by Fed

The sword is bloody. The adversary is there. There is a smell of sweat and antcipation. They are all watching. Can any of us feel the pain that is coming?

I know Ambriel de Verlay. I knew Ambriel de Verlay. Ambriel Chermes. Captain. There are so many things I know, that I remember, and yet they are not what I know. That's the trouble with the mind, the way that the world works. You can always hang on to things, even if it will hurt less to let go. I think that's what makes us real, hanging on to the pain that is best forgotten. I knew Ambriel as an officer knows his… what? I knew Ambriel as a great woman, friend and loyal soldier. There is no escaping from what must happen. The exchange is swift and then there are seconds of calm. All eyes watch, all breath held silent. The armour is battered, there are holes. Both suffer. Is this worth remembering? Thought is tricky. I don't know how it works, I don't know how or why I remember these things. There has only ever been one hero in the story and that story remains unchanged. That's the problem, the story is briliant and tragic. But it cannot be mine. I cannot have it. It was given as a gift, the story must remain, even if the actors change. Do I deserve the gift? Does anyone? The flesh bleeds. There is blood on the ground, red and black, red and black. The adversary drops fresh blood onto the ground, but it is too little compared to that already spilt. The flesh bleeds again. Will this ever end? I understand so very little of course. The memory that does not exist must be honoured, though nobody will know. Ambriel had something in her. Something which only she could have. It has not left. It was in her, it was her, and it was not hers to give. It's the personal determination borne of a soldier's hardships in the world. It's something a sergeant has. Sergeant Ambriel Chermes. Whatever the world offers you, however hard it grabs you by the throat, Sergeant Chermes can always spit in its face, kick it in the balls and run away hoping it will writhe on the floor long enough to forget why it was angry at you. I think that's why I remember. There is only so much the body can take. It takes help to agree with the mind. There will always be help. The adversary fights like a demon, like his nature. It must end, and it will end, but at what cost? There is a sword, there is a shattered shield, there is greave and pieces of the rest. It was all there, even some of the uniform. No rank, just the shield of the Broken Guard stitched on a piece of cloth. They tell me I am a hero, there is evidence enough in the eyes of the Ambassador, in the opinion of His Grace. The sword is the hero's sword and I hold it and know I've never wielded it. There is a place for it. He staggers. He is still strong. There is defiance as born of self-conviction, self-belief. Arrogance. Nobody stands with more than a wisp of life. The sword comes brashing in. Again, again, again. The chain is battered, the links on the ground. Again. The adversary lies on the ground, there, before me, before us. I strike the sword into the ground. There is nothing there, the grass not burnt away, but not unchanged. We were there. There she succeeded. He is dead. His children dead. The priestess lies on the floor broken. There are fleeting moments. Then orders. The last orders. There was a cost. A cost that should not have been paid but was. The Black Flame, it is the tool that is used. And it breaks everything like a hammer, it breaks what you wish it to, and it breaks those who do not. The Flame took something that even sacrificed is not its to take or use. The Black Flame will die out, I know, I know that Ambriel kicked it in the balls. The sword of a hero in the earth is everything and yet I know it is too little.

misc/fiction/remembering.txt · Last modified: 2011/04/05 19:41 by osj01
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