Post by Ninmast on Jul 4, 2009 20:59:52 GMT -5
The Light of Dawn
A Nayra Sturiesk Short Story by Ninmast
“How can we trust her,” one voice demanded. “She's one of them!”
She sat there, their justifications not entirely unfounded, her own blue hair giving her away as it hung down to her shoulders, down on the tattered jacket, a trenchcoat, brown in color, wrapped around her form, not entirely hiding the sixteen-year-old girl's form, the odd male clothes she was wrapped in underneath, the holsters on her hips, or the metal boots she wore on her feet. The shades that had once covered her eyes in another life laid cast aside, now useless, on the table beside her. How could they trust her, indeed, when she was one of the people, yes, one of those people who had sought to undo them, who had longed to end what they saw as barbarism and unevolved neanderthalism? How could they trust her when her hair gave so much away, blue as the blue of her eyes, the blue of a bright, sunny sky? Who could think that such a color could be so damning?
But the large man at the end of the room stood up at the question, his black jaw set like stone. He would have none of this, this was clear before the words ever left his mouth. “She is no different than she was yesterday afternoon, before we all got stuck in this hell hole of a trench,” he said. His voice, as always, was like boulders, crushing opposition before it could arise. There was a reason he was their leader. “She's no different; you fought beside her, she saved your lives, she has led you on mission after successful mission over the last year. Perhaps without her, we wouldn't even be where we are right now. Instead of stuck with the bleeding and the dead, stuck in a trench wrapping for miles that we dug with our own bare hands, risking automatic gunfire if we so much as poke our heads up above the ground, like prairie dogs just waiting to be shot, perhaps instead, we would still be in hiding, we would still be hidden away in the dark recesses of our once great cities as the Talihin march across its surface, searching for us, hunting to put us down like dogs because we weren't fit for their society. Perhaps that's where we'd still be were it not for her. Yes, she is one of them. Yes, she is one of the people. She is one of the Talihin. She IS One. Of. Them. But she has proven time and time again that, as Daniel Hawkins, she is every bit as much one of us, as well. She has bled beside us, she has fought beside us, she has killed beside us. All. For. Us. And now, just because you get to see her hair, her small, child-like form, NOW, you dare question her loyalty to you, the sacrifices she's made for YOU?” The veins stood out on his neck like angry, writhing snakes just waiting to strike out at those who dared contradict him. “How dare you?” he asked, his voice dropping so many octaves, so many decibels, until it almost seemed like they would have to strain their ears to hear it, and then again, “How. Dare. You.”
They sat in silence for several moments longer, some in guilt, some just uncomfortable. Nayra in particular, she felt like her hair, that beautiful, silky, blue hair, for once in her life, was something to be ashamed of. But she remained silent, she waited. Now was not the time. Now was the time to reestablish her own sense of a center, that center that held her through so many conflicts before, that center that was, as Malachi had said, Daniel Hawkins. She despised the man, Hawkins, she hated him. He was everything she wished she would never be, but she needed him. She needed him like a star-crossed lover, to hold her close, to shield her from the madness of war. Nayra's mind was genius, beyond anything the human mind might consider normal, but it was not meant for war. No, that was a role reserved for Daniel Hawkins, that face she had taken up so many times, that identity from another life, resurrected through the holographic machine, now blown through with a bullet hole on her waist. It was one thing to hide behind it when nobody could see who you really were. It was another thing to resurrect it around you when there was no longer any bluffing.
The moments stretched into minutes as they waited, the sentries watching guard and every once in a while, the sound of automatic gunfire from one side or the other shooting through the air. It was a miserable place to be, and for so many already, it had been a miserable place to die. She needed that man, more than she would ever need another man in all her life. Daniel Hawkins was what would keep her sane, Daniel Hawkins was what would keep her alive, so that sooner or later, she and all these brave men would be able to leave this hell hole, to walk out of it, to live.
All their thoughts were disrupted as another entered the room. “Sir, we just heard back from the air base,” he said. “They've managed to free half a dozen bombers from the radar system. They can fly in here and take out the Talihin encampment, but they're going to need some sort of signal without the radar working.”
Malachi swore. “Then they're useless,” he said. “We can't give up any beacon without putting our own men under fire, and whoever does it would be slaughtered. It's a suicide run that would wind up with us all dead. Nothing is to be gained from that sort of plan.”
As he spoke, Nayra's eyes drifted out of the hole and around the rubble that made up the city around them, or what had once been a city. Indeed, it had once been New York, but no longer. The tides of battle had ripped it asunder, brought it to its knees, both sides inflicting heavy casualties among the once-proud skyscrapers and glorious colonial homes. It was there that she saw it, laying there, collapsed beneath the rubble, its rod still intact. It was a beacon, and not just for the incoming bombers.
