Post by tylatz on Oct 28, 2009 23:28:12 GMT -5
Des stood before the small assembly of patriots spattered in blood of their allies as Aurora fast approached with her bounty. There had been no intention to still occupy these grounds rank with the smell of gunpowder and death yet here they stood between piles of rubble that still smoldered to render honor upon those souls whom paid the ultimate price for the allusive ideal of freedom. Lifeless shells of good men and women lay in front of them in an alcove of a collapsed mine shaft wired with explosives and thermite. At a time like this he wanted to tell his comrades that this was the price of freedom, but the red eyes, post-battle haze, and tears told him how empty those vein words would be. He swallowed hard in an attempt to squelch the burning in the back of his throat at the thought that this was only the price of an empty victory. Far short of the freedom they sought.
“Born in flame, ending in flame! Thy picture,” Des squeezed the trigger in his hand, the old poem rolling off his tongue, “in a golden frame.” The bodies were consumed in the brilliant light of the ignited thermite forcing those at attendance to look away. The explosives rimming the walls detonated and collapsed the stone enclosing their allies in a last huff that expelled the lingering souls of the fallen.
He left the others that still stood in silent mourning. The limit was on him and his lip was giving in to a telling snarl reinforced by labored breathing. The sting of gun powder in his eyes was causing him to tear up or at least it was his excuse. Into the jungle he vanished to be alone to hide his weakness and pain. From his vest he produced a small flask from which he drank heavily. It was an idea he conflicted with often as a member of the EFGF that he strained himself to overcome. Neither the pain nor the fear of death was what stopped him, what made him hesitate in those most critical moments. And now it has taken place. He was helpless to change their fate and could only watch as they were cut down around him. It should have been fine with him in the lead. If anyone were to get hurt it should have been him. Instead he sat alone in the undergrowth nursing fractured ribs and a dinged up silver flask of Bacardi while the others smolder beneath stone.
“This sucks,” he muttered. He was trained to be a hardened soldier, but Des Mielle was a man that never lived that life. He was a hunter, a tracker, a damn journalist! At one time he thought after losing his parents early that he could handle this situation; what a foolish notion. “Fuck, this sucks.” From his vest he produced a second object, a small black box. He stared at it with another swig passing his lips. “Stop being a fucking coward.”
“Des!” Jess interrupted the small purchase of seclusion Mielle had afforded himself. “Hey, we've got to talk.”
Des eyed the clean clothing, brushed hair, and clear face before diverting his attention to the box and flask in hand. “About what?”
“What do we do now?” The diplomat crouched next to Des, balancing himself with one hand on a tree.
“Do now?” Des grinned at the arrival of Aura's gift and squeezed a groan from the pair of hinges along the backside of the box. There were few shimmers of light that could pierce the canopy even this shallow into the wild, but in that dim light there was a moment of clarity that he could not deny. “We have tea, my friend.”
“Tea?” Jess frowned at the odd response.
“The best the Amenokal has to offer.”
The frown fell to a slack jaw and closed eyes, “fuck me.”
Des erupted in laughter and yelped in the corresponding pain from his ribs. Bacardi filled his mouth and drowned the pain with the singe of strong liquor. They were going to pay a visit to a very dear friend to Jess, but first Des had work to do. “Now, about that Zaku ...”
“Born in flame, ending in flame! Thy picture,” Des squeezed the trigger in his hand, the old poem rolling off his tongue, “in a golden frame.” The bodies were consumed in the brilliant light of the ignited thermite forcing those at attendance to look away. The explosives rimming the walls detonated and collapsed the stone enclosing their allies in a last huff that expelled the lingering souls of the fallen.
He left the others that still stood in silent mourning. The limit was on him and his lip was giving in to a telling snarl reinforced by labored breathing. The sting of gun powder in his eyes was causing him to tear up or at least it was his excuse. Into the jungle he vanished to be alone to hide his weakness and pain. From his vest he produced a small flask from which he drank heavily. It was an idea he conflicted with often as a member of the EFGF that he strained himself to overcome. Neither the pain nor the fear of death was what stopped him, what made him hesitate in those most critical moments. And now it has taken place. He was helpless to change their fate and could only watch as they were cut down around him. It should have been fine with him in the lead. If anyone were to get hurt it should have been him. Instead he sat alone in the undergrowth nursing fractured ribs and a dinged up silver flask of Bacardi while the others smolder beneath stone.
“This sucks,” he muttered. He was trained to be a hardened soldier, but Des Mielle was a man that never lived that life. He was a hunter, a tracker, a damn journalist! At one time he thought after losing his parents early that he could handle this situation; what a foolish notion. “Fuck, this sucks.” From his vest he produced a second object, a small black box. He stared at it with another swig passing his lips. “Stop being a fucking coward.”
“Des!” Jess interrupted the small purchase of seclusion Mielle had afforded himself. “Hey, we've got to talk.”
Des eyed the clean clothing, brushed hair, and clear face before diverting his attention to the box and flask in hand. “About what?”
“What do we do now?” The diplomat crouched next to Des, balancing himself with one hand on a tree.
“Do now?” Des grinned at the arrival of Aura's gift and squeezed a groan from the pair of hinges along the backside of the box. There were few shimmers of light that could pierce the canopy even this shallow into the wild, but in that dim light there was a moment of clarity that he could not deny. “We have tea, my friend.”
“Tea?” Jess frowned at the odd response.
“The best the Amenokal has to offer.”
The frown fell to a slack jaw and closed eyes, “fuck me.”
Des erupted in laughter and yelped in the corresponding pain from his ribs. Bacardi filled his mouth and drowned the pain with the singe of strong liquor. They were going to pay a visit to a very dear friend to Jess, but first Des had work to do. “Now, about that Zaku ...”