A Circle has No End

Inspired by the Wheel of Time. War never ends.

A Circle has No End

            In strode the forward elements of the Hakmedies Legion, their ashen banner of a blood eagle at the fore as they burst into the Sanctum, the great bastion which in five hundred years had never known the footfall of an enemy. The Hakmedies Legion, first over the wall, their swords bloody and their armor dented, did not go to enjoy the spoils of the city as the other units did as they crested the as yet unbroken walls of the great city of Leliander, rape, pillage, plunder, and most coveted, souls. They would take what they desired from the host when their final duty was done, and any one who stood against them would earn why it was that they crested the alabaster walls first.  

The great doors of the Sanctum, the largest building in all Nine Arondi, opened slowly though a hundred Hakmedies pushed on each one. Neither Blocked nor barricaded, they resisted as though they knew the hour and would give the final act of defiance for the stricken city. The legion did not sweep in as the doors opened, but pushed the doors until they fully opened. The doors fought until with a final clang they stood open. The sound echoed through the great empty Sanctum and over the city itself. Every ear heard it, and for a moment the city was silent. Even in the ever loyal ranks of the Hakmedies, hearts had a moment of doubt, questioning if this truly was what was needed, or wanted. But it was only a moment. The Hakmedies strode into the Sanctum, and behind them the city died.

The tower shook as they crossed its great hall, weapons in hand but not readied. They did not see anyone, where before there was often a thousand scurrying about. The Sanctum was dark, illuminated only by the fire from Leliander. Battle hardened though they were, the Hakmedies quivered at the sight of the Sanctum, the Tower of Lights, darkened.

They marched across its cavernous inside, and walked in two ordered rows up the grand flight of stairs. They were hard warriors, made in the fires of war. Each of them had killed a hundred times. There were no warriors who could compare. They knew who they were there to kill, however. Nothing could guarantee their safety, safe perhaps for their commander.

As they moved methodically up the stairs, each of the Hakmedies had their eyes on the lead figure. Detail was obscured by the darkness which now grasped the Hall of Light. He was the Betrayer, the one whose dream brought down the grand empire and whose fervor led the Hakmedies to stand there at that time. He always spoke with a great passion for changing the Arondi, but as they walked up the steps he had known all his life, which had once been his birthright, the Hakmedies could see that there was for the first time a hesitation, a remorse.

The leader of the legion, the Blood Eagle himself, walked up the stairs in a trance. He carried no weapon of his own, not today, though the legionaries had seen him wield a sword with such deadly skill that no wizard could hold against him. Instead, his right hand was clasped upon the banister, his fingers running over the detail, almost as if he knew that his dreams, dreamt so long ago and brought about only by long hours of bitter work, now stood to lay low that which he held dearest.

The man who sat at the top of the tower was mad, and the only way to save the Arondi was to take his life. That thought, which had been impossible for so long, which had been a fire inside him, was finally a reality. It would come to pass this day. After all which he had lost, it hardly seemed real. He almost wanted to turn back, to use the greatest band of warriors ever assembled to save the city from its death throes.

But if there was a time for turning back, it had long since passed.

There were a thousand rooms which opened up from the stair, but the Hakmedies ignored these. They followed the Blood Eagle, who knew the building better than anyone still living, apart from one.

They reached the top of the stair and stepped out onto a floor of glass beneath a great dome of crystal. The legionaries had been training for this moment, but even they could not stop themselves from looking down and marveling at the work they were fated to ruin. One or two prayed that they were doing the right thing.

The Blood Eagle did not stop on the glass floor. He had learned to walk on it, it was ordinary to the point of banality. His steps quickened as he crossed the glass, momentary doubts dispelled. Certainty drove him on. This was what it had all been leading to. To save the man, the infected limb was removed. To save civilization, a city, perhaps the only truly great city in the Nine Arondis, had to fall.

He reached the Great Doors of Dawn, the sight of which in an age passed had made dignitaries sweat and brought those summoned to it to weep. The doors had once captured the sunlight as soon as it crested the mountains and held until long after the sun had set. Their design was one of a hand holding the sun, and in impossibly minute detail told the story which everyone knew. The story which the Blood Eagle knew to be a lie.