Without waiting to hear Malachi's next orders, she burst from the foxhole running low, staying behind as much cover as possible. When she reached it, it was stuck tight, but it was necessary and she would not be dissuaded. With a terrific cry, she pulled it out from the rubble, that star-spangled banner flapping freely in the breeze for the first time in perhaps a year. It relished in its newfound freedom, flapping at the restraints of the pole as if it longed to fly away, fly away like the birds, fly away above all this turmoil, all this strife, all this war, and fly away to peace.
She longed to join it, but that wasn't her place. She found Daniel again, and it was his strong, undaunted feet that carried her forward. She could vaguely hear Malachi screaming for her to stop behind her, but he would not emerge from the hole. That was fine. This was her mission, not his, and for the first time since she started working with him, he held no sway over her.
It was almost like that fictitious magic, that mystical force. It had been so dark when she had spotted the flag, but dawn was breaking even as she climbed over the rubble. Its light spread across the landscape, once bleak, but now full of color, full of life, and she marched with it, marched at its head, even, as if she, herself, was the chariot of Ra, drawing the sun across the Eastern sky. Cries from the pit rose up to meet her as they saw her and the flag, its banner streaming behind her. She was not yet high enough, and so she kept climbing, and with her climbed the sun, climbed that banner of hope in her hands, and climbed the cries, the jubilant expressions of those watching from below.
Somewhere, the sound of drums joined her, a marching tune. Somebody, perhaps a drummer, or perhaps a drummer's neighbor, had picked them up and started beating away the tune. Soon after, a trumpet joined it, blaring against the dying darkness, uplifting the spirits with that banner. They were down in the pits, they were down in those dark, wet trenches, but their souls were coming up to meet her, their souls were coming up to march with her. She was not going into this alone.
As she broke the last hill, sunlight splaying over the entire scenery before her, she held that flag ever higher, and she twirled it back and forth like a baton. She knew she was an unmistakable target, unmissable. She was dead, but she was not going alone.
On one side of the no-man's land in which she stood, the spirits of mankind rose up, exuberant in this expression, full of hope, full of glory. On the other side, the Talihin stared in shock and amazement, not at the flag, but at the one carrying it. It was one of their own, it was one of their children! And among them, one in particular felt dread, for it was not just any of their children, but he recognized her immediately as his.
Soon after the light filled the air, accompanied by the procession of music, the sound of aircraft followed, engines heavy with kilos of explosives, ready to drop them, ready to end the conflict. The Talihin had no choice; the order went out. Bullets filled the air. They had to bring that flag down. There was no other choice.
It wasn't the first time Narya had been shot. The first one to hit her grazed across her shoulder, burning as if a red-hot brand had been placed against her flesh, but still she continued to wave the flag, ignoring the pain that flashed along her arm every time she made the motion. Another one skinned her hip, another plunged into her abdomen and she doubled over, but stood up again and continued to wave the flag.
The bombers were closer now. She could hear them over the rush of blood in her ears as another one struck her leg. It was not enough to keep her from standing, however, and she soon stood again, waving that flag, waving that hope.
The bombers seemed to take forever to arrive. More bullets grazed her skin, peppered her body, but her mission was not yet over, and she could not yet stop. She continued to wave the flag. More bullets, more time, with every passing moment, they burned into her body like individual pricks of eternity. It got to the point where she could no longer wave the flag, and then it got to the point where she could no longer hold it up. Instead, she wedged it in between the stones and she leaned against it, still standing. She would continue to stand.
More bullets rained down upon her, so many bullets, but the aircraft were now in sight. They had seen her, they had seen the flag, and as her body leaned against the pole, and her consciousness began to fade, she caught a glimpse of them rushing through the air above her. Her mission was over, one more success to add to her belt, but there was no pride in it. This had been a necessary action, just like all the ones before it.
There was no victory for her, there was no victory for Daniel Hawkins. There was only war, and she knew she would not live to see the peace that would follow in its footsteps. Her vision faded as the rumble of bombings combined with the rumble of blood through her ears, the rush of it … fading … fading … Her sight blurred, the colors bled together, and she could recall nothing more.
It was a short month later, after an extended ceasefire, that the Talihin, considering this sacrifice and everything it meant, put an end to the war between them and the Humans. With her last act, Nayra Sturiesk had bought the peace she had so longed for in life, and to commemorate the terrible price she paid for their foolishness, Human and Talihin alike, in the process of rebuilding the city in which she fell, erected a statue in her honor, erected a statue to the Goddess of War that had brought them peace with the light of dawn ...
