AFTERMATH
R E V E R S I O N E D
A Terranigma Fan Fiction
By Nicholas Clark (Warriorsong)
Comprising the original fan fictions Aftermath – Sunset Of The Hero and Aftermath – Tears Of The Child
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SUNSET OF THE HERO
The sun, an orange red disk of flame, slowly began to sink into its cradle of hills. The light of dusk pervaded the landscape, softening the harsh desert yellow into a multitude of warm pastels.
The people of the town below the watching figure bustled about in their activities, driving their beasts of burden to their night time rest and their playful children to the warm safe hearths.
The smell of rich hearty stew and freshly cracked casks of ale drifted to his nostrils upon the smoke of the large communal cook fires.
He sighed.
His eyes, old yet far seeing looked out from his perch upon the mesa that crown the township it also shadowed.
Across the face of the earth, joy and celebration could be seen and heard, the Hero having brought a balance back to an unbalanced existence, demanding of himself a sacrifice he would demand of none other.
The night wind had begun to blow, the chill, wet smell of early snow drifting with it off the northern steppes. The old man shivered, his body not accustomed to the elements after his long sojourn in his warm fire lit chambers. Yet tonight, he had felt compelled to be here and witness this event, this sunset which marked the passing of the Hero and symbolized a rebirth of sorts for this earth.
As he watched the burning chariot of the sun god descend over the edge of the earth, he could see birds. Hundreds upon thousands of birds, their soft mournful cries a testament to the sacrifices made.
He could sense pain, the pain of the earth, and her loss. A child had been taken from her today. A child who had saved her. And this pain, this grieving was echoed with the cries of millions of tiny voices, the mournful lowing of the beasts of the field, the reserved purrs and grumbles of the predators, the silent homage paid by the prey and the trees. And above, seeming to cover the horizon like a comforting blanket of down, the feathered forms of the avian.
All these voices and beings, touched by the Hero. Their brother, a child of the earth, like them.
The attention of all was cast at the red orb that seemed to hang in the sky, reluctant to pass from sight, paying its own tribute. The silent testimony, a hymn of passing and of what was given to them.
Tears fell to the earth, unashamed, in a mix of joy and regret.
Slowly and with a seeming shuffle of its proverbial feet, the sun sank below the horizon. The warm pastels that it cast upon the desert below the figure, changed slowly and with reverence to the cold pastels invading in front of the desert twilight.
Lord Kumari stood upon the highest point in his sandstone city, Lhasa. His old bones chilled in the wind from the cold steppes to the North. His heart was heavy, yet he rejoiced.
The balance had been restored.
The Hero had triumphed.
The Hero had earned his rest.
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TEARS OF THE CHILD
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From the desolated streets, the harsh wind of the Gobi Desert, ripped the hard packed sand and flung it up and into seemingly endless eddies of its brethren.
Through the eyes of the burnt out and blackened buildings, the wind whistled a shrill dirge, like the cries of the damned through hollow skulls.
The buildings lay in disrepair, untended and exposed to the volatile elements of their surrounding, the sand in the wind and the frigid night temperatures, breaking the rock down by pebbles. Where fire had purged, now ice, air and earth continued its work.
The few remaining monsters hid in the shadows, fearful of the light and the righteous anger that would fall upon them. A lone rat scurried across the barren street, the marks of its passing swept away by an errant breeze. Living off the decay.
A lull in the wind. The tempest seeming to catch its breath. The clatter of rock on stone as a wall succumbs to both gravity and decay. And underscored, above the level of silence, a human sound.
The well is dry, its ornate fountains, now lumps of sand blasted rock, rather than the delicate sculptures that they once were. In the once proud basin, lurks sand, cool sand, sheltered by the walls of the fountain. The chitinous rattling of scorpions against the sand, testimony to the earth's reclamation.
The white paving stones are cracked, strong winds and hurricanes hurling them into the sky and across the expanses, embedding them in walls that they once looked up to. Upheaval and raw dirt scattering and disrupting the once beautiful pattern and symmetry of the main square. The raw earth stained the white stone, breaking it down by friction and returning it to its baser nature, and the nature of its surroundings, that of sand and pebbles. Lonely pebbles.
Again the clatter, lose slate falling from a roof, cracking and disintegrating as it tumbles, shattering like cheap glass against the packed earth at it terminus.
