Breaking the world
12-17-2019, 10:47 PM
He wished he was home. He hated every second of being here, from the way the bugs in the grass made his legs itch to the way the mud stuck to his boots to the annoying speeches that the commanders kept insisting on giving every ten minutes ‘to raise morale’. But a promise was a promise, even if it was one made two hundred-odd years ago in a much different time to today. So here he was, scratching his legs and cursing the chilly mist and gripping his spear and listening to Riolla on her stupid elk talking about the righteousness of their cause and the evils of the enemy and how she was so proud of her southern brethren for crossing the mountains and joining them in the fight for the survival of their homeland.
Enitan missed his home – the bright sun, drinking cool water from the watering-holes alongside the herds of gazelle, sitting in the shade of the acacia trees, and playing the five-string lyre to the melodies of his beloved. But the treaty was more important than his or anyone else’s happiness, and though he cursed the gods he answered the call when it went out. He was but a stripling when it was signed, watching from afar as his tall and proud queen pledged her eternal support and joined the circle, never to be broken. It was a necessary thing, to heal the dying world. History began anew on that day, and despite his grumbling Enitan least of all wanted a return to the way things were before.
So he stood there waiting for the general, pale and red-haired like the autumn aspen of the capital they’d left a week ago, giving the same speech she’d given when they set off, just in slightly different words. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see gold, cat-like eyes looking down at him from a dark, masked face. Long hair braided with bone beads flowed out in a large mane around his ears.
“She likes to hear herself talk, eh young brother? But don’t worry, she’s the finest warrior I’ve seen. Outside of my Lions, of course!”
Enitan froze up. To stand so close to Jelani of the East Lions would have been an honor in any other circumstance. But here, on the eve of battle, it just made him nervous. Before he could build up the courage to answer, the tall dark warrior had walked forward, his hair swaying behind him. The rest of the Lions strode after him to take the front, the only noise coming from the clicking of their beads. A fellow spearman looked at him jealously, but Enitan didn’t return the glance. He just held his spear tighter. The elite fighters would live through the battle, he was sure of it. But a grunt like him? His knees quaked at the thought of dying here away from his land, and in this polluted place besides.
A horn blew as the fog thinned. The shape of their enemy materialized, a long line of them approaching to the beat of a drum. It was strange, from their silhouettes in the fog they almost looked like one of the people, yet even from here Enitan could feel their curse, as everyone else did. His commander shouted an order to advance. All he needed to do was hold the line with the other spears. Then they’d protect their northern siblings and the land, and once the invaders were beaten back he could return home.
Deep breaths in the muddy forest. Enitan crouched among the bushes, watching and listening for any pursuit. But who would go after a single infantryman? He tried to remember when he had felt the grip of fear and started running. Was it when proud Jelani died, blasted into pieces? Or perhaps it was when Riolla fell from her elk, pierced in countless places under the enemy’s relentless volley? Or maybe…
He froze up as his ears picked up the panting and braying of dogs. He drew a knife from his belt—the spear lost somewhere in the muck and piled bodies when he fled the battle. Enitan counted the seconds as the sounds drew closer, as the hunters shouted and ran towards him. He peeked through the bushes, hoping at least to get the drop on these pursuers and have some chance of escaping. His eyes widened as he saw a young enemy soldier, who looked about the same age as him (but he reminded himself, their cursed blood sapped their life-force and made them age faster), bleeding from a wound in their thigh, clutching a bundle of swaddling-clothes. The youth's uniform was stained with mud and sat poorly on their skinny frame, bunched up in places and torn in others. Pursuing the soldier were hunting dogs, and the shouts of their masters not far behind. But the bundle… Enitan felt something strange. A child? One of the cursed? But no, somehow different.
It was clear that he could escape now, if he snuck away from the scene. Clearly the hunters were not there for him. But could he leave a child to that fate? Even if it was most likely one of the cursed?
Enitan missed his home – the bright sun, drinking cool water from the watering-holes alongside the herds of gazelle, sitting in the shade of the acacia trees, and playing the five-string lyre to the melodies of his beloved. But the treaty was more important than his or anyone else’s happiness, and though he cursed the gods he answered the call when it went out. He was but a stripling when it was signed, watching from afar as his tall and proud queen pledged her eternal support and joined the circle, never to be broken. It was a necessary thing, to heal the dying world. History began anew on that day, and despite his grumbling Enitan least of all wanted a return to the way things were before.
So he stood there waiting for the general, pale and red-haired like the autumn aspen of the capital they’d left a week ago, giving the same speech she’d given when they set off, just in slightly different words. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see gold, cat-like eyes looking down at him from a dark, masked face. Long hair braided with bone beads flowed out in a large mane around his ears.
“She likes to hear herself talk, eh young brother? But don’t worry, she’s the finest warrior I’ve seen. Outside of my Lions, of course!”
Enitan froze up. To stand so close to Jelani of the East Lions would have been an honor in any other circumstance. But here, on the eve of battle, it just made him nervous. Before he could build up the courage to answer, the tall dark warrior had walked forward, his hair swaying behind him. The rest of the Lions strode after him to take the front, the only noise coming from the clicking of their beads. A fellow spearman looked at him jealously, but Enitan didn’t return the glance. He just held his spear tighter. The elite fighters would live through the battle, he was sure of it. But a grunt like him? His knees quaked at the thought of dying here away from his land, and in this polluted place besides.
A horn blew as the fog thinned. The shape of their enemy materialized, a long line of them approaching to the beat of a drum. It was strange, from their silhouettes in the fog they almost looked like one of the people, yet even from here Enitan could feel their curse, as everyone else did. His commander shouted an order to advance. All he needed to do was hold the line with the other spears. Then they’d protect their northern siblings and the land, and once the invaders were beaten back he could return home.
Deep breaths in the muddy forest. Enitan crouched among the bushes, watching and listening for any pursuit. But who would go after a single infantryman? He tried to remember when he had felt the grip of fear and started running. Was it when proud Jelani died, blasted into pieces? Or perhaps it was when Riolla fell from her elk, pierced in countless places under the enemy’s relentless volley? Or maybe…
He froze up as his ears picked up the panting and braying of dogs. He drew a knife from his belt—the spear lost somewhere in the muck and piled bodies when he fled the battle. Enitan counted the seconds as the sounds drew closer, as the hunters shouted and ran towards him. He peeked through the bushes, hoping at least to get the drop on these pursuers and have some chance of escaping. His eyes widened as he saw a young enemy soldier, who looked about the same age as him (but he reminded himself, their cursed blood sapped their life-force and made them age faster), bleeding from a wound in their thigh, clutching a bundle of swaddling-clothes. The youth's uniform was stained with mud and sat poorly on their skinny frame, bunched up in places and torn in others. Pursuing the soldier were hunting dogs, and the shouts of their masters not far behind. But the bundle… Enitan felt something strange. A child? One of the cursed? But no, somehow different.
It was clear that he could escape now, if he snuck away from the scene. Clearly the hunters were not there for him. But could he leave a child to that fate? Even if it was most likely one of the cursed?
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