A Nayra Sturiesk Short Story by Ninmast
“How can we trust her,” one voice demanded. “She's one of them!”
She sat there, their justifications not entirely unfounded, her own blue hair giving her away as it hung down to her shoulders, down on the tattered jacket, a trenchcoat, brown in color, wrapped around her form, not entirely hiding the sixteen-year-old girl's form, the odd male clothes she was wrapped in underneath, the holsters on her hips, or the metal boots she wore on her feet. The shades that had once covered her eyes in another life laid cast aside, now useless, on the table beside her. How could they trust her, indeed, when she was one of the people, yes, one of those people who had sought to undo them, who had longed to end what they saw as barbarism and unevolved neanderthalism? How could they trust her when her hair gave so much away, blue as the blue of her eyes, the blue of a bright, sunny sky? Who could think that such a color could be so damning?
But the large man at the end of the room stood up at the question, his black jaw set like stone. He would have none of this, this was clear before the words ever left his mouth. “She is no different than she was yesterday afternoon, before we all got stuck in this hell hole of a trench,” he said. His voice, as always, was like boulders, crushing opposition before it could arise. There was a reason he was their leader. “She's no different; you fought beside her, she saved your lives, she has led you on mission after successful mission over the last year. Perhaps without her, we wouldn't even be where we are right now. Instead of stuck with the bleeding and the dead, stuck in a trench wrapping for miles that we dug with our own bare hands, risking automatic gunfire if we so much as poke our heads up above the ground, like prairie dogs just waiting to be shot, perhaps instead, we would still be in hiding, we would still be hidden away in the dark recesses of our once great cities as the Talihin march across its surface, searching for us, hunting to put us down like dogs because we weren't fit for their society. Perhaps that's where we'd still be were it not for her. Yes, she is one of them. Yes, she is one of the people. She is one of the Talihin. She IS One. Of. Them. But she has proven time and time again that, as Daniel Hawkins, she is every bit as much one of us, as well. She has bled beside us, she has fought beside us, she has killed beside us. All. For. Us. And now, just because you get to see her hair, her small, child-like form, NOW, you dare question her loyalty to you, the sacrifices she's made for YOU?” The veins stood out on his neck like angry, writhing snakes just waiting to strike out at those who dared contradict him. “How dare you?” he asked, his voice dropping so many octaves, so many decibels, until it almost seemed like they would have to strain their ears to hear it, and then again, “How. Dare. You.”
They sat in silence for several moments longer, some in guilt, some just uncomfortable. Nayra in particular, she felt like her hair, that beautiful, silky, blue hair, for once in her life, was something to be ashamed of. But she remained silent, she waited. Now was not the time. Now was the time to reestablish her own sense of a center, that center that held her through so many conflicts before, that center that was, as Malachi had said, Daniel Hawkins. She despised the man, Hawkins, she hated him. He was everything she wished she would never be, but she needed him. She needed him like a star-crossed lover, to hold her close, to shield her from the madness of war. Nayra's mind was genius, beyond anything the human mind might consider normal, but it was not meant for war. No, that was a role reserved for Daniel Hawkins, that face she had taken up so many times, that identity from another life, resurrected through the holographic machine, now blown through with a bullet hole on her waist. It was one thing to hide behind it when nobody could see who you really were. It was another thing to resurrect it around you when there was no longer any bluffing.
The moments stretched into minutes as they waited, the sentries watching guard and every once in a while, the sound of automatic gunfire from one side or the other shooting through the air. It was a miserable place to be, and for so many already, it had been a miserable place to die. She needed that man, more than she would ever need another man in all her life. Daniel Hawkins was what would keep her sane, Daniel Hawkins was what would keep her alive, so that sooner or later, she and all these brave men would be able to leave this hell hole, to walk out of it, to live.
All their thoughts were disrupted as another entered the room. “Sir, we just heard back from the air base,” he said. “They've managed to free half a dozen bombers from the radar system. They can fly in here and take out the Talihin encampment, but they're going to need some sort of signal without the radar working.”
Malachi swore. “Then they're useless,” he said. “We can't give up any beacon without putting our own men under fire, and whoever does it would be slaughtered. It's a suicide run that would wind up with us all dead. Nothing is to be gained from that sort of plan.”
As he spoke, Nayra's eyes drifted out of the hole and around the rubble that made up the city around them, or what had once been a city. Indeed, it had once been New York, but no longer. The tides of battle had ripped it asunder, brought it to its knees, both sides inflicting heavy casualties among the once-proud skyscrapers and glorious colonial homes. It was there that she saw it, laying there, collapsed beneath the rubble, its rod still intact. It was a beacon, and not just for the incoming bombers.
