F L A M E S
OF
S O D O M
AND
G O M O R A H
-Stradivari-
:i:
He watched the rising of the sun from the top of the plate, the sliver of concrete that separated all that was Man and all that was divine, godly, heavenly, paradise…he did not know.
While the men and women toiled below, like the souls that toiled in the depths of hell, up here, he could almost taste the sweetness in the wind, two thousand feet up from a lady's dainty feet. To see all that went on below him as a pharaoh would survey his slaves, a dull matrix of grey and scarred black giving him a bitter taste upon his tongue.
The bitter taste of power, bitter and ugly, ugly like the victory fought by the King and Queen, ugly like the face which smiled at the pawn, dying for his Knight. The Knight had sent him there.
Sunrise over Midgar.
There was even an ugly ring to that phrase, the tolling of a broken bell whose melody was never put to words, whose song was never written by poets. Its gilt surface worn away to the rough bronze underneath, he suspected that, given another few years, it would be nothing but dirty steel, grey silver like the smoke shrouded sky. Even when it rained tears of tainted nothingness, it flowed, pounding the concrete and those imprisoned beneath their lives. As if the God (if there was such a being) himself had sinned.
Chilled wind swept around his figure, a small shadow against the darker one behind.
Of course he had. What sort of God left his people under the hands of such a rule? What sort of God let his King and Queen kill their own and let their own kill in turn? What sort of God, if not a human, would gaze as he was now, gazing, all seeing, almighty-damn power! Damn Loyalty!
The fury subsided, until it was only a mere flicker among the dying embers of his soul. It was wonders it did not fly away then, fly on outstretched fingers, then fall to the grey that was hell, grey that was triumph, victory, fall prey to the nightmare that spoke sweet words to spin the dream…
What sort of Father would leave his son alone, an heir to the remnants of a place, an ambition, its colour faded and bleached like an old photograph?
The wind sighed and ruffled his hair, the mocking tones of paternal love. Soft yet simultaneously harsh. He let his eyes close and allowed himself to be enveloped by idle fantasy, feeling no guilt at the foolishness of that desire. Just once more, before…
His King spun spider-webs of lies beneath his feet, far below, the criss-crossing patterns that held some demented beauty which, until now, had held him captive. Pale lattices like fingers, seemingly so soft, so gentle, caressing as her touch, the brush of her lips against his…
The wind tugged balefully at his jacket and she disappeared into the grey.
He looked down, hearing the sound of his own breath, a cappella on some god forsaken stage, whose accompanists had long since abandoned or died for. Old, wine red curtains hung limp within their tasseled bonds, crying dry tears of dust, cried to be freed, cried to be closed, cried…until their voices faded and the singer himself did not sing.
Crying himself to sleep, hoarse and as dry as his salty tears. It was cold. Night after night.
It was no memory. A memory was something you remembered, something that happened in the past. He didn't remember this. He lived it. Living it, half alive, their gaze matching his own, slowly killing him as he killed them. He did not hear their screams or cries-for they did not utter a sound. The Knight watched, stoic, composed, cold, indifferent, inhuman. He died, stoic, composed, cold, indifferent; following the orders issued from his brother. Orders. Loyalty. There was no honor in those words. Only foolishness. And fools died.
Loyalty was only the man who sent the fools to their death. No better, no worse.
He looked up, past the doors, the title, the reputation; looked the Bishop straight in his eyes. How many times? How many times had he been told to be the soldier he was? Not elite, not singled out; the mercenary who drowned himself in cynical humor, believing he could shape the world, not aware that a thousand others tried to do the same.
And he stood there as he did years ago, young and naïve in thought, counting the scars that stood clear against the skin. Black or white? It wasn't nearly as simple as that. Only a Rook, in a game where the players could not simply push the button and blow up his opponent. And the Bishop stood there also, just in the shadows, just enough to be seen and just enough to see. He was always there, resplendent in what he believed was good, what he believed was loyalty. He loved that word, and loved it so passionately that, for a moment, he almost loved too.
Doubt is a blessed thing.
No man was God's Mercenary.
And he was not that Mercenary's fool.
He would not call him 'Sir' and would not meet his eyes. Where was the King? Where was the man who wanted to heal the world? Where was the man who hired out loyalty to send fools to their deaths? Where was this man? A saint? An advocate of hell? Where?
She wrote a poem once.
At a glance, the world's kind of grey…
He looked out over the 'world', looked out over the empire, falling, falling. Like Troy, like Sodom, Gomorrah and Edom. Falling, falling. A world, which even under the closest scrutiny would be grey.
A single tear, shall make an oasis in the desert…
Grey to the eyes that saw him, black to the eyes that could not see.
His fingers were cold as the non-existent sun, his pallor like the carved features upon an ivory statue. Even the sudden flare of lapis-lazuli dulled to its bland surroundings like her breath, blowing out the candle into darkness.
