.

 

We attacked at night, sailing up and bombarding the “town” with arrows and looting the stores and taverns, such as they were. The excess crew members we had boarded one of the two ships in harbor then. This all lasted about an hour, whereas we turned and retreated.

 

By then, we were all fairly sea worthy and hardened sailors. The remainder of the mapping group were my officers and captains, I the only Elf among them. Over the years, they died off and my crews grew old. Though it pained me to see such loyal men pass on, I knew they had sailed on their last voyage to the white shores of Valinor. Some hundred years or so after I first boarded the Revenge, she was still my flagship, having been repaired only four times.

 

Naturally, I had to hire different crew members and promote more officers as the years passed, right? Well, one such officer was Tyrn Sarenur, who soon proved to be a strong leader and became my second in command. Another was Faulin Daur, may Eru damn the turncoat. He fell overboard, or so they said, during one raid. A few months later, I’m ambushed at a little strait a ways off by a large fleet of Corsairs. My fleet is decimated and the Revenge is ripped apart. As I see all my men falling around me, only the most loyal officers standing their ground, across at the enemy flagship, I see Daur standing there next to the Corsair captain.

 

So I manage to turn the Revenge and come up along side the other ship. I leap over and he runs. My most faithful officers rush aboard to try and take the ship. I corner the coward, Daur, and finally get my revenge, whatever it be worth, when the ship rocks. Another Corsair ship had rammed the one I was aboard. I saw all my captains and officers either dead or injured. The Corsair captain had been fighting with my most loyal officer, the captain of the Corsair’s Demise. The captain, none other than Tyrn Sarenur, fell overboard and I thought him dead. The Corsair captain fell to my knife in his back.

 

I was forced to abandon the ship. I managed to climb aboard a Corsair ship and got off at the port, after slaying all their captains. I stole a horse and rode as fast as possible. Had my horse not been graced by Elbereth, it would’ve fallen. I eventually, over a month made it back to Lorien, where I have lived to this day. The horse, Naur, still lives to this day and is as good as ever. Even Sarenur lives. I met him in Minas Tirith about a year back or so. He’s an old Captain of the Citadel. From pirate captain to a Captain of Gondor.

 

 

Revan Halindúr has a noble Rohan steed named Naur, a curved blade named Helain, after a fallen Dorwinion recruit, he wears no armor except a tunic, bracers, and a leather jerkin. He once was in possession of an Arnorian helm, but he gave it to his old friend, Tyrn. And from his days as a pirate, he still has his scimitar he wielded as captain. It hangs up in his Talan as of late. He has grey eyes and light-grey hair.

 

 

Helain Dunhelm was a young man from Dorwinion that enlisted to help the Guard fight, but was killed by Easterlings in battle, giving his life for Revan. He had reddish hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin.

Tyrn Sarenur: LotR Fan-Fiction Bio

I was born in Dol Amroth to a rather wealthy family. Descended from a powerful house in Arnor, I was always told I should be proud of my family, that we were from a long line of valiant and loyal soldiers and captains of Arnor and then Gondor after Arnor’s fall. My father had died when I was very little, killed when his group of knights were attacked by Wargs. So my mother raised me. I trained as a Knight under the command of Prince Imrahil, to whom I swore loyalty. But when I was 17, I was betrayed by one of my comrades, over a small crate of various valuables that we found in a cave on the shores of the sea. Assuming it to be Corsair loot, we decided to split it. But my friend fell to the temptation of greed and tried to kill me when we went back to look for some more. When the fight was over, the other young man lay dead, a knife twixt his ribs.

 

Shocked by what had just occurred, I knew I could not return to Dol Amroth without getting arrested. I eventually fell asleep. When I awoke, it was to a blade at my throat. Thats how I met Revan Halindúr, an Elf, and leader of a pirate fleet unrelated to the Corsairs and, in fact, in opposition to them. They were in the business of pirating the pirates. They raided and pillaged Corsair ships and towns. Halindúr soon began to trust me with more and more responsibilites. Soon enough, I was a captain. I, Tyrn Sarenur, was the captain of the Corsair’s Demise at the age of 19.

 

Twenty-odd years later, I was second in command to Halindúr. It was soon thereafter that Halindúr was betrayed himself by one of his crew members, a Man named Faulin Daur. We were ambushed at a small strait and overcome. During the battle, I confronted the Corsair captain, but was thrown overboard when the ship was rocked by what I’d later find out was another ship slamming into it. The last glimpse I got was of Halindúr advancing on the Corsair captain.

