The World Ends With Me

May I introduce, formally, the Dark Savior. Hate him if you must, and hate him you probably rightly should. What he does, he does for us. And what he fights is Fate.

Hope feels heavy in my hands. Its weight is both a burden and a reminder.

 

Do they know, I wonder. It has not been the first time I've thought such things. Do they even realize that beauty can so easily become ugly, that love is hate, or that life itself is born to die?

Do they even realize that the world is ending itself?

 

My arm reaches behind and tugs again at the straps, pulling my ancient shield closer. It is a movement repeated an endless amount of times, nearly automatic. It'd be purely instinctual if I weren't stopping to think about it now, how it's all done without second thought. I devote more effort to breathing.

 

The ground beneath my plated feet crunches loudly, the overgrowth plenty thick here and obscuring where the road ends and the dirt begins. The branches from the trees flanking me whip against my armor, splashing undisturbed dew that seeps inside. It feels both foreign and yet refreshing.

 

So could they? Does the farmer consider such thoughts when plowing his fields, or does he worry instead whether or not the crops will grow this season? The past couple have borne only scarce and withered specimens; hardly enough to subsist upon, let alone sell. Does his wife? Or is she too preoccupied doing everything within her power to keep their newborn alive? No matter how many times she places a cool towel upon his brow, the fever will not subside. Nor will the rot growing within her; a secret she keeps well. But her older children suspect; for why would their mother pass them her dinner every night? Why would she?

 

Why would she waste precious food on a dying body?

 

Till the land. Mill the grain. Feed the horses. Sew the patches. Butcher the chickens. Light the fires. All to keep the children alive. Let them live another day, survive. Maybe someday they will bear children of their own, and sacrifice themselves so that those offspring might live. A desperate gambit against time, live one more day. Isn't that what continuing the species was all about? But time was running out. Did they know?

 

I couldn't stand to watch them through the windows anymore, so I had left them. And yet, when I saw the flames from the road later that evening, and heard the screams being carried along the wind...I crumbled.

 

I run back to the village, only to find everything in flames. Perhaps a fallen candle. Perhaps a spark on the hay. Perhaps arson. Perhaps simple misfortune. All explanations led to the same end: the town was on fire. The conflagration was skipping from rooftop to rooftop, creeping beneath the sun-baked tiles and rubbing itself against the straw underneath until it all burst into blazing red and orange. From the farms already came the heavy scent of charred meat.

 

I look up, following the angry flickers of the consuming flames up into the night sky. The dust and ashes thrown up into the air reflect back the searing lights below, setting the local atmosphere a toxic, rich orange. The moon shines like a reddened, shy face. I hear the gentle panting of a giant's breath; all the combined roars of the fires. Shadows dance between the swaying trees, flashing back and forth in ways sunlight could never guide. The gray ashes flutter through the air, floating down to the ground with delicate grace. It's beautiful.

 

Within my armor I feel none of the heat. There is only cold inside, as if the temperatures outside were but the dim warmth of a campfire leagues away; seen but sensed only in the imagination. My sword, Hope, at my side is lighter than ever; collected air contained within a sheath. I feel its power shift like a moving cloud, and I long to grab it. Eternally sharp, I know now that at this moment I'd be able to slice through mountains. The feeling, that hope, is all around me, I can sense it wafting from several of the buildings. From those homes where the screaming was loudest I could feel Hope's aura ebb, for that was mostly panic. But from some of the silent ones, Hope became so light it could have floated clear out of its sheath. For the people within, their pleas had just reached that cusp right between the climax of fantasy and when harsh reality grinds itself in.

 

'Right now, right now the doors will burst open, and I'll be saved.'

'Right now, right now, the wall will collapse, and I'll scramble to safety.'

'Right now, right now, the angels will come for me.'

 

I hold out a palm, and twin ashflakes alight upon my fingertips. I slowly raise them to my eyes, beholding the chaotic patterns held within, noting their asymmetry and dullness. Snowflakes may be crystal microcosms of order, but they are reserved only for the colder regions. These ashflakes, they are everywhere. They are universal. I close my eyes and softly inhale, savoring the husky odors of flame and soot. My eyes flutter open just in time to watch the thermals carry away the ashflakes and spin them high into a mesmerizing spiral.

