Bit Adini III

Tötges had to get control of himself. He had left breakfast early, his entire soul flushed with rampant emotions. He decided to go for a run, and he did go running. After half an hour, he felt tired, but still vigorous enough to imagine Beatrice. He pressed on, he kept running. After an hour, his heart beating wildly, he could picture nothing but Beatrice. He shook his head and kept running: surely he would tire and stop thinking of her. Two hours later, his breath shaggy, his head spinning, his legs numb, he arrived back at the house. Tötges had finally achieved what he had desired: freedom from imagining her. All he saw was the bright sun and whirling trees.

Upon entering the house, he found Beatrice walking up the stairs. She had just washed up; a towel was neatly draped over her luxurious body. Tötges gritted his teeth. She smiled at him, bidding him a happy welcome. He could not take it anymore. He could not take it. How could he? He strode towards her, strong, full of determination. She only smiled wider; this was her Father. She loved him. He loved her.

And as her all-too-loving father approached the stairs, his eyes blazing with insatiable desire, the whole house shook, and the kitchen, opposite the two of them, was replaced with smoke and flying pieces of wood. The noise of the explosion was so great that it had immediately deafened both Tötges and Beatrice. He fell backwards, down the stairs, and Beatrice was blown backwards, through the wall.

Bit Adini II

Beatrice had come here, to the House of Adini, a number of years ago, after turning thirteen, as part of her ritual into adulthood. Women were traditionally sent to live in far away lands for ten years. By the age of thirteen, it was time to leave childhood behind, and learn the tasks necessary to being a helpful and happy citizen. Laundry, cooking, cleaning, sewing, planting; the list went on and on, of the new tasks that Beatrice had learned. She was grateful to learn them all, because she knew it made her smarter, and a better person. So as Father Tötges assigned her new tasks and taught her duties, she happily obliged.

She was turning into a beautiful young woman, ripening like a tomato on the vine. She was confident and level-headed; the product of being cared for and taught well. So when one day, Father Tötges found his head turning a little longer than usual as she descended the stairs, he caught himself: hold now, Father, this like your daughter. You have raised her from uncouth youth to civil ladyhood.

And yet… there was something about her graceful step, her full hips, gentle smile, ample–Father Tötges caught himself again. Improper thoughts. He shook his head to try and clear it of sudden and rampant desires. Father Tötges had never looked at Beatrice this way. It was sudden, it was frightening, it was invigorating.

She had failed to notice his arousal, and went about her daily tasks. The sun was shining: it was to be a great day. Birds were singing. The smell of eggs and ham was drifting throughout the house. Beatrice smiled. Today would, no doubt, be perfect.

Bit Adini I

Sunlight. Cresting over the sloping hills. After two weeks of rain, how reassuring. Cold rain had washed over the house and lands of Bit Adini, creating a chilly atmosphere, an unpleasant setting. Everyone, from the serfs to Father Tötges, had been reflecting the poor weather. Attitudes were dour, faces unfriendly, conversation brusque, dinner awkward. The sun, serenely unaware of its importance, lifted its head across the horizon, and Beatrice rejoiced with a smile. Maybe this house would be a little happier.

As the hours progressed, the day did prove to be more cheerful. People seemed to open up. No longer soggy, with the skies permanently overcast, they could mirror the sun and beam. Hearty laughs were exchanged, slaps on the back, stories told. Beatrice felt comfortable again; when the house and its lands were sad, she felt it much deeper. Truly, she felt everything deeper, as if somehow she was more connected to the planet, like her feet didn’t stop at the ground, like she had roots that stretched across the land and far below.

When someone cried in front of her, her heart would cry. When everyone was quiet and sullen, she felt beaten up, bruised, locked away in a closet somewhere in a big building that was deserted except for her (and all she has to eat is a rat, a live rat of course, she has to kill it for food, but why bother, she’s going to die anyway, the door is fucking locked). Beatrice has always been vexed by her crushing empathy: or rather she has been vexed that other people do not feel as much as she does. Other people’s feelings concerned her to no small degree, and when they were careless, she just couldn’t get it.

