Thousand Year's War - Dream sequence
Amariel stood at the lake and watched the golden sun approach the horizon. They watched the brilliant blue of the sky shift to darker tones with purple qualities sneaking in. Red and orange hues danced in a spectacular show and sun beams shone through places in the lavish clouds that teased them of the joy of creation. A chill wind nipped as the temperature fell with the sun and brought Amariel back to the melancholy they carried to the lake that night.
They skipped a stone across the deep waters to try to let go of the harsh feelings and reached for that place of love and peace within. It was all procrastination of what will be required of them that night. A mission of the utmost importance and of the greatest test of loyalty and strength for Amariel. They followed up with stone after stone on the darkened mirror of the sunset as it was disturbed by rings that radiated from each stone that hopped along the surface.
So above as below, Amariel thought. All the blood spilled, will it taint the soil? Will it brew diseases of the spirit; propagate the anger, jealousy, and hatred into human kind? My garden is now blood and ash, bone and blade.
They fell to their knees after the last stone had been cast and cried with the sorrow that pulled at heart strings and choked all words, as a stone in the throat. Frost bit the feathers of their wings, now stained with the smoke and ash of many nights of campfires. Some had been on purpose to conceal the bright white of their normal color.
Time slowed for Amariel to take these moments of anguish and let them be expressed, Life would allow the pause of time. They grieved the sorrow that will not be denied to their heart. They thought of those lost to senseless death and the times spent with each person lost. The conversations from then played on in their mind; each memory evoked the feelings as though they had been sent back in time. They felt the grief of each friend lost as though it were a fresh wound. Amariel sung in that choir each morning singing life into the world, that clouds would weep and life would blossom. A single note could take anyone through a roller coaster of emotions. Amariel didn’t have any details of how their companions perished, just the word of another whom claimed to be there. Another tear in their heart ached. The loss echoed through each fiber of being and sobs muted and held in their chest until the sorrow had been spent. The just breathed for a few moments.
Amariel pondered what new world would become on these lands where the battles raged on, and had begun to hope for a great future. Maybe the land would be fertile and plenty with new life and new hopes when this war finally left these fields.
A blue and black butterfly landed on their hand tickling them back to flowing time. It was time to move and complete their task no matter their heavy heart, or the hope filled mind.
Amariel got up from the peaceful surrender * and walked the path up to the tents in the camp. Not quite eager to be in the company of others they kept their pace slow. They observed life undisturbed, winter firs cozy in the chilled air while maples dropped golden to garnet leaves in preparation for a season of sleep. Hay billowed on winds ready for the grazers to consume. Just at the top of the path they stopped to feel the wind blow through their hair and listened to the whispers sung there. The heaviness of dread pulled their heart down harder with each step towards their personal tent. They reached out to the life force within begging to be free of this task, but no answer came. Amariel’s choice was black and white, no gray. Serve in this brutal war or permanent exile from their place in the stars and heavens.
As a blink of their eyes they were in their personal tent, the remainder of the walk seemed to have skipped ahead. They pulled their sword down and sharpened the blade, oiled it and tested it on a single black hair from their head. Once satisfied the blade was again sheathed for battle. Having spotted the daggers they moved on to prepare them; the routine and rhythm soothing their mind from the tumultuous thoughts. Amariel pulled back the length of their hair into a braid and tied it with a cord. Each meticulous step of preparation was a ritual of body, mind, and spirit; which insulated them from the emotional trappings. They strapped the arm blades to the inside of their forearms, then tested each one for silence and stealth. Numbly they pulled on the specially crafted maile and resigned to the task at hand, they finally donned the night-black tunic.
As the evening darkened into night, Amariel once more sent a silent plea to spirit to relieve them of this charge, this gross affront to their whole existence. Alas there still was no reply and they were resigned to duty, to honor their place as their creator bid them.
They stepped from their tent and looked out over the grounds listening for the coming army.* It was not too late; they started off to the designated space. It was an unremarkable hill that hid from lights of fires or stars with an old maple, majestic in its stature. From here the little hill looked quite far. Amariel seemed to fly across the ground. The temperature dropped more as the night grew darker; they picked up speed, partly to be in place at the right time and partly to warm the blood. They kept low to the ground, out of sight and moved with silent grace only an angel could achieve.
Light steps, each foot fall barely detectable missing each twig, rock, brush, and small animal along the way to the low hill. Amariel could almost forget the war in this space, gliding though the landscape the wind slipping past. Their feathers slick as they pressed down during the run. The exhilaration of moving through space and time at angelic speeds, blood rushed through their body and tensions melted.
It was all too short a moment and the arrival to the hill brought back everything as they began the watch for their target. It was a perfect spot to see the troops coming through the lower valley toward the main camp.
A radiant glow from their heart kept Amariel warm while they waited for the incoming troops, and they knew it was the creator there to support them. Another promise kept and another fear fell away. They were crouched for what seemed forever, positioned in such a way to keep from sight in the moonless night.
It is the perfect kind of night, the best chance I could have in order to succeed. The dark night, the autumn wind, and the obscurity of distance; and here I lay waiting to strike dead my brethren, to lay waste one that was once so dear. Forgiveness for my heart; that is all I ask. *
The night ticked on slowly. Amariel, determined to stay focused, cataloged the scene; stones with marbled shadows creeping over them; trees that rustled the last of the year’s leaves in hollow breaths of wind. The observations kept their mind sharp until at last, at the height of the night, they heard the clambering of armor that marched in the distance.
The frozen ground beneath seemed to hold them captive, their fear taking root and holding them steadfast. The losses of brethren gripped their heart; they took measured breaths to still their trembling hands.
Soldiers from their camp marched out to meet the oncoming battalia. Echoes of clashing steel carried and warring cries blended like a waterfall from the distance. The ground grew dark red in the valley below, life’s blood soaking into the earth’s soil and wrenching a new tear into Amariel’s heart. The naked maple, dark and lonely, gave no comfort to them.
Amariel’s heart pounded in their armor, they clenched their jaw and gripped their blade. I can do this, resonated through their mind, but not their heart. The determination to avoid exile grew and began to resonate as anger. Using this anger Amariel pushed aside the fear and bolstered their resolve. The faces below blurred into vague anonymity to steel their grief and numb the heart. The wind came as a cooled rush and gave the signal to bare down for the next move.
An opening in the clashing armies became clear. Amariel beheld the target revealed, an imposing and towering figure on a chariot; death on its face, pale as moonlight on a frozen lake. Time seemed to slow again. The moment revealed, they engaged their muscles, knees bent, jaw set, mind focused, emotions subsided. Tremendous smoke and ash stained wings extended to aid in speed. They readied to vault in the blur of motion necessary to deliver the death blow. The end of the blood shed could be tonight, it could be now. One last deep breath as their feet dug into the earth, they leaned forward…
Their face met the ground, an unmovable weight on their back. No sound as time continued its crawl.
A white, hot and blinding pain seared them. They felt the blade enter between their wings, slice through the spine, through their pounding heart, and sink into the ground beneath them, hot blood helping the sword sink further down into the frozen dirt turned mud.
Their life’s blood melting them into the earth, their left wing severed.
‘One wing dipped in blood,’ they say. How true they don’t know.
Fallen.
Exile.
Doomed.
I exist now as half-human, to live half-lives, to know the peace of heaven, but to never feel it again. To serve on earth only half free. Tears flowed as they breathed their last, pinned hilt deep, face down to the cold and lonely Earth. Their mind faded as their life pumped out with each beat of their slowing heart.
They never knew who killed them.
