Endings
Disclaimer: The characters contained herein belong to Yoshiki Tanaka and other respective parties. No revenue is being made from their use in this fanwork.
The bonfires dotted around the camp burned brightly enough that they would have illuminated the skies, had it been dark. As it was they’d burnt through the night and well into the next day. Every time the flames threatened to burn out more debris was heaped on to the fires. The acrid smoke curled upwards in an obscene parody of incense offered up to an unknown god… or a vengeful one.
Wiping his eyes in an attempt to brush away the stinging smoke, Arslan, King of Pulsar in all but name, stared heavenwards in despair. A long time ago he had speculated that the gods might punish them all for crimes as yet uncommitted. What it that long ago? He couldn’t quite remember, it seemed as if it had been in another lifetime. Perhaps it was. In another lifetime when he’d been an idealistic Prince fighting to regain his country, when his protector hadn’t slain hundreds simply for the joy of killing, when his strategist hadn’t taken it upon himself to begin this ungodly crusade…
Of course that was the problem now, though to call it a simple problem seemed to belittle the all encompassing horror of it all. Arslan couldn’t remember exactly how it had all started but obviously there must have been a beginning somewhere, a place where there had been some rational thought that had led to the madness. It had most likely occurred around the time that the High Temple of Misra had been raised to the ground. The Lucitanians had been understandably joyous over their victory; it became the standard insult that was forever being thrown at the Pulsian forces.
The effect that such a defeat had on them had been so demoralising that Arslan had feared that his army would fall apart. At least he’d told himself that he’d feared it, in reality he’d been in too much of a state of shock to register the full extent of it all. Perhaps as Crown Prince he should have known, perhaps it should have been his actions that would rally his troops, perhaps?
The loss of the core of her Order had strickened the Priestess. Perhaps it had even shaken her faith. Arslan could see that now, though at the time he’d been useless to intervene. Lady Pharangasse had spent days praying for divine guidance, though she might have equally been cursing the Heavens for her fate. To live while so many of her sister priestesses did not. In retrospect, it seemed to him that she might have chosen the latter course, to demand some sort of retribution at any cost.
The Priestess had not been the only one affected. The army itself, through the lower ranks all the way up to their commanders, had felt the blow perhaps not as severely but as a fatal strike against the soul of their nation. How could the soldiers continue to fight when their gods had forsaken them, how could they prevail against the enemy when the Goddess’ own had fallen to the very same? Arslan now wondered if the soldiers had prayed for the same divine retribution that Lady Pharangase might have asked for.
In the end it was Narsus who had devised the solution. An end to the ending. Arslan could remember that particular meeting in painful detail. There had been a silence so loud that he’d felt blasphemous simply breathing. Most of the arguments that had taken place were so paltry that they didn’t bear remembering but he remembered them still as a lead up to the end.
“But what’s the use…” One of the Commanders, one of the younger ones.
“I’m afraid, Your Highness, that troop moral is-“ Quisward.
“Nonexistent!” Daryoon, slamming his fist down on the table in frustration.
“Daryoon-“ Quisward’s abortive admonishment.
“We can’t even hold the ground we have now! Let alone-“
“We have to! There is no choice!”
“How can we? When the Goddess had turned her face from us?”
Daryoon sinks back down into his chair and doesn’t raise his head.
All eyes turn to the silent Priestess but the only movement she makes is a tightening of her lips and the silence is once again unbearable.
“If Misra has turned from her people, surely it must be because her people have failed her?” Narsus’ voice is almost casual.
There is immediate outcry. Commanders are on their feet shouting and it is only when Pharangase raises her head to look directly at the strategist that some semblance of quiet once again prevails.
“How… how can you say that?” Her voice seems to break, as if from days of non-use.
And as the attention of the room focuses on the Prince’s strategist, his smile becomes even more devilish.
“What we have forgotten, it would seem to me…” Narsus pauses and takes his time to stare around the room. “Is that we are not fighting a war.” Again another maddening pause.
Daryoon looks up though his eyes are dull.
“At least not a war in any arbitrary sense of the word. We have forgotten that this is not just another land invasion or some such. We are not fighting the Lucitanians because they are trying to enslave us… but because they are trying to destroy us!”
“Yes…” Pharangase’s whisper is enough to stir the officers present.
“They would erase our civilization if we let them! And worse still they dare, dare to mock our faith! This is not a war, this must be a crusade! A divine purging of the land! For are we not the instrument of Misra’s wrath!”
There is more shouting now, cries of agreement and fervour. Men are on their feet and Pharangase’s eyes gleam as they have never done before.
The meeting degenerated very quickly into shouting and declarations of religious fervour but the one point that stands out in Arslan’s mind isn’t Daryoon’s cold countenance or the fact that the Priestess is animated for the first time in months. The memory that stays with the Prince no matter how hard he might try to forget is of his strategist, of Narsus sitting quietly, long-fingered hands folded together, wearing that diabolical smile.
Is seems almost something of an anticlimax, to think that the constantly burning pyres are the result, that this war has turned into little more than the systematic extermination of another culture. It’s an inversion of everything that they ever thought they were fighting against. And Arslan can only watch as his soldiers, or at least those who are nominally his soldiers, carry their fanaticism like the burning brands that they take to all that was once Lucitanian. Rather than conquer the enemy, they have become what they once feared and the Prince can’t decide if that’s the worse solution. Pulsar has been freed of the Lucitanians and now the Prince’s army marches through Lucitania purging the impurities of that land.
Lowering his gaze to the pyres again, Arslan somehow manages to ignore the sounds of the newly ordained Priestesses rallying the troops. He doesn’t even wonder where Daryoon is any more. Somewhere along the line his protector has become the sort of instrument of divine wrath that Narsus spoke of.
Out of the corner of his eye Arslan catches sight of the flutter of white silk and he wonders again if the Priestess did in fact pray for retribution at any cost. The Prince shakes his head to clear the thought that is triggered by the reoccurring image of Narsus in his stainless while. Yet he finds it difficult to forget, especially when the Devil’s Strategist is smiling that smile again.
Maybe I’m feeling evil…