Maybe her heart is big enough for everyone and everything; for all of creation, the entire universe. If it is alive, if it exists, she loves it, with her entire soul, her essence, the lights that dart across the insides of her eyelids when she tries to sleep.

On the Loop I

The darkness bled away, peeling off his eyes like a layer of snakeskin. His head felt wrapped in two pounds of gauze, his arms felt like they were on the other side of the room, and his legs seemed to be in some kind of 15-foot-deep pool. His eyelids fluttered. At least he wasn’t dead, but maybe death would be better than this. Maybe death would be a relief.

Telos tried to move, and his hand maybe did move, he couldn’t tell, it was so far away, why was it cowering in the corner? Come over here, you’re my hand, you have to do hand-like things, such as wave about, maybe touch this metal slab I’m lying on, maybe, if I’m really lucky, you’ll have enough strength behind you to push me up off this slab, at least so I can get a good look around this place. Be reasonable.

His hand sheepishly waddled over to the metal slab, eyes downcast, face forlorn. Oh, hand. Don’t be like that. Why are you such a prima donna? You act as if this is my fault. You shouldn’t have left in the first place. Like a child blaming his parents for getting robbed after running away. Well, maybe things are bad here, but really, giving up and running away doesn’t solve anything. If you had some stones, boy, you’d stay right here and give it the old college try.

But maybe you don’t have the stones. Leaving is easier. Bailing out. Grabbing the parachute and ducking out the open hatch. But silly hand, then you have to deal with this. Shamefully returning. You should have just been a man and stayed. Come now, see if you can push me up.

And Telos, propped up on his weak left arm, glanced around the room he was in. Long, halogen lights in the wall. One large, steel door, firmly closed. A table to the left. Sharp things, medical things, on the table. Bottles of pills.

Fuck, he thought, and fell back onto the table.

Desertion III

Beatrice was roaming the countryside, north of the encampment and southeast of Damascus, when she encountered the scene of a massacre. She combed through the bodies, and cringed when she realized they were her compatriots. Suddenly her heart leapt into her throat: Telos usually went on missions like this.

Oh God. What if he was dead? Beatrice screamed his name, pulling bodies off other bodies, searching hungrily for any sign of Telos. She did this for many minutes, and only after an hour did she realize it was probably better she hadn’t found him. But what if he had been kidnapped? That would be a huge blow to the resistance. God, why did she even care about the fucking resistance anymore!

Revenge… what a useless goal. Completely unsatisfying. Draining. Dehumanizing. This what they had all become–splashed blood and lifeless bodies across some rocks. The walls of Damascus loomed large in the background. Beatrice had let the city control her–no. She had controlled herself.

Come now, Beatrice. Don’t blame a place for what was your own desire. You were mad. So you killed. You killed them just like they killed your family.

We’re all even now, aren’t we?

Coins III

What they expected to be a simple return to the encampment turned into anything but. They had lost a number of men on the streets of Damascus, and while they were on the path back, children sprang out, from behind trees, rocks, from hiding places underneath in the ground, from dark places, not simple caves but the real dark places of this world, the true nether regions, the bottommost areas, beyond the river Styx of man’s heart.

Telos and his men became pinned down around a rocky ridge, trading gunfire with the children who seemed to be everywhere. They would shimmer against the muddy-green landscape: appearing, shooting, vanishing.

Was it a trick of the eyes? Was it a trick of reality?

The fight was lasting longer than Telos would have liked, and he could sense that old panic returning. They had to fucking get out of here. If they stayed, they were going to be slaughtered. Telos couldn’t focus, he couldn’t breathe, Jesus, holy fuck, they were all going to be murdered, right here, right now, we have to leave, oh my God we’re all going to die, here it comes now, here comes the spirit of Damascus, it has come to kill us all, all I can do is open my arms and embrace the coming oblivion, here I am death: take me.

Through Her Mismatched Eyes III

Cavillace languished on the tree, desolate, staring into the ground. She had spent most of the day crying but she could cry no more, she was dry. Maybe she had gotten over the whole thing, or maybe she was beyond sadness, some strange realm of unemotion where nothing really affected anything and it was all just a bad dream, separate from reality.