As a child, he had memorized it all, and recited it to amazed courtiers. Even now, a hundred years later, he knew it by heart. Placing a hand on the doors, he turned back to his legion. He had expected them to be standing just behind him, as they had in a hundred battles, but instead they were wavering on the glass.

With a derisive snarl, the Blood Eagle pushed open the Great Doors of Dawn. They opened as easily as they always had, welcoming back the son they had lost. One final reminder, but now was not the time for thoughts from a lifelong lost. This was the final moment of action. Behind him, the legion advanced.

They stood in the receiving hall, a palace of crystal which caught the eye and sent the mind spinning. It was only a trick, used to magnify his power. They did not deceive the Blood Eagle. He had stood in this very hall and learned about the Arondis. His earliest memories were of this hall, and the great throne of light itself which his father sat in.

The doors might hold the sunlight for far longer than natural, but the Throne of Light never let go of the light which touched it. It was the red and pink of sunsets and sunrises, the brilliant yellow of the sun, the orange flickering of flame, the pale blue light of his eyes. The throne was him, in a way. And he was there.

The Savior of Light, The Dawn, the one who was said to be Thosodous himself reborn, sat where he always sat. The Blood Eagle had never seen him rise from that seat. It was said that he had been wounded by a vile dart just after the Blood Eagle had been born. Perhaps it was even true.

Most couldn’t see past the light from the throne, but the Blood Eagle could. The withered husk of a man sat and watched him approach, his tangled mat of hair falling over the sides of the throne. He wore the same white robes he had worn for the last three centuries. The arms, which had not moved in all the days the Blood Eagle could remember, were folded in his lap. The body was always dying, but the eyes, they burned with a light, an intelligence, that none achieved. And those eyes were happy. Despite himself, the Blood Eagle shivered.

On either side were a pair of monks, the same pair which were always at his side. One had yellow hair, the other hair black as the night. The Dawn had always enjoyed the symbolism. The two monks watched the legion approach impassively, receiving the conquerors of the city the same way they received the taxes. They were always watching, and gave The Dawn advice whether he asked it or not. It was them, their order. They had poisoned The Dawn, making him think he was Thosodous reborn while his people suffered. The Blood Eagle prepared himself for their treachery.

A whisper filled the room and shook the foundations of the Sanctum. “My son, you have returned to me in my hour of need.”

Behind their captain, the Hakmedies Legion, which had been fanning out across the throne room, froze.

“You are a fool, father,” the Blood Eagle added, tipping his head in the smallest of bows. “I have led the armies here. I was the first over the walls. I am the author of your downfall.”

The eyes never changed. Worse, The Dawn began to laugh, the Hakmedies Legion dropping their weapons to cover their ears. The Blood Eagle held his ground.

“Then it really is you, once again. I thought I had broken the cycle when Capadarian died. I was so certain it would be him. I lived in paranoia for fifty years, waiting for the blade in my back from my most faithful companions, as they had done a hundred times before. When the last of them had died, I thought that I had prevailed at last. I see your face now, and clearly for the first time. You have his nose. I name you Ragvin the Betrayer, my ancient friend and bane.” He laughed again. “Melik has defeated me once again.”

The Dawn did not move, but the Blood Eagle saw him relax. The happiness never left his eyes. Anger boiled in the Blood Eagle.

“Enough,” he shouted. His voice seemed high and weak compared to the rumbling of The Dawn. His anger was childish before the calm of The Dawn. “You are not Thosodous. The Nine Arondis are not ruled by a war between order and chaos. We needed you to rule, not sit and muse on the nature of the dynasties and history. It’s been a hundred years since you did anything to help the people of the lands. This is your failure.”

The Dawn moved. For the first time in his life, the Blood Eagle saw him move. He unfolded his arms to grab the sides of the throne, and shifted his head from one side to the other. “A hundred years. Has it really been that long? The years are not what they once were.” The tower shook, but the Blood Eagle heard the plain curiosity in the tone.

