Chapter 2
Tortured Sighs
"Time has been transformed, and we have changed; it has advanced and set us in motion; it has unveiled its face, inspiring us with bewilderment and exhilaration."
- Kahlil Gibran (Children of Gods, Scions of Apes)
Blood.
It's viscous crimson consistency dripped languorously from his hands, hitting the ground like insipid raindrops, oblivious of their obligation. His sizeable hands were awash with the scarlet emulsion, the gooey liquid even braved further up his bare arms to his elbows; where the trail abruptly terminated. Duel russet oculars stared fixedly at the dripping ooze, impervious to the agonizing screams of the feeble and ignorant to the cries of victory from his segment. Triumph was a minor affair; he had won so many battles and killed so many lives. Yet, he had never stopped to think…was this right?
"General!"
Was it worth the abolition of so many lives; who were, in essence, fighting for the same cause. Freedom was always a vague matter. The tyrant was always searching for similar liberation from an analogous suppressor. Be it pain or misery, doubt or fear, hate or love…was it not a common enemy? The people fought for freedom from those coercions feeling their cause was just. Yet, intrinsically, was it truly that dissimilar?
"General?"
He was getting too old for the fight. His battle-hardened visage was gradually chipping away with the passing of each year. One could only live to kill for so long. He knew the Maester had his rationale for the slaughter of the Cortarhians; cease the invasion. It was legitimate, to a degree. Yet, he no longer had it in him to kill…no matter what the cause.
"General…"
"I can hear you," He stated calmly, glancing sidelong at the captain. The man straightened like a rod at the momentary look of the General, his rigid form petrified in a deferential salute. The General reached back, pulling at the tie constraining his shoulder length ebony mane. The tresses trickled like a shadowy cascade upon his shoulders, jubilant to be freed from their strict incarceration.
"Captain, we shall abscond with our victory. Prepare the legions, we leave directly," His composed voice, though unobtrusive, still possessed the power of his youth. The power of a once mighty general; undefeatable on the field and smug in the courts. His complacency had faded with instance and age, though, leaving an aged gentleman with a poise and clout that could rival the Grand Maester's.
His raven cape rustled in the breeze, as he arose from his kneeling position. The sight he saw was far worse than his bloodied hands. The Dell of Zaon was painted with a thick scarlet coat of colorant; eviscerated bodies riddled the once green pastures, along with the gaudy trappings of the radical's banners. It had been an utter massacre; the soldiers they had fought had been amateurs, mostly likely sent a band of rebels unassociated with the Cortarthian seat of dominance. Cortarthian rebels would always be a threat, he was quite sure of that. But, he would not always be there to fight them. At least, he didn't plan on it.
The drumming of thousands of feet echoed across the basin, pulling his dismal gaze from the blood-spattered scene. Back to his world of illusory kindness and strained deference; oh, how the had not changed in the least since the reign of Sin. Perhaps, no matter how gruesome the thought, Sin had given as much as it had taken. Perhaps, Sin was more of a law code that kept Spira in check, rather than the heartless executioner the Grand Council now converted it into.
He walked languidly behind his withdrawing troops; his head bent in deep thought, as his raven hair danced about his head in the eventide zephyr. The bright cerulean sky was beginning to fade to into a warm gold, highlighted with hues of cherry and ginger. Hopefully upon reaching their destination the bloodied faces and frozen screams of the dead would fade; but, like all his other encounters with death, it would be unlikely. Nightmares of disembodied screams and razed corpses of his past would always haunt him…no matter what. His only release was the starkness of reality, a hell in its own right. He was trapped in his own formulated world of pain and continuity; Death a distant star flickering dimly on the horizon.
He lowered his head as they departed the battlefield; the only thing he had won with this bloody battle was more burden to his already profound load. The victor had been death once more…perhaps, Spira would never pull itself from the cycle it had wedged itself into so many millennia's ago.
It was a certainty he didn't want to come to grips with. Death was always the victor in these bloody happenings, the fact that he deftly hide behind a golden cloak of triumph for the homeland; honor for the honorable. Hah, what a joke that was. He was no more honorable than a dog digging for trash in the alleyway. Yes, let us all raise a glass for the reliable lap dog of the specious exalted. He knew their ploys and their lies, yet he had no right to speak against them. He had his fair share of fallacies and gambits, probably even more. The general of the Spiran Army was no fool, nor honest abe. He was just a man, an amenable man, a forceful man; but a man, nonetheless.
He tried his best to serve his country and countrymen, but now it seemed like there was something just morally wrong with his actions. These scanty rebels armed with pistols and pitchforks were no match for the all out Spiran Army. Five hundred against ten thousand were never justifiable odds. Grand Maester Hart had gone way overboard this time, and he was not going to stand for this mindless slaughter of freedom fighters. The people simply wanted something they thought was due to them and had resulted to more violent means of acquiring it. It was not rational to stomp them out of existence for their beliefs. There were other, less violent, ways of dealing with this issue, and he was going to see it done. If not for the rebels than for him, in a way of repentance to the lost soul of a freedom fighter that had died many years before. A death that had changed his life, turned him into the creature that he was today. The unfeeling, hypocritical general of a tyrannical army. He would see this done to its conclusion.
By the gods, he, General Luzzu would see it done.