(August 26, 2007)
Before Primes, in all their assorted forms, began marking time. Before there even was time, there was the War.
The Blood War. Eternal conflict, that on the surface seemed between Demons and Fiends. The Abyss and the Hells. Tanar'ri and Baatezu. At least on the surface it seemed that way. When the clueless thought they knew what they were talking about at any rate.
The Blood War was, and is, the eternal struggle between Law and Chaos. Plain and simply that. Good or Evil, it didn't matter nearly so much as Chaos or Law.
And it was to that conflict he'd sacrificed himself. Given up his life while trying to bleed out the pain, loss, and confusion she'd helped give rise to.
Though, she hadn't been the only cause, hadn't been the only reason the time-bomb that had been hiding inside his mind and heart for years finally decided it was time to blow. She'd only been the puff of a breeze to fan the smoldering fuse to light.
When he'd gone down the final time, it'd been in a blaze of glory. Protecting the Maerkhet's flank, fighting side-by-side with true born Tanar'ri as though they'd shared blood. Blades whirling, exploding lozenges spat into groups of enemies when they sought to form-up and attack.
At last when the battle was near-to done, he'd let his knees give way beneath him. Tipped his head back to stare at the Abyssal sky overhead and let the worlds, and their problems and pain, fall away.
Slept, a dreamless sleep for a time, tucked safe and close where there could be no more harm. 'Neath the shadow of a wing to wait for the time to be right.
They'd brought his body back, swathed in the colors of their House, the colors of their Clan. The weapons of his final enemy laid beside him, his own weapons near at hand. Even a few shards of a lozenge had been found to add to his honors. Tokens and trinkets gathered from the field near where he'd fallen, from those who bore the marks of his wrath.
It had taken ten of their number to bear his body to the one place he'd ever truly called home. Their faces solemn as they should be, their eyes downcast, their wings folded tight and close against armored backs. Straight from the field they'd come.
Blood splattered, mud caked, stained by sweat and soot.
Through moonlight the procession came, rising from deepest shadows one slow step at a time. Through fairy-tale gardens that most of their number would have sneered over the foolishness of had they not known who lived here. Had they not known where the Prime who'd made this place their home stood among them. Had they not bore the body of one who had become one of their own to what would be his resting place.
She'd shaken her head in denial, that foolish gesture that so many seem to feel will change words and fates. Even when they'd folded back the cloth covering his face she'd tried to deny what was in front of her face. When Ohoda, her brindle Akita lifted his voice in mourning, followed closely by Ohetika, a brindle Cane Corso, joined in, she'd not been able to even pretend any longer.
Keening, as was her way, she'd followed the warriors to the glade. Just that afternoon, before it'd all gone to hell, they'd sat there talking while he sunned himself on a flat-topped stone. Soaking in the High Summer's warmth.
Now the glade would be his place of rest. The place he would sleep in the ground, safe and close and warm for now and ever.
Because it was her way, because it was too personal, they'd called another group of warriors to help the human-female dig. The first detachment standing to the side supporting the fallen until the hole was deemed right and acceptable.
Their song for the fallen joined with the woman's keening, twining together in a way that none of them would ever wish to repeat again. The sleeper was lowered into the ground with all the care a mother would give her resting babe. They wouldn't stay to finish, that was not their way. That was not their purpose.
As a unit they turned to return to their home-plane. Their leader pausing long enough to look over a shoulder at the woman.
"He asked, should he fall, that you plant flowers for him. They should be of your choosing, something that may serve as a reminder to you." With that, they were gone and the redneck was alone with her fallen brother.
She spent that night covering him tenderly as the first edges of her mourning tore through her. That night and many more transplanting roses and lilies from her gardens to blanket the scar of fresh-turned earth. A friend came to pay his respect and give a gift.
Kneeling, knees pressed into the ground, he called upon his higher power to ensure that the sleeper would never feel the cold again.
Summer would reign here, until time ended.
Roses and lilies crowded the base of the stone Krist had so recently sunned himself on. No words or regrets were carved into the marker.
