Surely some revelation is at hand; surely the Second Coming is at hand
They say that in these dire moments the faces of those you loved most will return to you; they say that in the stillness between violence, the nonexistent and incomprehensible blink between the movement of a clock’s secondhand, you will see your brightest memories.
It is not like that, for me. Instead, it is their absence that fills my mind. It is the fact that if I am to die on this beach, then I am to die utterly alone. There are none to mourn me. Although once the favored son of a nation, those decorations and that admiration did not follow me to these haunting shores.
“How are you so brave?” He asks. It is one of the many times we perform fire watch at night on the shore. We are dug into the sand and we watch the tide go out at eye-level, from a distance. The question emerges after hours of silence; when he asks it, his breath fogs the cold autumn air.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“In battle—I am thinking of when Dagda was hurt, and Ciaan. It is because the front rank broke from an onslaught. They were afraid. I saw it in their eyes. And I felt it—I felt it when, well. I would have been hurt, if you were not there to save me.”
I am quiet. The answer does not come easily to me; and I am silent so long I feel Bondike begin to doze beside me. His lids are heavy, and the sea is singing her sirens song. It is almost daybreak by the time I answer.
“I’m not afraid,” I say, “Because I expect to die.”
The sounds of my struggle are understated. The sea lulls a rhythmic beat. A gull laughs, unperturbed, overhead. The wind skates across the sand and beats the trees beyond the shoreline. The puncture of her teeth into my flesh when she redirects from my shoulder to my throat is a wet, almost quiet, squelching.
I have never fought this kind of hunger, I think. I have never fought against starvation; against desperation. My impression of her frailness is abruptly shattered; and the fight has been lost since I first saw her.
I expect to die.
The pain is fire-hot; I gurgle out something in between a laugh and a scream.
The gull is still cackling. I must look like meat already.
(And somehow, none of this is a surprise. Somehow, the moment her teeth find my jugular does not feel like disaster. Instead, the tension in me breathes out. Finally. What am I, if not this moment? How was I meant to end, if not dragged into the sea?)
It is the adrenaline, perhaps, that masked this fact from me. She has dragged me knee-deep into the water. I feel lightheaded; weakened; the pain that was so sharp only moments ago is so much lighter now. I cannot breathe and, somehow, that does not seem to matter.
My eyes roll toward the sky.
That is when I push into her grip with all my weight, rising onto my hind legs.
That is when I, with all my remaining strength, plunge us together beneath the waves.
(It is the only way I have ever been meant to end).
It’s almost a favor, this death, this warrior’s end.
It is almost like a final salute to the only time in my life when I had been happy.
“What do you mean, you expect to die?”
“It’s that old proverb. ‘Those who live by the sword, die by the sword.’ There’s no other ending for me. If it isn’t last week during that battle, then it will be in a few years in another.”
He is quiet; so quiet, the air feels electric. On the far horizon, the sun crests the end of the earth; it glows luminescent, too-bright, too-red, a drop of blood into a clear pool.
“Do you want to die, like that?”
“Yes. I don’t think I’m meant to live in this world as anything other than what I am right now. I think if I last through this war, it’ll be an injustice to myself and others. I would be no better than a lion in a circus.”
It is the only time I had ever rendered him truly speechless.
“There is more to you, you know. If you want there to be.”
I was never like him.
I was never a dancer; I was never a philosopher; I was never anything but a sword and a body and a mind told to conquer.
I taste salt and my own blood.
It is nothing like I expected.
It is not like that, for me. Instead, it is their absence that fills my mind. It is the fact that if I am to die on this beach, then I am to die utterly alone. There are none to mourn me. Although once the favored son of a nation, those decorations and that admiration did not follow me to these haunting shores.
“How are you so brave?” He asks. It is one of the many times we perform fire watch at night on the shore. We are dug into the sand and we watch the tide go out at eye-level, from a distance. The question emerges after hours of silence; when he asks it, his breath fogs the cold autumn air.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“In battle—I am thinking of when Dagda was hurt, and Ciaan. It is because the front rank broke from an onslaught. They were afraid. I saw it in their eyes. And I felt it—I felt it when, well. I would have been hurt, if you were not there to save me.”
I am quiet. The answer does not come easily to me; and I am silent so long I feel Bondike begin to doze beside me. His lids are heavy, and the sea is singing her sirens song. It is almost daybreak by the time I answer.
“I’m not afraid,” I say, “Because I expect to die.”
The sounds of my struggle are understated. The sea lulls a rhythmic beat. A gull laughs, unperturbed, overhead. The wind skates across the sand and beats the trees beyond the shoreline. The puncture of her teeth into my flesh when she redirects from my shoulder to my throat is a wet, almost quiet, squelching.
I have never fought this kind of hunger, I think. I have never fought against starvation; against desperation. My impression of her frailness is abruptly shattered; and the fight has been lost since I first saw her.
I expect to die.
The pain is fire-hot; I gurgle out something in between a laugh and a scream.
The gull is still cackling. I must look like meat already.
(And somehow, none of this is a surprise. Somehow, the moment her teeth find my jugular does not feel like disaster. Instead, the tension in me breathes out. Finally. What am I, if not this moment? How was I meant to end, if not dragged into the sea?)
It is the adrenaline, perhaps, that masked this fact from me. She has dragged me knee-deep into the water. I feel lightheaded; weakened; the pain that was so sharp only moments ago is so much lighter now. I cannot breathe and, somehow, that does not seem to matter.
My eyes roll toward the sky.
That is when I push into her grip with all my weight, rising onto my hind legs.
That is when I, with all my remaining strength, plunge us together beneath the waves.
(It is the only way I have ever been meant to end).
It’s almost a favor, this death, this warrior’s end.
It is almost like a final salute to the only time in my life when I had been happy.
“What do you mean, you expect to die?”
“It’s that old proverb. ‘Those who live by the sword, die by the sword.’ There’s no other ending for me. If it isn’t last week during that battle, then it will be in a few years in another.”
He is quiet; so quiet, the air feels electric. On the far horizon, the sun crests the end of the earth; it glows luminescent, too-bright, too-red, a drop of blood into a clear pool.
“Do you want to die, like that?”
“Yes. I don’t think I’m meant to live in this world as anything other than what I am right now. I think if I last through this war, it’ll be an injustice to myself and others. I would be no better than a lion in a circus.”
It is the only time I had ever rendered him truly speechless.
“There is more to you, you know. If you want there to be.”
I was never like him.
I was never a dancer; I was never a philosopher; I was never anything but a sword and a body and a mind told to conquer.
I taste salt and my own blood.
It is nothing like I expected.