 

As I tried to escape the battle, I was struck by some piece of debris and washed up on shore not far from Dol Amroth, ironically enough. Feeling I had no other choice, I sought shelter there. I eventually had to tell my tale and was given a full pardon. I often wonder if I had returned that day if they would have pardoned me. But I regret nothing. Life as a pirate was, if nothing more, pure freedom.

 

I again climbed the ranks, this time in the Gondorian military. As Mordor grew stronger, I was moved to Osgiliath and then to Minas Tirith shortly afterwards. It was there I met an old friend: Halindúr. He’s now with the Galadhrim and doing quite well himself. He gave me an old Arnorian helm he had acquired over the years. He apparently stowed away on one of the Corsair ships, killed the captains at port, then stole a horse and made his way back to Lorien. I was, at last, a Captain of Gondor and Guard of the White Tree. And so I remain.

Trenches

Another shell explodes, sending smoldering chunks of earth spinning into the smoke-filled air. I instinctively duck my head, even though in the back of my mind I know the shell overshot our trench. Realizing my green mistake, I sigh in resigned misery, settling myself against the wall.

This must truly be hell, I think. We sit in the trench, day after day, waiting for the whistle to jump out and charge a wall of bullets. And all at such a young age. For instance, Major Junior Jackson over their, the one with the limp, he was the one that was always joking. Nothing could get him down. Then he saw Sam blown apart in front of him. Since then, he’s been silent. He almost never talks anymore.

Just as I finish my thought, another bombardment begins. A grumble passes through the men as we all huddle against the trench wall and in foxholes, hoping not to catch a stray piece of shrapnel.

This one is a long one. By Tommy’s watch, its lasted for seven hours so far. Seven long hours. But, this is life on the front lines I suppose.

As I sit here I think that perhaps we’re not that different, the Germans and I … that perhaps we aren’t good or bad, we’re just people thrown into a battle to the death. I sit here, in this muddy trench in Eastern France, contemplating a philosophy on war. My mind drifts to a scene I found myself in a few days ago…

We met a patch of Germans who were trying to dig a tunnel to our trenches. A firefight broke out and they fell back, collapsing the tunnel behind them. As I surveyed the damage, I found we had lost one man, Eddie, and they had lost four. One was still alive. I saw that he was obviously not going to make it, so I reached for my pistol. But … but then I saw the fear, the child-like fear in his eyes. My resolve melted and I ran back to my foxhole, shaken. Never before had I seen such … such child-like pain and terror in a man. It was then I realized the Germans weren’t evil.

A rather close explosion brings me back at lightspeed. I see that the men are leaping up and grabbing their guns, climbing into firing positions, and officers are hollering orders. I leap to obey, taking my place next to a machine gun nest. I see that the Germans are advancing rapidly, but are getting mowed down even faster. I wince as one is blown apart by a shell. Trying to keep my calm, I feed the gunner more rounds.

Three things happen at once; I am blinded by a flash, though not before the gunner falls back into the trench screaming and clutching his face, and I find I have lost all sense of sound. As I try to refocus, I see a group of Germans rushing us. I glance down at the gunner, who is writhing on the ground and back at the Germans, almost as if in a dream. A push from Jackson sends me back into motion. I hop into the nest and begin unloading. Then the faces change. I see my family, my friends, my brothers-in-arms. I can’t do it. I am beginning to let the trigger go when I die.

We both felt it more than saw it. Jackson cried out and jumped off, trying to pull me down too, but I don’t fall and he does. I looked up into the sky and the shell slammed into the nest. A direct hit. I am killed nearly instantly, blown apart.

My last glimpse of life is Jackson’s face. And I shall never forget it.

Vengeance

It suddenly struck me that he wasn’t coming back. I knew it was something that everyone feels at some point, but I had never really considered never seeing him again. As I gazed down at the black coffin, in which lay my best friend’s body, I let forth a choked sob. I had not shed a tear since he was shot, but now I could no longer contain my grief, my despair, my rage.
I suddenly wanted to hit anything, destroy everything, and kill everyone. I inhaled the scent of freshly cut grass and I hated it. I felt the cool morning breeze touch my face and ruffle my hair. And I loathed it. I detested the very coffin itself, its smooth curves. I lost myself in anger and frustration.
It came to me as a vision, standing next to that coffin. I saw the underworld crumble, I saw mob bosses fall, I saw drug dealers burn. And in the reflections in their eyes, I saw me. I saw myself pull the triggers, trigger the detonators, and detonate the bombs. I saw myself avenging the death of my best friend, my brother in arms.
I knew that in order for me to avenge his death, I’d have to know who the killer was. I decided to head back to the place where he died and rethink the past few days.