They were carved into her heart.
Before Primes, in all their assorted forms, began marking time. Before there even was time, there was the War.
The Blood War. Eternal conflict, that on the surface seemed between Demons and Fiends. The Abyss and the Hells. Tanar'ri and Baatezu. At least on the surface it seemed that way. When the clueless thought they knew what they were talking about at any rate.
The Blood War was, and is, the eternal struggle between Law and Chaos. Plain and simply that. Good or Evil, it didn't matter nearly so much as Chaos or Law.
And it was to that conflict he'd sacrificed himself. Given up his life while trying to bleed out the pain, loss, and confusion she'd helped give rise to.
Though, she hadn't been the only cause, hadn't been the only reason the time-bomb that had been hiding inside his mind and heart for years finally decided it was time to blow. She'd only been the puff of a breeze to fan the smoldering fuse to light.
When he'd gone down the final time, it'd been in a blaze of glory. Protecting the Maerkhet's flank, fighting side-by-side with true born Tanar'ri as though they'd shared blood. Blades whirling, exploding lozenges spat into groups of enemies when they sought to form-up and attack.
At last when the battle was near-to done, he'd let his knees give way beneath him. Tipped his head back to stare at the Abyssal sky overhead and let the worlds, and their problems and pain, fall away.
Slept, a dreamless sleep for a time, tucked safe and close where there could be no more harm. 'Neath the shadow of a wing to wait for the time to be right.
They'd brought his body back, swathed in the colors of their House, the colors of their Clan. The weapons of his final enemy laid beside him, his own weapons near at hand. Even a few shards of a lozenge had been found to add to his honors. Tokens and trinkets gathered from the field near where he'd fallen, from those who bore the marks of his wrath.
It had taken ten of their number to bear his body to the one place he'd ever truly called home. Their faces solemn as they should be, their eyes downcast, their wings folded tight and close against armored backs. Straight from the field they'd come.
Blood splattered, mud caked, stained by sweat and soot.
Through moonlight the procession came, rising from deepest shadows one slow step at a time. Through fairy-tale gardens that most of their number would have sneered over the foolishness of had they not known who lived here. Had they not known where the Prime who'd made this place their home stood among them. Had they not bore the body of one who had become one of their own to what would be his resting place.
She'd shaken her head in denial, that foolish gesture that so many seem to feel will change words and fates. Even when they'd folded back the cloth covering his face she'd tried to deny what was in front of her face. When Ohoda, her brindle Akita lifted his voice in mourning, followed closely by Ohetika, a brindle Cane Corso, joined in, she'd not been able to even pretend any longer.
Keening, as was her way, she'd followed the warriors to the glade. Just that afternoon, before it'd all gone to hell, they'd sat there talking while he sunned himself on a flat-topped stone. Soaking in the High Summer's warmth.
Now the glade would be his place of rest. The place he would sleep in the ground, safe and close and warm for now and ever.
Because it was her way, because it was too personal, they'd called another group of warriors to help the human-female dig. The first detachment standing to the side supporting the fallen until the hole was deemed right and acceptable.
Their song for the fallen joined with the woman's keening, twining together in a way that none of them would ever wish to repeat again. The sleeper was lowered into the ground with all the care a mother would give her resting babe. They wouldn't stay to finish, that was not their way. That was not their purpose.
As a unit they turned to return to their home-plane. Their leader pausing long enough to look over a shoulder at the woman.
"He asked, should he fall, that you plant flowers for him. They should be of your choosing, something that may serve as a reminder to you." With that, they were gone and the redneck was alone with her fallen brother.
She spent that night covering him tenderly as the first edges of her mourning tore through her. That night and many more transplanting roses and lilies from her gardens to blanket the scar of fresh-turned earth. A friend came to pay his respect and give a gift.
Kneeling, knees pressed into the ground, he called upon his higher power to ensure that the sleeper would never feel the cold again.
Summer would reign here, until time ended.
Roses and lilies crowded the base of the stone Krist had so recently sunned himself on. No words or regrets were carved into the marker.
They were carved into her heart.