“How could you not know? It is your duty to shepherd these lands. There are millions who depend on it. You failed your duty.” It was strange, he used his most authoritative voice, the one which whipped up the Legion into a frenzy. It sounded like whining here.

The Dawn nodded. “Time does make fools of us all.”

“You have never done anything for these people, not in a hundred years,” the Blood Eagle repeated. “You haven’t moved in all that time.”

“Yes, I have failed. I should have seen it. You are one of my companions, though you are also my son. Clever, Melik, quite clever. This must be remembered for next time.” The last part he added to the two monks who sat at his side.

They nodded in unison and the black haired one spoke. “Lord, it shall be challenging, but I am certain that it will be remembered. We shall do our best.”

“You will fail,” The Blood Eagle screamed, approaching the throne. His hand was on the sword at his side. “For too long you have poisoned his mind and the land. Thosodous is a myth. The Chaos Melik is a myth. All of this is a lie. They have blinded you.”

The blue eyes looked back at The Blood Eagle. Blue, and with a depth like the ocean, endless. There was pity in them. “Are you going to kill me today?” The Dawn’s lips barely moved, but the gentle words shook the tower. The was a great cracking as fissures formed in the crystal around them.

“Yes,” The Blood Eagle whispered. This was not how the day was supposed to go. He had pictured himself standing over the form of a once great man and mercifully setting him free of his prison, perhaps even taking it before the others, especially Teldrian, could sit in it. Teldrian, who thought himself the leader of the rebellion, the orchestrator. But it was the Blood Eagle who began things. Teldrian had been nothing before he found him.

“Then they speak the truth. You are Ragvir the Betrayer. You, whom I loved most of all, have come here to kill me and turn my works over to Melik so that he can destroy them. It has happened a hundred times before. It will happen a hundred times more. You will realize your mistake, and as you have slain me, will wound the cause of Chaos, before taking your own life in your pain. A hundred times you have died by your hand, and hundred times more you will take it.

“By wounding Melik as you kill me, you will give me a chance to restore my lands to peace. Do not weep, my son. I love you know as I have loved you in all my previous lives. Then you were only a companion, but in this life I love you more, for you are my son. Do not hate yourself. You only take on the role which Fate has given you a hundred times. I love you.”

The Blood Eagle was weeping, his hand now firmly grasped on his deadly blade.

The yellow-haired monk spoke. “He will kill us first. Lord, we will look for you when we are reborn again.”

The Dawn inclined his head. “Please do. I look forward to it. We will struggle together against Melik, as we have done before and will do again.”

The Blood Eagle flashed, the sword leaving its scabbard in a whirlwind. In the blink of an eye, he stood back at the bottom of the step, the soft clank of the scabbard filled the silent room. The two monks slumped on the floor, blood pooling about the base of the throne.

The Dawn nodded.

“They served me well. I thank you for setting them about their rebirth. I wonder what they will look like when they meet me again.”

The Blood Eagle began mounting the steps.

“You failed, and now there is an end. We will be free of you. A hundred years of ineptitude, ends tonight. The Will has abandoned you.”

The Dawn raised a weak hand upward, his eyes never left the Blood Eagle, and they never wavered in their affection.

“You think that the Will has abandoned me? I could kill you all now. Die.”

The last word rolled over the Legion, but none of them fell. The Blood Eagle smiled. The Dawn matched it.

“Kneel.”

Again a word rolled over them, but this time they all fell to their knee, pressed down by an invisible hand. The Blood Eagle was knelt before the throne, sweat on his brow as he fought against the Will of The Dawn. He could not rise, could not move, all he could do was struggle against a force he couldn’t see.

Then, as soon as it had come, the pressure was gone.

“I could never Will to hurt you, boy, not when I have spent so much to have you. Not when I love you. Do the duty which fate has assigned to you, and do not hate yourself. It is not your fault.”

Sweating, The Blood Eagle reached him. The Dawn still had the Will which had shaped the Nine Arondis these past five hundred years, but he did not use it. There was love in those eyes, how had he been so foolish to not see it. He drew his sword. It ran with blood. It had all led to this. It was the only end.

The Blood Eagle took The Dawn’s life, and then a moment later took his own.