This couldn’t be real, this couldn’t be her life. What had happened to her carefree years, what had happened to simplicity, to earnest living and happy times? There was shit on her feet. She gagged and tried to throw up, but only a small stream of yellow spittle dribbled out.

How could this be reality? This was so different from before. Such a stark contrast. Such juxtaposition. She didn’t even blame Telos anymore, she was too tired of blaming people and especially him, she was exhausted from hating and wanting revenge, that wasn’t her, that was the other man, the other man that was him, he wanted revenge.

She screamed, loudly and shrilly, purging herself of both of them, both of those men, those men who didn’t really care about her, they had just used her, they had abused her! A few people near her stopped and stared, shrugged it off and continued on. She isn’t either of those things, she isn’t naive love and she isn’t vengeance.

She is Cavillace.

But what does that mean?

Coins II

How many of them are kids?? Are all of them kids! Holy shit. Telos didn’t know what to do. His troops were still firing; apparently they hadn’t realized they had just murdered seven kids. In fact, it felt like they were shooting more, the bullets were coming faster and louder. Telos felt suffocated. He had to get out of here.

He couldn’t just leave his group though. They were in a firefight! Fuck, Telos, stop being a coward. This is war. Eoin sent those children out to die, out to screw with your head, it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t your fault, he put them there, in front of your bullets, Jesus, don’t let it get to you okay, throw it off, this is war goddammit!

Seized suddenly with an unknown furor, Telos grabbed a gun from one of the people next to him, and stood up above their cover, firing directly into the windows of the building. He slowly walked sideways out into the middle of the street, firing the whole time. When he stopped walking he stopped shooting and there was silence.

Everyone in the building was dead.

Slinging the gun across his back, he began to walk back out of Damascus. He didn’t understand what Eoin had done to this town, but it was unspeakable, irreversable, and fighting for its freedom was a lost cause.

Coins I

Telos had decided he needed to test the power of the city, now that it had decided to rise up against him. He put together a large contingent, over a hundred men, and marched on the south-eastern gate of Damascus.

They approached in two columns, hidden down on the sides of the main road. Surprisingly, they encountered no resistance while entering the city. Telos became wary, but wanted to see this force that he had heard of. So they continued into the city.

Damascus appeared deserted. Cars were stopped in the middle of roads, papers blowing around, sort of apathetically, as if to make the gesture of emptiness, yes, look, it’s barren, nobody to see here, just us pieces of paper dancing around like it’s the goddamn prom!

The silence was broken eventually. A gunshot here. They took cover behind the cars, the opened doors, the empty facades and upturned counters. Faces appeared in buildings across the streets. Flashes of gunfire. Telos didn’t shoot, he just watched. He was fascinated.

Soon the battle was joined as the shooting became regular from both sides. There was some screaming from around one of the corners, and a small group of people ran out, wielding guns and knives. Their guns blazed wildly, but they were quickly killed.

Something was not right, though. Their bodies were too small, too youthful. Telos choked. Jesus. They were children.

Eaglets V

It was so damn hard to think about the campaign after Cavillace had returned. Plus, Beatrice was nowhere to be found. Telos’ head hurt. Every day when he woke up, he felt washed up and beaten, exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all. Wiping his face with his hands, he exited his tent to find the whole camp in an uproar.

He grabbed someone and found out that Eoin had managed to mobilize the entire city against Telos. The news had come from an early morning raid, organized by one of Telos’ chief captains. The raiders found themselves up against overwhelming numbers and were quickly gunned down. Only a couple men made it back, at least one bullet in each of them.

Telos found himself ruffled.

He didn’t understand this new tactic, he couldn’t envision how the entire city – the whole city, men, women, and children, right? – would stand against him. Didn’t they hate Eoin, too? How… why… he didn’t, just couldn’t fathom it.

Was he the bad guy? Was he the crazy, power-hungry tyrant?

No. He couldn’t be. He didn’t beat people at the drop of a hat, and murder them in alleys. He wasn’t bad. He was right. He was justice.

He wasn’t bad. He wasn’t evil.

I am good. I am right.