As he sat on the rock, alone, looking over the ravaged countryside, he could not help but notice the ache in his right hand, like the ache of one’s jaw chewing a mouthful of overcooked meat. His brow glistened with sweat as a prize fighter between rounds, his face smeared with the wet earth of the ground beneath his feet. The armor, while scuffed, appeared to be no worse for the wear, despite relentless use. How could it have come to this? How could a world designed to be perfect erupt into such eternity-altering chaos? Now that it was over, how did they move forward? He did not know, and quite thankfully, it was not his burden to carry, though he did wonder what his role would now be. Naturally, as one of the first, he knew the proper manner of things, but knowing and seeing to their arrangement were two very different propositions. Knowing the proper manner of things may have made sense in the recent past, but now it felt like attempting to rebuild a tower with half the foundation stones no longer present. Certainly the tower could be rebuilt, but it could never be the same. He knew this. They knew this.
His mind shifted back to the now dull ache in his hand. His sword, the ancient of all ancient blades, now sheathed on his left hip, had felt as if it were going to become an embodied extension of his hand. The fighting had been fierce, as relentless as a rushing river in springtime as the snow melts away. His warriors had fought with the tenaciousness of a symphony orchestra, always on key, always on time, never missing a note. There had certainly been no room for error. Even with a battle so eloquently fought, the toll had been high. How is one to process the death of immortal beings? No, there was no way to even process such loss. When he considered the proper manner of things, this most certainly did not fit, anywhere.
One of the younger warriors approached him. The look on his face, a collision between ecstasy and devastation, told him all he needed to know. The war had been won, at a price more unimaginable than the sun failing to rise. The inquiring face and soul-searching depths of the young warrior's eyes asked far more questions than respect would ever allow to be asked out loud. In many ways he wanted to ask himself these very same questions, and yet, out of that same respect, he dare not ask himself. Oh, there certainly would be a time, but now was not it. In a world that operated outside of time, where eternity was time, it suddenly became difficult, no, exhausting, to attempt to piece together the recent events, let alone provide any meaningful guidance or orders to the young warrior. The young warrior seemed unsure how to even be in his presence. Until this time, no immortal being had ever been slain, and now the young warrior was staring at one of the very slayers. Sure, there had been conflicts in the generations of old, but this, this was different. He felt pity for the young warrior, but the mental exhaustion prevented him from easing the awkwardness. He knew outside of the inner cadre few knew the intimate details of the recent days. Certainly they knew eternal violence had occurred. Certainly they had heard rumors of betrayal and hubris, oh yes, hubris far greater than could have been imagined.
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Lost in his own thoughts, forgetting the presence of the young warrior, his mind drifted to thoughts of the beginning. No, not the beginning of this war, nor even the events leading to the war, but the very beginning. Yes, as one of the first, he remembered a far different time, a time when the first of the Malakh were spoken. There had been only twelve then, twelve, and he who spoke of course. Of the twelve, there had been two. Certainly the twelve had been magnificent, but not equal to the two. The two had led the twelve in all manners of things. This was a different time, a time when bravery, wisdom, and integrity superseded all, and the twelve being synonymous with these words embodied them like a snake to shrewdness or a lion with courage. Not only was he one of the twelve, but yes, he was of the two. He had long been the guardian of the twelve, of the Malakh, and of the spoken.
His attention snapped back to the present like a door caught in a gust of wind, halting on the frame as fast as the rush had started. He stared at the young warrior once more, pity swelling in his heart. The young warrior had only heard stories of these times of old, and after this war, these times would only be pushed further into the past like sediment in a rushing river. Levying the necessary fortitude to engage the young warrior, their eyes met, and he remarked, “Not exactly what we anticipated, huh?” The young warrior, startled as a deer caught unaware of it’s surroundings, stammered, providing a listless response to the question. Much like the deer, the young warrior failed to produce a response. He chuckled like a grandfather, musing at his grandchildren over his spectacles. The young warrior, undoubtedly expecting an elegant statement worthy of the twelve, found himself speechless, at the nonchalant question. As he once again found himself staring out over the battlefield he began laughing harder. Not a joyful laugh, nor sinister. A laugh of fatigue, a laugh of regret, a laugh of gratitude. How could these all be contained in a single emotion?
The young warrior, having found his voice, stammered, “No sir, it was not. What do we do now?” What a profoundly elegant question, albeit a predictable one. Certainly the young warrior was seeking guidance to fulfill his role on the hallowed ground before them. Little did he know, he was asking a far deeper question than he or any of the other twelve would have an answer for.
What should they do now?