Ahead loom the majestic arches, now broken like the teeth of an old man, chunks embedded in the ground. The wire supports, thick as the wrists of a strong man, hang twisted and rusted, a cruel reminder of the trees that inhabited this land in ages long past. Flakes of ferrous break off in the strengthening wind, poisonous butterflies.
The wind whistles through this broken arch, a haunting sound and fitting. The grin of a dead town, calling visitors into its maw.
Open buildings, shops and homesteads. With sand piled against the walls, the buildings resemble the tortured souls that would be buried up to their necks to suffer the extremes only a desert could provide. What monstrous wrong doers lurked here, their half-buried skulls telling of a gigantic size?
A door bangs, half held by a rusted hinge, in the nostril of a beast. The cool beckons, a shaded and sheltered respite from the horrors and fever dreams of this oasis of the damned.
Benches and jars overturned. The contents of the jars long decayed and devoured by the dwellers of this place, the vague remnants a sticky black ichor across floor and bench.
A glint in the darkness. Gold. Gold scattered like cheap stones across a floor, half buried in dust and cobwebs, traversed by the small feet of vermin and insects. It has no worth in this place. Worth would signify someone to find it worthy, yet here no one exists.
That human noise again. Low, almost unheard.
The wind is lulled by the walls, a simple echo against the mighty scream of outside. Here, in the shadows, a measure of peace can be found, albeit corrupted by decay and the reek of the unburied dead.
A yawning hole in the supporting wall leads to another construct, more
overturned benches and another sparkle in the shadow. A mannequin, it's stuffing part consumed by the dark creatures and scuttlers that hover on the edge of the senses.
A ray of sunlight pierces the broken slates, glinting, the light reflected in a tarnished surface beside the mannequin.
A spear, the once brilliant amber brown sheen of the bronze, now a tarnished grey and verdigris green. A once mighty weapon reduced, as its surroundings, to the earth whence it came.
The light spews in the doorway, blinding after the dark.
The wind has again died down, its doleful hymn, now a breathy lament. The eddies of dust devils and dervishes exhale silently and fall in upon themselves, to be resurrected some distance away.
The large walls of this sheltered street, the mark of a desert town, grant both shade and respite. Shade from the baleful eye of the sun; respite from the screaming gales.
A door, rough-hewn leads deep into the wall, stairs disappearing into the murky depths. The fetid odour of decay and corruption seems to breathe from the opening, seemingly halitosis of the earth.
A long route to a simple destination, collapsed walls that led to the West Side, now dangerous piles of rubble, their rocky fingers pointing to the sky, either in genuflection or anger.
A small open space, where children once played, now a barren patch of earth, stones poking from the earth. Patches of grass cling tenaciously to half life, their growths yellow and brown, a cruel mockery of the sepia tones that surrounded them.
A wooden fence, strong white picket in its prime, now rotten and grey lies in the dust, rattling in the wind. The dust and sand buries the ends, creating an illusion like a spectral railroad track.
Shaded again, the westernmost homes of the town. A large open doorway, that of a stately home, beckons with its cool, a buffer against the harsh desert sun.
Where the sound was drowned by the wind outside, inside, it echoes, a human sound, louder than the near silence it once was, a steady rhythm. Painful, hurt and shame. Loss. An embodiment of the human emotions this dead town should have.
The wind picks up again, howling like a rabid animal, lost in its madness.
A large room, ornate in its splendour, now musty in its squalor. A large oak table, bitten by stray winds and lone rainstorm, sits under the broken roof, its fine veneer now scarred and marked. Crates and stools lie around the room under the magnificently carved shelves. Alone and undisturbed amidst the chaos, a bottle sits upon a shelf, its dark red liquid, stagnant.
An arch between the two shelves calls, each step bringing the slight rhythmic sound just above hearing closer and yet further away, like the waves of a playful tide.
A corridor, the thick stone cool. Casks and barrels line the alcoves, like sentinels guarding a royal walkway. A large room, a kitchen perhaps, another large oak table and many casks. The rich embroidery, now decayed and brittle, on the stools testimony once more to the homeowner's status.
A bookshelf, tomes and scrolls, packed tight. The wind through the eaves and holes in the slate roofing scatters the parchment like a yellow snow, diseased flakes fluttering like moths.
Again the outside sunlight, its bright glare, shatters the cool grey tones.
A large home. Square and squat, it's flat roof and thick walls ideal shelter for the desert tempests. Scattered grasses, yellow and brackish poke from the hard baked earth, the endless replication of life insistent, even here.
