Dead... again (4)

Shadows, here and everywhere, that is all that is left. A place like this, where life can be valued in gold and steel, where even those that shouldn't have to fight. Just like in the Old Hag, isn't it right? Wherever you may go, it's still a matter of who pays who for revenge, power, ambition or any other reason. And you don't care if we fight and die, do you Aquilonia? You don't care about my death here, but you don't care about the death of your merchants and generals, whores and knights, it doesn't matter. We're all just pigs headed to the slaughter, and here more than anywhere else, where we can die dozens of times.


An explosion shakes the background, rattling the ruins of what once was the Hive. Probably a meteor falling, or one stray explosive left behind by the northern clans. Sepherim had to get down from his position and check everywhere, just in case there was a new attack, one he was no longer ready to defend against... but there wasn't.

So, Old Hag, where were we? Of course, that you don't care. If your people want sex, they pay a whore; they want power, they pay some dogs of war like me; they want gold they pay a merchant. And if you have no coin, then you pay in sweat and blood. No honor to Mitra, to you or me, we're all just disposable shits to  you, Tarantia. We can fight, work, fuck, build, destroy... give everything to you and yet, once our cycle is done, we're just thrown away like broken toys. And lets wait for the next one to break...

And what if I take my bracelet off? Would you do something? Would you complain? No, you wouldn't neither you nor the gods give a shit about us, only Crom is sincere about it. Fuck you Crom in your mountain! But fuck you sincerely. And now, all the other gods and places of power, fuck you hard with a pike!

And now what? Smoldering ruins are everywhere, the exiled lands lie in shambles. Victoria and the northern clans successful, but no one gives a damn. What do we do? We march? We defend these ruins? We attack their ruins? A meaningless contract is all we have, for a meaningless life. Why fight now, if its not for pussy, pride or power, which seem to be the only things that matter here? Why take meaningless and dangerous contracts when I could just mine the gold safely? Why bother rebuilding a Centuria no one cares about?

Sepherim slams his fist on the roof where he stands, one lonely tear running down his face.

Why bother? Everything is meaningless. Why build, create, forge... if its destiny is to fall to ruin and decay? Again, and again, and again, the cycle of destruction goes on wherever you look.

I'm a fool. I even tried to bring the old traditions back. To share stories before battle so tension could be relieved, but they don't share our traditions. I tried to organize the watch, but I'm not their commander. And in the end, I stood alone in the tavern, against all the northerners that came to destroy it.

Why did I stand? It makes no sense. Six or seven enemies, more even around, there was no way I could make a meaningful impact there, take any of them down, not in such an open space. And yet, I had to hold my end of the deal, didn't I? Fuck you Phaistos and your speech about the value of keeping your word, I could have surrendered and kept from visiting the void and nothing would have changed! Couldn't even manage to keep Maithcara away so she wouldn't have to fight, so she would be spared...

I guess I failed everyone. I'm just a shadow of who I was, playing warlord in a land where I cannot rightfully claim that title. Centuria Obitus... what a joke. A centuria is composed of one hundred men, plus the additional people in care of supplies, healing, and all other functions. It's a piece of the Aquilonian army... but there are no legions here and there's only three of us. Three. Not one hundred, not fifty, not twenty five, not a dozen... three. Who the fuck is going to care about three stupid bufoons playing mercenary?

That's all we are: a joke, a broken toy. An empty attempt to remember and bring back a time that is not to return. The Centuria is dead, it has always been but now more than ever. I fought alone not because of my brothers-in-arms fault but because of my own, for trying to pave a road that leads nowhere. There is no Centuria, no road ahead... only memories and shadows of times gone, people lost. I should do like the monk Qi and retire, far from any people, far from this land, far from contracts or his absurd plan... fuck him and everything!

The only reasonable plan is to turn the Hall of the Dead into really such: a cementery for those of us that act as if we were alive, but aren't anymore. Retire from wars, taverns and life, for there is no such a thing left for us. We are dead, have been since Sparrow Hill I guess, only broken remnants of who we were, like Cytheris. Millika and the boys may have introduced a little life into us, but it was not real. It never was. It's only function was to make me yearn for it once they've taken it away, like all the rest.

Luis comes and goes, talking about revenge and travelling north to fight the cimmerians. Sepherim only shakes his head, and returns to his watchpost atop the broken house, a fitting place for a broken man.

Another meaningless death, too late to matter. The Deoraicht lie in ruins, as does the Hive. And you can't take it back Luis, nor you nor I, for it's gone like everything else. We live, we laugh, we love, we suffer... all for nothing! Brief moments of friendship, camaraderie, love, company to be taken away once and once again.

You can go out Luis and take down one or a dozen, destroy their homes and their lands, or die at their steel. It doesn't matter. With this bracelet, nothing matters. We come back, rebuild lands and homes, and carry on each day with more scars. We're just more broken with each passing day, with each roll of the die that say we lose... in a game that has been rigged. What meaning can there be in rebuilding a place like this, only to see it destroyed again. What meaning in building a reputation for honoring your contracts, when you can just mine the gold and get done with it?

