The agony of that soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair. It was evident that his captor did not care for even his own success or how he would be remembered; he would quietly pass in history as just another craftsman, keeping the status quo of our hatred for one another because he wanted to prove that we cannot change our nature, only reshape it to the times.
There, then, he sat, the sign and symbol of a man without faith, hopelessly holding up hope in the midst of despair when the very ground beneath him shook violently, as though the earth shuddered at hearing his cry. In that tarn of dejection he watched as men stormed into his cell and drug him down the hallway amongst the fires and broken glass that now littered the walkway, towing his feet behind him. An eruption of noise, which to him seemed far into the distance, yet those around him could discern as yelling and gunfire was trying to draw him back to the reality before him. It was stark contrast of the moments before being lectured to as a child in church. His focus returned for a moment, long enough to see William amongst the fog of unfamiliar faces. He could see the nature of animals fighting between themselves for leadership. Slowly the men parted and became quiet as Alex was presented to their de facto leader as an ox lead to the alter for sacrifice. Finally thrown at their knees Alex could feel the weight of their gawking desire to spill his blood at their feet come over him though the darkness.
Nightmares are curious because they are the unacknowledged part of all of us, a part that rages quietly within our dreams. Yet when that nightmare comes to fruition, the very poetry of fear is embodied and overwhelms the senses. And in that moment, he became detached from the world around him to become just another ghost in a story, passed on until forgotten to time. The object of his fears rested against his temple, the cool muzzle of the weapon that had claimed so many other souls, it became a welcoming feeling to his forehead. It made warm and flush by the subconscious activity around him. His mind lost, broken and numb to the battle encompassing him. Through the daze, he opened his eyes and could see as William yelled furiously directing men to move cameras and get ready to show the world the impending execution.
Alex could breath in the familiar aroma of death once again, as it had so closely followed him throughout the war. It filled his lungs in its attempt to suffocate him and he could taste the bitter mar as he exhaled slowly through his open mouth. The shroud did not leave as the stage lights burst onto his face, instead it made him fixate on a small red light above the camera, as if the blood of those who died before him drew him to it. He knew William was pontificating once again into the homes and minds of an audience he could not see but still touch and manipulate into knowing the ker that shared the scene was the idol of their oppressing nation.
All the while William, gun in hand, ranging for revenge, spoke as the sound of gunfire and explosions drew near. He was determined to show the world Alex’s death, show the world how it was easy to control the weakness of another person. He moved around to behind his lamb, offering his newest sacrifice to them. Alex could feel the echo of the hammer being pulled back on the weapon itself, he thought about what the world he once loved so dear, and what would happen to it now that he was about to leave it. Whatever future was to come was bleak, any hope for unity suppressed by the hate he fought during his last days, sacrificing himself and his family for an idea that would die with him.
Sensing the time for his departure being near, he lowered his head. Alex took a breath, feeling it was his last and let the air slowly leave his lungs. He imagined how his old teacher had felt knowing he was going to die yet had the strength to look death in the eye and openly embrace it. Another lesson one that was never openly discussed between them, but one that had culminated due to every discussion in and out of the class room had ultimately lead to the present.
He closed his eyes and felt the moment of pause that happens when one voluntarily holds their breath unexpectedly, scream throughout his entire body. It was a moment that was sort lived and interrupted after the weapon had echoed its wielders verse. Alex could feel the warm splash of blood against his scalp, as the thunderous outcry of hate made him limp, collapsing to the floor. The warmness faded against the stained concrete beneath his head, stained from the other countless souls that had found their solace from torture broadcasted into the countless homes to feed the hatred of others whom enjoyed the cathartic suspense and longer for more after each death.
That hate was perpetual because humanity allowed it. It was wanted due to providing reason to the reality that they had been molded into, deemed necessary to provide justice for oppression. It was a form of salvation for the mob that had been raised to challenge social order, vindicating their actions, providing a sacrifice of blood to water a suffocating weed to the flower trying to bloom.
A mob is an army, waiting to break free, a militia who has yet to bring life to an organized thought other than anger, and that anger had been given another lamb at the alter, provided by a shepherd to instigate the pack of wolves he presided over.
Moments passed as Alex could dimly see a group of men running into the control room and the men from the shadows around him dropping to the floor, preceded by the crimson tide that burst from their bodies. The pain finally came from the blackness as Eli slid on the ground to Alex’s side, a pain he could feel in his shoulder. In the firefight, Alex had been hit by a distracted executioner, one who had lowered his weapon, striking away from his intended target.
