Post by Kaez on Oct 18, 2009 22:36:35 GMT -5
Like his father and his father's father before him, he would walk this trail. This dusty path; this ancient, hallowed ground. The footsteps of those who came before him echoed against the vibrant sky. Shouts of a future, foretold and forewarned in the years before, fell on muffled ears. He would hear of no hesitance, no resistance, no reason. This was his walk. The walk he was born on, the walk he would die on. That was the way it was.
His heavy boots had seen too much. Tired, they pulled as his bruised ankles. "Rest now, in the shade of a young life spared," they pleaded. His uniform was thick and hot; his flesh was sweltering in the barren wasteland's relentless heat. His helmet was baking. Every breathe was a struggle for the remnants of fresh, clean oxygen that were never enough to satisfy his lungs yet more than he needed to stand. To walk.
His breath was the only sound. His raspy lungs begging for air; his mouth hung open and sweat poured from his head. Salty and bitter, he was disgusted by it all. Disgusted by this world in which he found himself, this uniform which he wore with his reasonless pride and his traditionalist banner. That's just the way it is, some would say, and to their words he would heed. But within his core, within the deepest chamber of his soul, he knew of hidden madness. His father's fate did not have to be his fate. The future had not yet happened. He could still turn back!
He shunned the thought. That was not how it was. That was not how it ever was and would ever be. From the day he was conceived, this path awaited him. This lonesome trail was walked for nine long months and again, years later, lifetimes later, it was walked again. That was just the way it was, and the way he wanted it. Change, reason, revolution... rebellion! Treachery! Blasphemy! He would have none of it. His destiny was his pride, his pride was his tradition, and his tradition was his faith. Forward.
In the blue of the sky, he saw himself reflected. In the fires of the sun and in the strength and force of the mountains, he knew that there was no other place that he should be. There was no other road to follow but this one and his thoughts would be what they would be -- he would not fall to them. As the sun would not fall to the sky and the mountains would not fall to the earth, he would not fall to his thoughts, his treasonous thoughts. They would seek his failure! He would burry them beneath the sands of time, and on those sands, he would die. As he should. That was the way it was.
He held his rifle tight in his sweaty palms. Thoughts would never have the firepower of his rifle. Thoughts would never send a metal slug through the eye of a god. His blasphemous mind would never conquer his honorable gun. Never would a rebellious ideal, a false and idealistic hope, defeat the glorious proven truth that was systematic warfare. His mind refused to be convinced. It yelled and begged, pleading with him. Live, you individual! You creature, you being, you man! Live! Be! Exist!
"I won't!" he cried.
The shot rang through the cave from a distance. Faces turned up in the darkness, faint white moonlight caressing their tired eyes. In unison they stood and slowly, armed, crept to the edge of their hideaway.
In the faint distance, in the sands of the sweeping a desert, a body lay. It was suited in full, head to toe, a rifle resting in the sand at its side. Surrounded by almost infinite nothingness, the soldiers eyed each other.
"Where's Victor?" one of them asked, an expression of alarm on his face. Another peered through binoculars into the distance. The corpse lay face-first in the sand, small streaks of red only faintly visible in the dim twilight.
The body was not that of his father, nor of his father's father. It was younger than them. The bullet which pierced its skull was not that of the enemy. It was not one taken in the proud line of battle. It was a bullet of his. His own, individual self. A bullet that only he could fire and a bullet which, through blasphemy and treason, ended his walk. He would never, with tired lungs and bruised body, walk the ancestral trail again. He was free.
"Colonel, that is Victor."
His heavy boots had seen too much. Tired, they pulled as his bruised ankles. "Rest now, in the shade of a young life spared," they pleaded. His uniform was thick and hot; his flesh was sweltering in the barren wasteland's relentless heat. His helmet was baking. Every breathe was a struggle for the remnants of fresh, clean oxygen that were never enough to satisfy his lungs yet more than he needed to stand. To walk.
His breath was the only sound. His raspy lungs begging for air; his mouth hung open and sweat poured from his head. Salty and bitter, he was disgusted by it all. Disgusted by this world in which he found himself, this uniform which he wore with his reasonless pride and his traditionalist banner. That's just the way it is, some would say, and to their words he would heed. But within his core, within the deepest chamber of his soul, he knew of hidden madness. His father's fate did not have to be his fate. The future had not yet happened. He could still turn back!
He shunned the thought. That was not how it was. That was not how it ever was and would ever be. From the day he was conceived, this path awaited him. This lonesome trail was walked for nine long months and again, years later, lifetimes later, it was walked again. That was just the way it was, and the way he wanted it. Change, reason, revolution... rebellion! Treachery! Blasphemy! He would have none of it. His destiny was his pride, his pride was his tradition, and his tradition was his faith. Forward.
In the blue of the sky, he saw himself reflected. In the fires of the sun and in the strength and force of the mountains, he knew that there was no other place that he should be. There was no other road to follow but this one and his thoughts would be what they would be -- he would not fall to them. As the sun would not fall to the sky and the mountains would not fall to the earth, he would not fall to his thoughts, his treasonous thoughts. They would seek his failure! He would burry them beneath the sands of time, and on those sands, he would die. As he should. That was the way it was.
He held his rifle tight in his sweaty palms. Thoughts would never have the firepower of his rifle. Thoughts would never send a metal slug through the eye of a god. His blasphemous mind would never conquer his honorable gun. Never would a rebellious ideal, a false and idealistic hope, defeat the glorious proven truth that was systematic warfare. His mind refused to be convinced. It yelled and begged, pleading with him. Live, you individual! You creature, you being, you man! Live! Be! Exist!
"I won't!" he cried.
The shot rang through the cave from a distance. Faces turned up in the darkness, faint white moonlight caressing their tired eyes. In unison they stood and slowly, armed, crept to the edge of their hideaway.
In the faint distance, in the sands of the sweeping a desert, a body lay. It was suited in full, head to toe, a rifle resting in the sand at its side. Surrounded by almost infinite nothingness, the soldiers eyed each other.
"Where's Victor?" one of them asked, an expression of alarm on his face. Another peered through binoculars into the distance. The corpse lay face-first in the sand, small streaks of red only faintly visible in the dim twilight.
The body was not that of his father, nor of his father's father. It was younger than them. The bullet which pierced its skull was not that of the enemy. It was not one taken in the proud line of battle. It was a bullet of his. His own, individual self. A bullet that only he could fire and a bullet which, through blasphemy and treason, ended his walk. He would never, with tired lungs and bruised body, walk the ancestral trail again. He was free.
"Colonel, that is Victor."
