Hakara

The dark tarnished sky swelled into an orchestra of carrion birds. East and west they swarmed beating their death riddled wings and filling Polifer’s head with their screaming madness. It was a torturing madness scorning life’s dreams of hope and happiness.

To the south, dark hills of locusts savagely consumed what remained of the Eliase Gardens. Their treasured beauty once marveled the civilized world and captured the essence of its soul. It was once a place where man combined with nature creating the entire world’s beauty all focused within a single square mile. Brilliantly he laced it together and then waiting patiently as it was softly painted with its creator’s perfect touch. Gone now was this relished sanctuary, soon to be memory and then again to be forgotten.

An eruption of thunder and flames burst asunder spewing high ash and smoke into an already darkened sky. All around them lay the waste and death of a burning empire. Its ash, symbolizing another defeat, rained like bitter tears where every last man, women and child came to fight in their desperate attempt to hold the only remaining wall.

Rearing his ugly beast upon a charred blackened hill, a black-scaled rider waved a fluttering flag to signify his victory. Embroidered across the banner was a golden dragon with yellow braided tassels that flowed like rolling feet. He swayed it high above his head while his crowding minions below bellowed through a large glowing doorway that hovered amidst nothing, a foot or so above the ground. Unsteadily it wavered while its glowing edges dimmed its silvery light, flickering black and crisping the air around its glowing frame. Its shimmering light fading glory for darkness, twisting its colors and howling as his dark armies fed through it, one vanishing after another.

How many died trusting his careless bravado? Polifer grieved. His clouded mind remembering their desperate faces swirled through thoughts of feeding empathy and madness and spitting hatred that consumed his blistering soul to its innermost core.

“The gate Polifer! We must make for the gate before it vanishes from this world. It’s our only chance!” said a teetering voice that seemed to fade against the backdrop of piercing cries from the dieing men below and the birds screaming delight from above. He knew there faces or at least some of them he knew. Trying to convince himself he knew them all, he allowed his soul to weep silently, bitterly his insides pleading for the blessed light to carry them home.

“…if we keep our heads low then they shouldn’t recognize us. Just don’t look into their eyes and I think we’ll be ok.” Suddenly the gruff voice rang familiar and he looked across his torn coat shoulder and studied his anguished general. His matted hair was streaked with dried blood, not his own yet stirringly real. Dents across his once ornate armor said that he’d fought low amongst the trenches with his men. Dark blood that oozed from his side showed where an arrow had penetrated painfully low. Many other cuts and bruises decorated the man where broken armor had failed. However, the man kept his shoulders high and his forced stare seemed unaware of his own wincing pain. Littered behind him stood maybe thirty men, their blackened faces filled with terror. He realized they were becoming aware of their inexorable doom and soon, if he couldn’t find the words to sooth them, they would find themselves fleeing in a panic that would undoubtedly reveal them all.

Hope. The word blared inside his head. Polifer, who failed fifty plus legions and single handedly destroyed all of humanities chance in this world, had to find some sort of hope for these last thirty men. The insanity of it seemed laughable and yet something inside forced him to refrain. He too was beaten, warn, and afraid.
“Everyone, drop your armor!” Polifer barked and then felt a stab of surprise when he heard the boldness of his own words, “Remove everything and anything that even shows that you might be human. This world is lost to us but if we make it through that gate,” he pointed, “we can fight again in a new world, untouched. It is a world where people are going need our guidance and our knowledge of the war we just fought against the Dark King, so that they can avoid the same mistakes we have made here today. It’ll be a world where once again we can make a difference and finally win this war, earning the revenge deprived us all!”

The men did not cheer as they usually did after his speeches. One man even went so far as to retort something incoherent but then again, what did he expect? Those who remained alive had seen loved ones tortured and killed. All their dreams were now lost, their inner flames doused where passion was once laid so thick that it swallowed their every word. The sounds of the dieing below seemed to fade now as the Draken diligently worked at silencing those who made noise or in pain cried out for help.

Seeing his men hesitate to obey, he began shedding his own armor down to his small clothes. There was no pride left in him now. He wouldn’t fret about that which was decent and that which was not. If anything he was guilty of failure and much, much more. He needed to be punished. He wanted to scream, “Death is what I deserve!” Somehow though, death seemed too light a sentence. He searched within thoughts for a punishment worthy of reconciliation but found he could think of none.

A dozen horse riders galloped into view, arriving hard from the north. It seemed there fate was nearly sealed. Nowhere left to hide and nowhere left to run everyone just stood there, frozen, awaiting whatever fate would bring them and knowing it for doom.

One of the men raised a gauntleted hand and pointed. “Look, it's the King.”

Maybe their hopes were not so futile. Not just yet.