The touch of the grip seemed unfamiliar within the curl of his fingers, foreign and strange. This did nothing to lighten the knowledge that, for all this 'world' cared, he was nothing but a coward who could act like he was not. And it was only the beauty of the irony that those who were righteous, those who were moral, those who possessed a conscience and believed they did-they feared this coward. They feared him as much as that coward feared himself. Fear of the loyalty that ordered fools to die, fear of the loyalty that was to heal this 'world' with the brute force that was to kill it. Death was sweet mercy.
Fear, that he too was a fool.
He looked upon that Rook and felt contempt, searched his features and found despise. And yet, that childish question still found itself falling from his tongue.
Why?
Did it really come to this, come to the person he had sought so hard to become, sought so long, only to become the person he hated? Was this not self pity, weakness? What sort of mockery was this irony which brooked no beauty whatsoever?
Was this his dream? His life's ambition-had he reached the last silver rung and must now choose to descend…or fall? Had he taken he last of the glory this 'dream' could ever give?
His face hardened, eyes chipped and broken, like an ornamental glass statuette, worn away until only a sliver of its clear essence remained untainted.
Oh the gullibility. Who could have paid to a little boy? Who, but a fool?
Anger at himself flowed, undiluted through his veins, flowed, like the tears of that little boy who looked up towards the horizon, where power and Man drew a thin blue line, looked up and wore to rise, swore to become someone, to be, to hold something more than his own like in his hands. Fueled by that innocent determination which now fueled his own. His tears were stolen by the wind before they could fall upon his cheeks, his skin bitten cold by that same, non-existent breath.
How he hated that rook.
Two thousand feet up. Two thousand feet of a coward's fear away from those who he was bound for life. Loyal. Did the term, 'brother' mean nothing more than traitor? Was loyalty not for dogs?
Did he want to die for a brother?
Did he have a brother to die for?
It was not strange to feel the hardness against his ribs, two thousand feet up-was that far enough for his King? To step clear of the boat, to walk upon the storm swept waters with no faith left in him…
It was like a sea, not a lake. An ocean of damnable grey created by the Father who cared so much for his son, he could not find the time to turn and say hello. Perhaps the purpose was not to be obliged to say goodbye either. You could not love a stranger. And if you did not meet, you could not leave them. What a cruel sense of logic.
Block upon block, dark soulless eyes of broken windows and broken lives. No sound came from within the doors, no words. Perhaps he was already deaf.
His knuckles were white. White as the bishop, white as the King, white as the orders of God, white as the whip of Lucifer, white, like the adverted gaze, white as the shattered pieces of the sacrificed rook, his essence scattered in shards across the tiles. Black, white, black, white, grey.
Was there supposed to be grief? Or had so many others done the same that he would be nothing but statistics? Yes, a little grief. Grief, false tears, small, quietly spoken speeches and black suits. And after that, grief, false smiles, small quietly spoken orders and blue suits. How very touching. He supposed he couldn't have expected more. He had done the same.
His hair stood red against the smothering grey. He could not help but smile, mirthless and sad despite his resolve.
Perhaps he shall see her in Hell. After all, Pride was one of the greatest of sins.
They will see. They will look with open eyes and see, see and know he was not the fool of a soldier he was trained to be, not the fool of the soldier he had aspired to be. He was no mercenary of any order, he did not received the rich man's gold. He did. But not anymore.
He was no patriot.
The Rook stood there, high above himself and everything else he had ceased to be. Sent out a thought that was almost immediately shattered into the countless fragments of a plum blossom, her petals strewn across crystalline waters, melting the pastel shade of pink. Just one. The ears of Midgar were closed to the gun shot. They had heard too many.
Like some condemned spirit from the heavens he fell…
And like the Flames of Sodom and Gomorrah, he was no more.
:i:
They found his body the next morning, his hair like a flare, signaling something that brought dread into their being. Sentiment was forbidden; this was an unwritten rule. They were Loyal Turks, and he was once one of them. The sniper would be doomed to die. His brother took care of that matter.
But even with the little consolation the Bishop tried to give, her cries of anguish seemed to cut through their minds like a knife through their ears. It seemed that her God had finally deserted her to piece the broken pieces back together.
:i:
Author's Note: My second FFVII fic and yet another Reno centric, perhaps a tad darker than Champagne had been. A lot of extended metaphor in this, several overlaying. In fact, there was no intended pairing, pairing here being defined as two characters liking one other-both ways. The 'She' in the main passage was supposed to remain open-ended to your fancies, but at the end, I got itchy fingers and simply had to add the last 'epilogue-ish' paragraph which hinted, if a little too obviously, Elena.
Other than that, this is a semi-sequel-y passage modeling on the idea of 'Silver Rungs'.
Any typos, tell me. Please review. Support GENESIS AWARDS.