Without waiting to hear Malachi's next orders, she burst from the foxhole running low, staying behind as much cover as possible. When she reached it, it was stuck tight, but it was necessary and she would not be dissuaded. With a terrific cry, she pulled it out from the rubble, that star-spangled banner flapping freely in the breeze for the first time in perhaps a year. It relished in its newfound freedom, flapping at the restraints of the pole as if it longed to fly away, fly away like the birds, fly away above all this turmoil, all this strife, all this war, and fly away to peace.
She longed to join it, but that wasn't her place. She found Daniel again, and it was his strong, undaunted feet that carried her forward. She could vaguely hear Malachi screaming for her to stop behind her, but he would not emerge from the hole. That was fine. This was her mission, not his, and for the first time since she started working with him, he held no sway over her.
It was almost like that fictitious magic, that mystical force. It had been so dark when she had spotted the flag, but dawn was breaking even as she climbed over the rubble. Its light spread across the landscape, once bleak, but now full of color, full of life, and she marched with it, marched at its head, even, as if she, herself, was the chariot of Ra, drawing the sun across the Eastern sky. Cries from the pit rose up to meet her as they saw her and the flag, its banner streaming behind her. She was not yet high enough, and so she kept climbing, and with her climbed the sun, climbed that banner of hope in her hands, and climbed the cries, the jubilant expressions of those watching from below.
Somewhere, the sound of drums joined her, a marching tune. Somebody, perhaps a drummer, or perhaps a drummer's neighbor, had picked them up and started beating away the tune. Soon after, a trumpet joined it, blaring against the dying darkness, uplifting the spirits with that banner. They were down in the pits, they were down in those dark, wet trenches, but their souls were coming up to meet her, their souls were coming up to march with her. She was not going into this alone.
As she broke the last hill, sunlight splaying over the entire scenery before her, she held that flag ever higher, and she twirled it back and forth like a baton. She knew she was an unmistakable target, unmissable. She was dead, but she was not going alone.
On one side of the no-man's land in which she stood, the spirits of mankind rose up, exuberant in this expression, full of hope, full of glory. On the other side, the Talihin stared in shock and amazement, not at the flag, but at the one carrying it. It was one of their own, it was one of their children! And among them, one in particular felt dread, for it was not just any of their children, but he recognized her immediately as his.
Soon after the light filled the air, accompanied by the procession of music, the sound of aircraft followed, engines heavy with kilos of explosives, ready to drop them, ready to end the conflict. The Talihin had no choice; the order went out. Bullets filled the air. They had to bring that flag down. There was no other choice.
It wasn't the first time Narya had been shot. The first one to hit her grazed across her shoulder, burning as if a red-hot brand had been placed against her flesh, but still she continued to wave the flag, ignoring the pain that flashed along her arm every time she made the motion. Another one skinned her hip, another plunged into her abdomen and she doubled over, but stood up again and continued to wave the flag.
The bombers were closer now. She could hear them over the rush of blood in her ears as another one struck her leg. It was not enough to keep her from standing, however, and she soon stood again, waving that flag, waving that hope.
The bombers seemed to take forever to arrive. More bullets grazed her skin, peppered her body, but her mission was not yet over, and she could not yet stop. She continued to wave the flag. More bullets, more time, with every passing moment, they burned into her body like individual pricks of eternity. It got to the point where she could no longer wave the flag, and then it got to the point where she could no longer hold it up. Instead, she wedged it in between the stones and she leaned against it, still standing. She would continue to stand.
More bullets rained down upon her, so many bullets, but the aircraft were now in sight. They had seen her, they had seen the flag, and as her body leaned against the pole, and her consciousness began to fade, she caught a glimpse of them rushing through the air above her. Her mission was over, one more success to add to her belt, but there was no pride in it. This had been a necessary action, just like all the ones before it.
There was no victory for her, there was no victory for Daniel Hawkins. There was only war, and she knew she would not live to see the peace that would follow in its footsteps. Her vision faded as the rumble of bombings combined with the rumble of blood through her ears, the rush of it … fading … fading … Her sight blurred, the colors bled together, and she could recall nothing more.
It was a short month later, after an extended ceasefire, that the Talihin, considering this sacrifice and everything it meant, put an end to the war between them and the Humans. With her last act, Nayra Sturiesk had bought the peace she had so longed for in life, and to commemorate the terrible price she paid for their foolishness, Human and Talihin alike, in the process of rebuilding the city in which she fell, erected a statue in her honor, erected a statue to the Goddess of War that had brought them peace with the light of dawn ...