Right now they could be tearing down the Hall of the Dead and I wouldn't even know, Millika. I wouldn't have the strength to lift my sword and defend it either. This is what I've become, a shadow of the man you once loved. And I can't heal, because you're not here, nor the boys, nor my true brothers. A shadow, cast here for an eternity of suffering.

Sepherim interrupts his train of though as a scavenger rumages through the debrise. Elly, looking for Maithcara's things, to bring back to her friend. But the mercenary doesn't care much, just gives her the few things he recovered and returns to his position on the roof, only bitterness and poison on his mouth.

There was nothing of value left anyway, was there. Only a few remnants the attackers deemed too worthless to carry. But that's your trait isn't it, Death? You just love gold, plunder and benefit. Let blood run through the steel, so Death can have her tribute in gold! Fuck you!

I can see the sky through the Keep. I wonder what was there, kitchens? Armories? Halls? Well, the main hall was in the balcony of the second floor, but that has vanished now. A propper symbol of the ruin that has taken place: of bodies, minds and symbols... a land of shattered memories. I should know better than to grow attached to places, shouldn't I? But I don't learn...

I guess, I envy those that so often don't remember their time before the cross, before exile. Only a future to contemplate and build, no past to remember. All I have are memories of times that aren't coming back. Millika is dead, probably has been for months, or enslaved or worse... and the boys hopefully fell honorably on the field of battle, where I should have died as well.

No sense or route in going forward. As much as a few have tried to heal my wounds, I'm broken beyond recovery. My best friend is a twisted lying bitch, I can't wield a sword nor lead men to battle, the Hall won't withstand any real assault for the laws of these lands make it easier to destroy than it is to build... all I've built has been blown away in the wind, like this place. Doesn't matter if we rescued Salvia 'cause she's in the void, or build bonds here for they lay broken... it's all just ruins.

Only thing that matters in these lands is pride and revenge. We're just pawns on the table, on a board larger than us. Immortal pawns now. How many times have I said those words? I was offered a chance to stand down, and instead I chose to fight six or more northerners, barbarians. Why? Why die in a lost battle, trying to look for places where I could face them one on one? Why bother with a contract I could never fulfill? What has changed with my death? Nothing, nothing has changed. I could have retreated and all would have been the same. Why then did I stay my ground on that tavern? Why was it important? It was not brave or heroic, I'm none of those things, then what was it? It was just worthless, like all other gestures, why do it then? Pride? Is that all I have left, my pride? Just as value-less, that is obvious. My word? Just as worthless, no matter what Phaistos or Murdach may say. Standing my ground alone to prove a point? Meaningless, I barely wounded them and they probably healed before advancing on the Keep.

So there was no point in pride, honor or battle. I never considered myself a fool, and yet here I am, before the obvious demonstration that I am. When it comes to the defining moment, I choose foolishness, I choose losing everything for no gain. But I did gain something, you could say: time for reinforcements to come, so Diogenes could engage properly as I saw with my last breaths. And yet, that didn't matter. Look up there, to those smoking ruins and tell me there was any difference. Maybe Diogenes would have fought in the Keep, easier to defend like Lineah did, instead of down here where we were just going to be slaughtered.

Elly shows up again, another trip to recover those little objects that could be taken from the ruins.  The sword and the shield feel heavier than ever in the hands of the mercenary, and getting up to face her is a trial on its own. And yet, as with everything, a worthless trial, since no foe was there and Elly vanishes again to continue carrying her objects to a safe location.

Oh, and I've also gained the chance to tell the story of how the Hive was destroyed... at least the beginning of it. Is that all I'm worth? Maybe I should find a lute in this lands and become an old and ugly trovadour, telling stories about worthless shits dying for nothing... I bet there'd be an audience for that:

"Oh hear me, hear me, fair ladies and noble gents, as I tell the story of Sepherim the Foolish, who died the same way he lived: for nothing. A story that begins in a whorehouse and ends in one; that begins with no love, and ends with no meaning. A life that no one will remember. Oh hear me hear me, tell a tale you don't know but don't care about either. The story of a dice player that thought he could rebuild his memories. A loser intent on raising his fist to the skies, only to be thrown to the ground over and over again. The life of a worthless shit that thought he could live by his own rules instead of those of Tarantia the Old Hag. A man that thought he could bow only to himself, only to discover they can force you to bow if they break your knees. Oh hear me, hear me as I recall the fabolous legends of his meaningless exploits; as I tell you of a family like every other, with an end on blood and steel before time because of this man's fault. As I recall nothing, for there is nothing of value worth remembering. Oh hear me, hear me as I tell you of nothing, for there's nothing worth telling."

Ave Hyboria, morituri te salutam. Over and over again.