Looking slowly at the other men laying about him as Eli offered words of encouragement, Alex made eye contact with William who had been hit in the shoulder as well. The two men gazed at one another, with a sense of wonder. Elijah finally broke through, his words the sirens call Alex needed.
“Alex, you have two choices. We can rid the world of this fanatic’s anger right now a move many people would understand why we did, or wait and take him to a public trial. This war is over.”
“Know this,” William croaked from his back. “Some may view me as fanatical, but in the company of my peers, I’m patriotic. It all depends on your view the world.” Removing his gaze from the pair before him to the bodies that lay around him he continued. “It wont matter if I live or die Alex, eventually this evil, this hatred will grow, it may not come to your shores today it may not come for generations from now, but al long as it festers, as long as it fosters an endless amount of minds and tares at any grievance of the heart, it will some day burn your world as well. All battlements will eventually fall, either to sand, time, or your enemy. What you have to decide are which ones are worth your effort and resources to fortify, and which you need to create with the intention of them to fail, if only to slow the advancement of decay and better protect what you value most. But if you kill me now, remember, I may light the fires to guide the ideals of hell, yet I am merely its zephyr. If I die in the homes of millions of people, the tempest will come and that storm will rage on until the earth herself lay in ash. For them I’ll be the martyr and you the murderer.”
Alex turned his head to face the little red dot above the camera. It was still light, faithful as a lighthouse in the darkness, beckoning him to the watchful eyes of countless souls watching this unfold before them. He attempted to reach his feet, but realized right away he needed Eli’s help. Motioning to him the two friends stood up and made their way to the flashing red light.
Stopping a few feet from the camera, he gathered himself and spoke to a world he could not see but knew existed.
“It is time for us to put aside our differences and come together once again. This war is over. Those of you who surrender your arms will receive a fair hearing. Those who continue to fight, and welcome violence, will be hunted and dealt with in kind. William Lynch, a man who has enticed you to pick up arms, to stalk and kill any man that isn’t in agreement with the dogma he preached, will be held and tried publicly at a date to be determined. Let us rebuild the world we tore apart, if you can please help rebuild our cities. We’ll speak again soon, but for now, res
t knowing that the war has ended.”
The phrase echoed in his head once again, Even Hell has its heroes. It had been so long passed in his mind but it found its way back to him, almost two years since the day it was asked. In that time the world had tried to kill it self, but he helped find meaning for it to live. The cities that had been torn apart had been rebuilt. The Great Northern Pillar was due to open once again a few days from the present, and the war machines that had been created we decommissioned and used once again for civilian reasons.
Alex was saved that day because of a weapon that had been created to quickly deploy soldiers from drop ships into enemy hot zones, a weapon that many died to protect, and one Baldr held for only one man’s use. A secondary tracker had been placed in his boot for Eli to follow and swoop in once he was sure. Since that day they were retrofitted to provide materials to building crews to help them work all hours in their efforts to resurrect the greatness they had once built.
It was a long road to reach this moment. Lynch had been tried and today was the day for his sentencing, Alex was set to speak outside the court building on Nicaea, addressing the world once again from the memorial that was build in the grounds between the congressional and the courthouse. It was his plan to light an eternal flame memorializing all those whose lives were lost, and do so before the ruling was handed down.
Rumors had found themselves materializing as to what Alex would say, many of them foreshadowing his wishes for a quick execution of the man. Speculation ran wild with the fairness of the quick trial. There were still people on both sides who felt the other had somehow bought the ruling away from the other. The road to uniting was filled with these questions; sympathies for a person or ideal never disappear quietly for the true believer.
Yet there he stood, sun on his face awaiting for his moment to address the journey they past two years had taken them on. He waited patiently and thought over his words time and time again, hoping that when it was time for him to voice them, they would be as he meant them. He was finally signaled with a count down from ten, and calmly waited for zero. Then he spoke.
“Every age demands its own monsters. We have a conceited society, based on arrogance and entitlement, who feel that their views were the ideals that should be passed down regardless of their valor, and with this generation that darkness found a voice. A muse whom made us all realize that when the horn summons its warriors for battle, it is not only the righteous but also the damned that will answer its call. It made us ask ourselves questions about our countries, our people, our ancestors. So today I will pose the question that we must address at our core to change this world.”