There it was. That was where he’d died. And what a fitting day. It was sunny and bright throughout the city, but not over one select block. Perhaps it was the smoke emitted by the nearby paper mill, but for whatever reason, a shadow hung over the derelict bus stop. It was on this block, on that sidewalk, in front of the graffiti-covered wall, next to the rusted lamp post where he died…where he was murdered.
I could still see everything that happened that night. I saw the shady meeting in the basement of an old apartment building a few blocks down. I saw him strolling down the sidewalk, towards the bus stop as which I sat. Then I saw him die. I saw the SUV pull up and an AK-47 come to life. I barely caught a glimpse of the shooter, a scraggly, older man, with a dark gleam in his eye. I watched in awed horror as my friend fell. The flashback faded.
The wind suddenly picked up and swept up some of the lighter objects littering the sidewalk and gutters in some sort of eery dance. They waltzed down the sidewalk as if echoing his final footsteps. The trash seemed as dancers, swirling and twirling about as they reached his deathbed. They paused for a moment. Then the dance continued on down the street, as if pursuing the fleeing vehicle. I was caught up in the tragedy that was the dance, and it took me away.

I wasn’t sure how it had all happened, the past few days were a blur. I recalled the unrelenting scent of opium and a small, smokey room came to mind. I saw my friend shake hands with a cloaked figure in the middle of the smoke-filled room. Then they vanished and I was left alone in the room. But only for a moment. My view shifted to the left as if in a panorama. I saw what appeared to be various Oriental objects and relics. I decided it was likely an opium den. But where could one find one of those in America? One didn’t, I chided myself and closed my eyes wearily, thinking harder. My mind erupted in a flash of memory.
I traveled the world. I flew aboard elegant airliners, I witnessed shady events in places that looked to be anywhere from the Caribbean to the Sahara. I felt the sand twixt my toes and was stung by the sharp cold of the Russian north. I swatted in vain at bugs in the rainforests and downed bottled water in the barren expanse that was the desert. I was more alive in those memories than in reality. In those memories, he was not dead.
He was more than a friend to me, he was a brother, we were partners in everything we did, in life itself. And now, I glance to my right and see no one.
Focusing on the task at hand, I tried to remember where else we had been. I found myself in a jazz club, one I knew to be in New York. It was dimly lit and smelled of smoke and coffee. All around me, sketchy poets performed sketchy pieces of poetry. In one corner, I watched as my friend shook hands with another cloaked figure. But this time, each figured suddenly broke out in rage, yelling at each other. I felt myself rise from my seat, only to be pushed back down violently. As the arguement carried on, the scene again changed.
This time it was a car, a limo, one of those sleek, black ones. I remembered the coffin. My view went right and I watched as my friend yelled into a phone.
Next came a bar I recognized quite well, it was only three blocks from where I sat, three blocks from where he died. The events passed more quickly now, as if in fast-forward, but interspersed with clips in slow-motion. The same person from the jazz club was here too. Again, the two parties split, each storming out of the bar. My friend and I cursed loudly as we strode down the street.
And suddenly we were there.
The shooter pulled up, opened fire, and sped off, leaving my friend and three others dead. I had dodged the gunfire, had cheated death. And now I was alone.
The sound of car engine jerked me out of my memory-induced stupor. I was again on the bench at the bus stop, and I was not alone. Right in front of me sat a black SUV. I knew what was going to happen before it happened.
I always heard that your life flashes before your eyes. Mine didn’t. I thought I would have seen some of my most missed memories; an old girlfriend, my family, something. But I saw nothing but reality.
All I saw was the window roll down and the shooter’s face. “No.” I whispered faintly. I couldn’t just go like that. Shot at a derelict bus stop….that was no way to die.
He opened fire.
I felt myself jerk back into the bench, felt my eyes glaze over, felt life leaving me. It was so cold.
The last thing I saw was the flickering light that was the lamp post. Forgive me, brother.