Sunday, 20 December 2015

I'm dead already




Opening his way through the Doors of Iron
Defeating the Guardians of the Wall of Shadows
Walking beyond the Well of Blood
Come is the Warrior of the Dreams, the warrior-monk
To face the Black Throne, upon which seated
the Lord of Sorrow is.
Red of blood the sword is, pitch black the castle hall is.
Lone witness is the Moon-pouring her light
at the feet of the contenders.
>>I'm the Warrior of the Dreams, the warrior-monk
I'm an ideal, and you're dead already. I don't need to slaughter you.<<
The blade is back into the sheath
Never again it will be unsheathed
for an idea is stronger than any army.
The warrior-monk seats down, crosses his legs and rests.
You don't fear who's already dead.
The Lord of Pain can nothing
For nobody can stop an idea.


   

With three steps he closes in on his target. But the blade is sheathed and the moon's rays flicker briefly on its edge and then disappear. The shadow on the throne doesn't relax, neither tenses. In the moonlight pouring through the skylight, both the figures are shadows blending in the darkness, the one seated upon the throne, the other one standing in front of it. Both still. The darkness hides the ends of the hall. A last movement in the darkness, a death rattle, then the silence again.
Leaning out towards the warrior, the seated shadow scrapes the darkness with his voice: -In the end, the Warrior of Dreams has entered my hall.- A hint of amusement gives a threatening sound to the voice.
-Not the Warrior of Dreams is in front of you, but the warrior-monk.
-Warrior of Dreams... warrior-monk... it doesn't matter.- An almost bothered tone. -I can kill you before you will be able to move a single step.
-You can't kill me, for I'm already dead.
A short silence, then the voice scratched the gloom again, marked with anger. -I can annihilate your body, I can fill it with so much pain that your mind will shatter in thousands of shards. So many that you will not able to recompose it. You have no chance to kill me!
-I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to defeat you. And this I've already done, without the need of killing you.
-And tell me,- the shadow asks amused, -how would you overthrow me from this throne?
-You haven't realized it yet, but the process has begun. Many have seen me come here; at this very moment, there are who see that I'm standing in front of you. The challenge has been launched and you couldn't tackle it. Kill my body, but you will not stop me. For I'm not this body, but an ideal. If you kill my body, many more will pick this idea up. Many already know that you are not unreachable, that you're not untouchable, and the word will travel fast.
"You've already been defeated, even if you don't accept it.
A whisper, almost a grunt. The figure upon the throne lays back against seat-back.
-Killing you-, he ponders in the dark, -I would make a martyr of you, and men would gather beneath your flag. But I can lock you up and show you off as a trophy, and the men will pity your weakness.
-They have seen that I am close enough to strike and that I have decided of not doing it. Imprison me, and everybody will think that I let you do it. Imprison this body, but you will not be able to mortify me with pain or fear, for being already dead there's nothing I fear to lose. Lock me up and you will achieve nothing, for you can't prevent to an idea to run free.
The silence falls one more time on the hall and stretched through the darkness. The two shadows, the one seated the other standing, face each other still. A stream of blood, slowly, flows from the darkness in the moonlight. The only proof of a mortal contest recently come to an end.
-Join my service-, the seated shadow whispers. -You will have power above all other men in this Empire. You'll need only to point out what you desire to have it: a human being, object or animal. You'll have anything you wish for what is between the Skyrim and the deeper Underworld. I'll give you immortality and men will worship you as a God!
-You have nothing that a dead man would desire.
-You can't hit me! You have never had the chance to strike the final blow!
With a slow and fluid movement, without moving the arms but just folding his own legs, the warrior-monk seats down. Crossing his legs he stays still in front of the Iron Throne. -I killed you already. I killed the fear grasping the heart of the men forcing them to obey you. I set them free, for now, they know that they can challenge you. And what can be challenged can be defeated too. They will fear death no more, for my ideal is into them now. They will not be your slaves again, for the were slave of the fear and I killed the fear. they were enslaved to a simple word. Killing such a word I killed you.
The two figure are completely still once more: the one high upon the throne, the other one seated on the ground. Again the darkness is silent. The stream of blood, black in the moonlight. has stopped flowing.

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