 

Deeper past the living pyres I smell cooked meat, rich in abundance and more pungent than ever before. The sky here, as I come closer, is filled with smoke with swirls of gritty black. I follow the undeniable scent, and behold the crescendo of the flames rippling throughout a pavilion. The smoke is at its thickest here, and black flakes twirl in the superheated air. They dance before me and cling to me, and I watch as my blood-red armor now becomes ebon, inch by inch.

 

The entrance threshold to the gathering place is covered by writhing flames, greedily feasting upon its succulent wooden frame. The only sounds I can gleam from within are the crackle of the fires and dried flesh. Occasionally there is the rattle of bone. Perhaps the township was in meeting when the flames broke out? Or maybe they had fled here, hoping to find solace?  The reasons do not matter. All of them are dead now.

 

I glance down to my sword, and feel from it nothing. The people in this crematorium are too long dead.

 

I turn away, and head back towards the road, letting the burning villa flicker across my shoulders and shield. The soot continues to gather upon me and trails after, begging for company and succor. I spare none. Yet, I find one more house, here on what might be considered the outskirts. The brush surrounding this place is already dried to wooden bone and crumbling beneath the greedy flames, and the branches of the great oak nearby are already dissipating within the engulfing inferno upon its crown.

 

But I know this house. I watched it from afar for many moons and many suns. I've watched the seasons pass throughout the faces of those who lived therein. Those who now crumble into ash along with the rest of the folken. Yet, Hope ripples. All is not lost just yet...

 

I step up to the door, paying the licking tongues of orange and red no heed. The wood is already dried to the core and rapidly becoming brittle as the heat saps it of all valuable moisture and strength. But it supports my heavy footsteps, resounding dully like it were any other day, and I any other guest to this porch. My hand reaches for the knob, but a soft pounding not of my own volition grows louder from behind the door. Leaning in, I can make out the faintest coughs of a young girl, and sobbing. So not all are dead just yet.

 

"Come on, Talan. I think I hear somthin. Get up! C'mon you can get up! You have'ta!"

 

The knob suddenly begins to turn. This time, my old instincts do not get the better of me. This time, I know what to do. I grab the knob, and within my plated grip I keep it still. From beyond the door comes yet more coughing, now wheezing, and the brass knob rattles in its frame.

 

"C'mon Talan! Is someone there?"

 

The door shudders as little fists pound desperately. I shove my shoulder against it, digging my heels into the floorboards as I feel the door begin to move forward.

 

"Talan...help. I can't do this alone."

 

It's getting harder to hear. The flames are crackling louder, and the smoke from the windows puffs out in greater quantities.

 

"I can't hold Rally too."

 

Smoke now billows forth in droves from beneath the door, flowing down the porch like a river. The door finally stops shuddering, and the knob loosens. There is no sound but of flames gorging and of wood splintering as the beams inside lose all integrity and at last collapse.

 

It's better this way. Why flee when you're already half-dead, when all that you know is already charred and ash? This world is already ending; to what point would there be in prolonging needless suffering? Why linger so feebly, just to die ingloriously and meaninglessly? Sometimes death is not cowardice, sometimes it is the most humane thing to do.

 

I step away, and make my way back towards the road. The night sky now begins to bleed of daylight, and above me are two waves of burning orange glory, the sun and the town. As morning creeps above and I find the fork in my way, I choose the road that men have forgotten, that men would rather not take. The underbrush keels beneath my steps, and the clawing branches wipe away the grime and ash. This is not the first time. It is not the last time.

 

I tug at the straps holding my shield without thinking of it, simply reacting to the slack. The brush is getting thicker here, enough to obstruct my way, so I unsheathe my sword.

 

Do they know, I wonder again, harkening back to that night not so long ago. Do they suspect, or even gleam it?

 

Likely not. Life is hard, I think as I heft my weapon up. To bear such thoughts is even harder.

 

Hope feels heavy in my hands. Its weight is both a burden and a reminder.

Author's Note

I usually proofread my works, however as always I'm sure there are typos and syntax errors. I appreciate any and all notices of that, and will work to correct those. If I haven't do know that I did acknowledge your notice and try implementing it, but found that it detracted from the effect I wanted and so omitted it.

Reviews

[Nancy Lee Shrader]

Congrats on your winning story

[Ruby Moon]

hmmm...not an evil chac but one who has lost hope without losing the child-like wonder of the world around
:
but his sword is named Hope... if it feels light when there is hope and lay like a burden in his hands, does that mean that he is without hope?
:S