Indeed, the expression of the stallion’s pride omits his prior brokenness. Or perhaps it was merely an illusion cast of bitterness and frustration – whichever the case, the ghost is aflame. He seems to be singing in the heat of the desert, a proclamation of unyielding faith – of what was.
He speaks of tragedy, in that way between the lines – but to say what it is exactly proves to assume too much. Perhaps this ghost is more real than himself – for Noam is knit on little more than survival and half-memories. Oblivious to the collective blood of clan and tribes people soaked into the sands. Unawares of his stake in the world that caused so much pain, numbed and erased from his brain. While he may have shared a destiny with the stranger – they could be anything but similar.
The laugh would have made Noam flinch, if not for the encroaching fatigue. He lets out a sigh instead, recalling his quarry – the job, the living thing counting his last breaths. Or thinking he might escape the blade. To omit his satisfaction for his job was to share too much to his companion. Not that it always had, more so than ever before. There was something admittedly freeing in that act. And he doubted anyone else could emphasize with that – the intention bordering on the spiritual, rather than power and control.
“Arete?” There is a subtle inflection of doubt that carries in the wind. Breaks his concentration. It is a dead word, a word whispered between the commanders. A thing tucked away and hidden – largely forgotten that unfolds on Noam’s warped memories. On the edges of a dream, and passing on the airs shared between soldiers – of legends and stories that succumb to the earth.
“The Arete are dead.”
His words speak with an edge of finality. He thinks, between the holes that puncture throughout his recollections – of the places he’d been ordered to bring prisoners. Kept between dusted coffins, and the endless dark – a void, impenetrable of any light.
Noam regards the creeping smile of this ‘Zayir’. Wondering if the heat has finally cooked his insides.
“Noam,” the word is said simply. “I fought in Zolin’s war.” He adds, curious if this might inflame the so-called Arete ever more. And in the back of his mind, he half expected it to.
Voicing this was both unusual and novel. There were so few who could admit as much, and if they did – it was not a campaign worth gloating over. Without any clear victor, without a figurehead worthy of Solis’ grace and mercy – the war ruined and destroyed Solterra’s reputation and vigor on a grand scale.
“I was fighting for Solis after all,” he says off-handedly. More as an after thought, an acrid tone that causes the sparrow to move and stand. Spreading out his stiff wings.
He hopes the ghost is volatile, he hopes he strikes back with vengeance – he wants to feel guilt again. But can’t possibly fathom the emotion just quite yet.