Another rich home, rugs covering the floor, their mouldering stitches pulled by rats and lizards to line their dens. Cupboards, their doors shattered and splintered house glinting eyes, creatures waiting for the nights cool to hunt and play.
The wind rattles down the flue of the cast iron stove like the last breath of a dying man, a dry gurgle. A lung wound where no breath exists.
And white, seemingly untouched by the harsh climate, a round fireplace, its hearth like an igloo. Clean of soot and marked only by the pattering of odd shaped feet in the grey dust.
The sound is unmistakable now, a sobbing, almost dry, yet filled with pain and regret.
The crawl space opens into a pantry, shelves empty. The darkened stairway to the left beckoned, the cries, now drowning out the wind as the wind had drowned them, almost a siren song, calling, imploring.
At the top of the stairwell, a corridor opens out, opening into a room.
In this room is another table, stools and a bed.
And the object of the old mans search.
On the bed, huddled in the corner is the child he seeks, his grandchild, her dry, empty crying, tears long ago shed, echoing in his ears.
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The child knew the old man; her grandfather was there. She didn't want to face him.
Couldn't they see it was all her doing? Her fault alone? Her deeds and her selfishness? Her constant whining and deceit had done this!
She had been cold to him, he had invaded her private sanctuary, a haven against the pain and torment the world had thrown upon her when the raiders destroyed her home and her life. He had gone out of his way to rescue her from her own misdeed, her own folly. He had fought the darkness that had come from her attempt to fix the wrongs and mend her pain. She had scorned him and cursed him; child that she was, believing her wants and needs outweighed those of humanity.
Confused, she had been drawn to him, followed him and been saved by him again. Why was she drawn to him? Oh, she knew now, too late to mend her folly and beg forgiveness.
She had meant to help him then, yet another new emotion assailed her. It was a slow burning fire, like anger yet smouldering. And then he disappeared into the night and over the sea. These two emotions, conflicting, had driven her after him once more and caused her to confront him. He returned, yet his heart belonged to another. In a tantrum, she cursed him and, again he left.
Then her paramount folly. Aligning herself and her powers with that madman. She had used his heart of hearts against him, that which he cherished above all else.
Being deceived by the madman had opened her eyes somewhat, and she then attempted to make amends. Yet this fire burned slowly still, this not-anger she didn't understand. They had all helped.
Yet this help could only carry so far. He was on his own and carried another in his heart. This other was not her.
That was why she cried. She was a child, stubborn and naive, unable to understand that the not-anger was jealousy. She was jealous of what these two shared and how he did not return the feeling, what she came to understand as love, that she, held for him.
And not understanding and being confused, she had been cruel and bitter, believing it another attempt by the world at large to shatter any happiness she might forge for herself.
And now he was gone.
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Meihou stood, quietly, watching his granddaughter cry. Her pain and loss almost a tangible force to be tasted in the air. The child had suffered, that was certain, yet she blamed herself.
He walked to her and sat beside her on the bed. He reached his arm around her small shivering shoulders, her whole body rocking as she sobbed. He pulled her into an embrace and stroked her hair.
She attempted to speak, her throat, hoarse and raw, prevented any syllables escaping her mouth.
He pulled the child closer and muttered in her ear, "Hush Meilin, it is not your fault. He knew the risks he took and the cost of his endeavours. Learn by his example and make his life mean something."
The child's sobs quieted over the next few minutes, her body going limp.
Then, as the red orb of the sun sank behind the mountains to the west, the old man carried the sleeping child from the dead ruins of Louran.
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Disclaimers
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Aftermath - Sunset Of The Hero
Terranigma, Ark, Kumari and all related characters are copyright Enix and Quintet. If any of this information is wrong, my most humble apologies. No copyright infringement is intended, this is merely a work of fan fiction. I am in no way affiliated to any of these companies and people and what not. Thanks for reading. Written (finished) 22nd August 2000. Compiled 3rd October 2000. Re-edited 13th January 2003. By Nicholas Clark (Warriorsong). Reversioned 9th January 2008.
Aftermath - Tears Of The Child
Terranigma, Ark, Meilin, Meihou and all related characters are copyright Enix and Quintet. If any of this information is wrong, my most humble apologies. No copyright infringement is intended, this is merely a work of fan fiction. I am in no way affiliated to any of these companies and people and what not. Thanks for reading. Written (finished) 10th September 2000. Compiled 3rd October 2000. Re-edited 14th January 2003. By Nicholas Clark (Warriorsong) Reversioned 9th January 2008.