Exoneration by Memory

Featuring: Hell on Wheels | Written for a contest on the WhiteRose Discord: 500-1200 words, storytelling in the style of Dark Souls

Please enjoy.

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Only at the ascribed hour—of departure and dying, to journey to the clearing at the path's end—do we truly remember. Of our time, our experiences, and the road that was our path. The ground we tread upon and the weather that saw us along. Skies above cast with rainclouds, or blue with sunny joy. Soft earth beneath our feet, or desert hardpan grinding our every step.

Who came with us along that journey? What did we share with them as we went? Were songs sung and feasts had, or was hate spilled from bilious war? Did we make friends—whether had for a time or for a lifetime—or was it only nemeses in our wake?

Yes indeed, we all make a path along the endless fields of life. We all traverse the dreamscape that is the fleshly body, steered by our souls and guided by our wants. Whether love or life, joy or sorrow, power or wealth or want…

And on the eighteenth day of the seventh month, the eighteen-and-eightieth year, in a land once called Vacuo…

Two grand titans long set on a single endeavor met along the centermost longitude of that land, laying the last of a great iron bond. They called it the Trans-Vacuan Railroad. It was to unite not only this land of desert and waste, but also the Kingdoms who only so recently finished slaying one another—brother and brother, father and son, mother and daughter, even sisters pitted—in the name of a long and terrible war.

Indeed it did. Thanks in part to the innumerable body of workers who toiled upon it, that was. But the lion's share of thanks went to two people in particular…

One was a woman of icy blood and eyes, whose hair shone as bright silver as the snows of the land from whence she hailed. In her bosom burned a flame fit to melt the ice of her homeland, fueled by passion and wrought of grievous pride. She commanded an entire company from the eastern coast to the final point of terminus, beset by hardship all along the way. And for a time, she had a friend. A hard-won friend at first—say please, and say many thanks—but a close friend no less after.

The second was that friend, and her eyes were the silver of the first's hair. In her burned a flame of equal passion, kindled of a wholly different tinder.

She was a remnant of the war, member of the losing side as it were. When she chanced upon the railroad—hellbent on delivering vengeful justice to those that took her family after the war—working for the endeavor was the last thing on her mind. But the hangman's noose that so barely slipped her neck saw to that changing. To the other (the first) who facilitated this evasion of old Death, the second was most deeply indebted.

And so, they worked together for a time. From some few miles inland of the eastern coast, until points near to what would one day be the final terminus. One a simple leftover of the war, the other a titan forged of lineage and familial pride. Two wholly separate individuals who found in each other a kindred drive, and an equivalent spirit.

Yet, Fate did intervene, as it is wont to do. It purloined the second from the first, by way of playing the betrayer in matters of love. Such things as this do not heal easily, and oft leave a wound to fester overlong. Sadly, this saw them rent in twain from one another, and ended their partnership.

And so, on that eighteenth day of the seventh month, the eighteen-and-eightieth year, these women buried the last spike in their long, shared endeavor. It did not rekindle their friendship—and did in fact separate them all the further—but it did solidify their respect of one another. The road was finished, uniting the Shared Kingdom that was once called Vacuo. By their hands this was, and by their old friendship now dead, the fire to celebrate did burn hot.

Twenty years passed them by. The second went off to fight in another war, for another cause she had little stake in. The first went on to pursue even greater feats of entrepreneurial conquest, managing only to rid herself of any and all friends and allies in the process.

So I tell you, that on the first day of the nineteen-hundredth year, they met one last time.

On the eastern coast where their journey did begin, in the midst of a blizzard that wracked the grand port city, these two titanic women had dinner. Both preened and strutted for the other, attempting to espouse ideas of success in their lives afterword. Neither showed the destitute nature of their predicaments—the pennilessness of the first, once so affluent, or the wounded suffering of the second, once an Atlesian exemplification of the warrior form.

They had their meals and fought over who would pay, with the icy first winning out and handling the tab with borrowed funds. They then parted, never to see one another again.

The first went to her hovel of a home, the only bit left within her means to purchase any longer, with intents to write a letter. A spirit of remorse and penitence came over her on her way and spurred the notion to apologize. But this letter went unwritten—ending as only a scrap of yellowed parchment stained with spilled ink—as a stopping of the heart took her, upon only sitting at her desk. Cold wind blew the door open and scattered her effects, bringing her prized possession to rest upon her lifeless left hand.

'Twas a picture of she and her once-friend, on the day their first rail city was established.

And as for the second, she went home to a modest family. They were not unloving or uncaring, but they did only tolerate her state for the monies she provided by way of benefits meted out for government service.

After her second war, the woman of silver-most eyes was left maimed and disabled. Awarded for valorous conduct and performance above and beyond the call of duty, she was no less capable of supporting herself because of this. In time, she met a man and had children, and when he died, they took care of her. Not of love, but of duty.

Such is the nature of humanity in its rawest.

But when she went home that night—the end of the first day of the nineteen-hundredth year—old Death finally mated her. Their long game of Castles came to an end when a piece of shrapnel, long lodged near to her heart, loosed itself and found its mark at last. It was thankfully swift, painless and gentle.

For both these, in their dying moments, they did remember one another. For it is only at the ascribed hour that we do such things. And in that memory, they found peace, assurance of long succor…

And for each other, so too did they find forgiveness at last.