“Who’s bloodline is more righteous than the other? Neither when both require the blood of the other for them to flourish, the bloodlust gets perpetuated through the anger and desire of one line to be right or superior through generational reinforcement of our fathers. When the blood stains the earth, the rocks do not know nor do they care from which throat it fell. Likewise the waters care not who’s father lay in its stark pools and to the lion and wolf, all blood clenches their hunger. Yet the most complex minds fight to the death over the most feeble and smallest shards of life, a grain of sand his neighbor owns.”
“How are we to know which hopes and dreams of the street corner pontiff will mature into the nightmares and horrors of reality? Standing on his empty crate, the miter sitting atop his head, that crown of hate he wore as he preached to the masses, only gained its increased luster from each man, woman or child that he rallied to arms. A vicar, appointed in the back rooms of bars by those who decided to no longer be tolerant of the decrees of others, telling them how a life should be lived. Preying on the idea of reform, creating a porcelain future and then reinforcing it with cement, weighing it with anger while gently dressing the façade with lies.”
“Quietly they raised themselves as an army, militants, dedicated to their leader and his cause, which reflected their own, but behind the mirror hid the sinister throne the had built for him with their ears and minds, each mans mirror only reflecting their own imagination, without ever allowing a glimpse into its inner secretes. Through the looking glass they could not hear the echoes of their former selves, now cast out as daemons of reason from the grotto of fanaticism. For that reason, fanatics are picturesque, mankind would rather see gestures than listen to reasons.”
“Yet, if a Man is to survive, he will have learned to take a delight in the essential differences between man and between cultures. He will learn that differences in ideas and attitudes are a delight, part of life’s exciting variety, not something to fear. That fear is a symptom, not the problem itself. Believing wholly in half truths and targeted propaganda just because of a blind ideological following makes one innocent of any knowledge of the past but also consciously imbued with the goals of their leader. It’s a tool to get us to hate one another instead of the enemy breathing in front of us. It makes us turn away from our unity to the dangerous of one twisted thought of ethnical supremacy. A hollow notion when it comes to taking the life of another man. Humanity must be found surviving this day and bring justice to thousands of lives is why we are here. Our friends, and family who were removed from this world without their opportunity to pursue a life of happiness to the fullest extent of their being.”
“It’s knowing your personal views of justice can be set aside for social order and how you value that order. If it is higher than being the righteous hand yourself verses letting the hammer fall by those you entrust to do so. Divinity will often provide us with torment and the moment of self defined justice but will let you decide how the moment passes. That moment will evolve the character of who you are. When you have every right to let the hammer fall and you do not strike the deathly blow you provide providence the option to make your suffering more than the eternal despair you’ve experienced.”
“The institutions we hold dear are not the things we should be pledging loyalty to. The country is the real thing, the substantial thing, the eternal thing; it is the thing to watch over, and care for, and be loyal to; institutions are extraneous, they are its mere clothing, and clothing can wear out, become ragged, cease to be comfortable, cease to protect the body from winter, disease, and death. It is time we understand that our misplaced nationalism, is not something we should pair against one another for survival and extinction, for that is nothing but an extension into the realm of cultural and ethnic supremacy.”
For the first time he looked down at his hands. They weren’t dark from the ash and soot that he had sifted through on the first day of the conflict many months ago. They weren’t dark from the mud he bathed in that same night as he waited for his shot. And they hadn’t been darkened from the kiln of war that he emerged from, that made his resolve look as strong as stone while his sprit, fragile as porcelain. His hands had not been stained by the blood of those he killed to defend the droves of innocent people. They had been washed clean and still remained the same dark color.
“We brought freedom once again to these lands and it was bought from tyranny with blood from our families, friends and strangers who elected to die for you. Childhoods were traded for it, marriages, and happiness too, yet today here I stand and I ask that we set aside what we perceive as a just sentence, for one that will heal the wounds caused by those sacrifices. That’s what this flame beside me represents, the moment we realized that another sacrifice, another life, is just a martyr for someone else instead of the end of a cycle. Let us choose, that by this flame, others may live. From here, let us do something divine with consistency each day. We have passed though a tunnel that we did not see the day we woke to blood on the street, and yet now we see some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears, we should not retreat now and continue the cycle and our own home be the gallows.”
“Today know that I ask for William Lynch to not pay the ultimate price for his actions, but to live in prison for the rest of his life so that he may come to terms with his actions instead of cutting that span shor
t and denying every soul their due moment in his mind. Ultimately, the decision is yours.”
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