A Dream Remade
It was, at last, the end of all things. The end of his road. The end of his duty. An end to war, and to suffering.
He walked slowly, limping, bleeding from a thousand cuts. His steps, each kicking a wisp of dust of the barren road, thumped out of rhythm, as if each was taken with the greatest of all struggles. Around him, fields of sunflowers rose, swaying gently in the summer breeze, dancing almost. He brough his step to a halt, one hand clutching his bleeding side, the other bracing against the broken heft of his spear. Cardanith stood there, watching, almost allowing himself a moment to sway gently with the golden petals. But he could not. He had one more duty to uphold, one last oath to fulfill. He was not done just yet.
The road stretched on, winding ahead, curving into the fields, and ending somewhere far beyond, in that soft, ever-shifting sea of golden. His cloak became too heavy to bear. Crimson dripped from it, leaving streaks in the dirt pathway. He could carry it no longer. With a fickle hand, he reached up, and unclasped it from his shoulders. It fell with a heavy *thud*, like an anchor that digs into the seabed.
And he limped, step by step, daring to reach out and touch and one of the sunflowers. Yet, before his fingers could clasp the soft bloom, it escaped him, swallowed by that unfathomable sea of pure sunlight. “Not yet.” He knew. He waited an Age, what would be a few moments more?
He had reached the bend, feeling shackled by the heaving weight of his shield. It, too, he would have to part with before the end. With a bleeding hand, he tugged at the leather belts that held it aloft, hesitating almost. He had gotten used to its weight, to its presence at his side. Would he be able to walk without it? Would he be blown away with the breeze? It mattered not. “Duty unto death.” He said weekly, his wounds bow belching blood in heavy streams. The shield was left, set aside the road, never to be borne again.
“A little further.” He thought, wading through the river. And where he stepped, a trail of crimson would break the clarity of the water, leaving trails do dissipate in the flowing silver. He bore only his spear, helm, and Mantle now. His step wearied, almost sinking into the road. And still, around him flowed the soft hues of golden flowers, swaying, blooming. Finally, he caught glimpse of it. A simple home, nested at the end of the road, shadowed by the looming treeline. The Autarch barely made it to the fence.
He rested his spear upon the wooden post, his fingers extending, aching, unable to straighten out fully, battered, bruised, as if they had only known the hold of a spear, and nothing else. Cardanith braced once more, and each step he took felt an eternity, until he finally stood before the archway, crowned in winding sunflower. He fell to his knees, then, dripping blood onto the entry way. With a thunderous clash, the threw off the iron helm, the vestment clattering along the wooden path.
He waited, and waited. He waited for the familiar steps to come once more, to herald the dawn. And the dawn broke. Soft as the first rays of the sun, she appeared, dressed in silver and gold. She bore no arms, no plate, no halberd. Her fingers grazed his silver hair, weaving into the mane. “You’ve lead them for too long.” The Sun whispered to the Star, her warm touch against cold, bloodied steel of his cheek. And then, all faded away. A millennia of unending turmoil, a lifetime beyond count of ceaseless war, all was flicked away in a single moment. Her hands worked tenderly to undo the weight of the Mantle, and it shattered into a million lattices that swirled lifelessly around him. A thousand oaths sworn, and a thousand oaths fulfilled.
“Look, Cardanith.” Her voice rang clearly. “The apples are in bloom.”
