Of Unsent Letters and Unwritten Memoirs
By Kochan
Chapter 3: Lamentation-Commemoration
The flare diving through the blackness of the sky jerked him from his seat and his first instinct was to stomp his own fire out.
Leon looked again as it faded, eyes narrowed.
Meteorite. Burning up in the atmosphere.
Never seen one that bright before.
A cold lump of relief settled in his stomach and he smoothed out the dusty grey overcoat that served as his warmth.
His seat, a single weathered rock on the edge of the arid desert. It was already cold as he returned to it.
10 below 0, maybe more so.
Mild winter.
Even then, he couldn't feel his legs and arms. His nose and ears weren't there. Everything was numb.
Probably Like a ghost feels. he thought, adjusting his Turban.
Didn't think it was just the cold though.
He drew in a deep breath...and smelt nothing, tasted nothing.
It came as no surprise.
This was the Taklimakan desert.
Empty and Barren.
Harsh and Cold.
Devoid of life.
Just like him...
Leon lived for but one purpose: War.
But there was no guerilla faction to cripple, no stronghold to capture, no battle to be fought...except for the storm that still raged inside him.
Couldn't seem to let her go, no matter how hard he'd tried.
For the past 8 years, they'd spent this day in the Taklimakan together.
This time, he'd returned with only her memory.
Roland was dead and gone.
She'd left a void in him that could never be filled.
Damn her!
He threw another piece of kindling upon the flames, continuing to scrape at the scruffy remains of his beard with his folding knife.
Solitude was his best friend now; he couldn't think of anyone who was more than an acquaintance.
Wait...
His lips turned into a smirk as he recalled the African-American with the green Mohawk and the fast fists.
The Kick-boxer had watched him during his match against the Spaniard.
Leone grit his teeth, fists clenched as he recalled his disqualification for putting the wretched man in critical.
Excessive brutality they called it; he called it payback for unscrupulous tactics.
The Kick-boxer had been more than amicable, offering to buy him a drink at the local bar after.
A real soldier never gave up a round of drinks; Always victories to celebrate, or sorrows to drown.
Who was he to refuse?
They had discussed tactics, scheming all forms of unorthodox tactics whilst intoxicated.
That testosterone-laced tavern had served as the testing ground for their ideas; A brawl with the drunken patrons had been too easy to provoke...
...and a real soldier never passed up the opportunity for a good fight.
He chuckled, recalling the 'Double Head-butt'.
Engineered on an unsuspecting oaf in the wrong place at the wrong time.
THAT had been entertainment.
Leon fished out the bottle of brandy from his pack with a cup.
He stared at the latter a moment before tossing it away.
A full swig, and he exhaled with a low grunt feeling the burn rise to his face, welcoming the tingling sensation.
Tonight, he would drink to the Kick-boxer, wherever his friend was.
He grinned.
Yes...
His friend.
* * * *
Author's Notes
Taklimakan – One of the most hostile deserts on the planet. Covers much of the area separating China from Europe and Western Asia. Very little vegetation, almost no rainfall; sandstorms are very common and dangerous (Due to the strength of the winds and the nature of the surface). The Silk Road connecting Europe to China skirts the edge of this 'Land of Death'.