with their blood soaking in the sand, the gunner says.
her gaze does not move, once it finds his in the low light of this, the kingdom of death and destruction that they share so uneasily between them. it reminds him, without her ever having to utter the words, to make the movement to sink the blade between his ribs, that such an action, such a setting, would not be unfamiliar to him.
that’s all that sand is good for, he thinks. absorbing the blood. half-burying the body.
he would have done it–if the captain had ordered it. the clairvoyant’s death card reversed, choice removed, he would have shot them all and left them there to be feasted on by carrion bird or nightmare creature alike–a good soldier does not question a command, a soldier is good for doing the unspeakable tasks, the soldier pulls the trigger and repeats to himself as he washes the blood from his hands, as he cleans the gore from his rifle with the tender caress of a lover, that he did it because it was good.
the hero does what is necessary, that is the medal they pin to his chest, the cross that he bears. that is the price of glory. that is the price of sanity and self when all you know is death.
“people are quick to believe the supernatural, that something out there is stalking us and wearing the faces of the dead, before they will believe in something a simple as human cruelty.” he says in way of agreement, with a shrug of his shoulders. he tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, bites down hard on his bottom lip. “i’ve seen it–glory, it’s never more tantalizing than when the situation seems hopeless. they don’t call you a hero unless it first looks like you’re going to die, to lose.”
he exhales slowly, shakes his head. “perhaps you’re right, jaya. perhaps i should have just done it–told the captain there were no survivors.”
there was nothing i could have done, a voice says in the back of his mind. it’s out of breath, it’s hoarse, it speaks with forked tongue cradling every word carefully. the sergeant, he lost too much blood–all i could do was make sure that someone was with him, at the end. that he knew he died a hero.
a young man bows his head solemnly, scrubs a dirty and bloodstained hand over his eyes. all i could do was promise that i would lead our men with all the dignity that he did–he seemed happy about that, i think. i hope he was–he deserves that.
a young man smiles, but not too broadly, as a general puts a hand on his shoulder, and congratulates him on his new rank. make us proud sergeant fox, you’ve done well here today.
her shadowed reprieve, it is plain to see, is to be a short-lived affair. already, despite the rag that never ceases its methodical drag over the ridges of artillery, her body tilts to favour the view of her uncommon companion. fox’s presence punctures through the gunner-woman’s phantasmal indifference like an anthropod’s pincers, his words gnawing away at the cobwebs of the barricade she’s tucked herself away behind, until her conscious-mind oozes, hot as blood.
how funny, jaya considers, to find human cruelty difficult to believe in. it is all that had been left to count on for her. it was the only constant, as far as she could see. human cruelty, whether inherent or evoked, was inevitable. the universe could turn man into a wild thing upon whim. wasn’t that what their religions positulated about, coiled in cautionary tales? the strength needed to resist the devil’s seductive whisper, to resist potential for cruelty, and remain graceful and faithful and die a death that meant something, granted such by the dieties they believed in. man needed that, didn’t he? for an end to mean something. to be a name in history worth remembering? and none of them were. they were only bodies of blood, all of it red – all of it so terribly, tremendously easy to spill.
( did sergeant fox know that? had the life he had lived, where spilt blood coated his hands as endlessly as it flowed through his veins, been one that had taught him such? as hers had done? perhaps, after all. perhaps, jaya allows. )
upon the sight of him — for sight alone is oft-enough for her, all opportunity affords before it is too late, and so it goes in the lives she’s led — it is evident that he is not included in the majority he refers to. i’ve seen it, he tells her. glory, it’s never more tantalising than when the situation seems hopeless. what have you seen? jaya wonders, much to her own ample chagrin. they don’t call you a hero unless it first looks like you’re going to die, to lose.
jaya had spent her existence dying minor deaths. she knew loss in every sense of the notion: of love, of partner, of self. she had never been accused of heroism. and isn’t that just the difference between the two of them? blood on their hands, one like the other. he got medals for killing for a crown, and those medals shone brightly enough to blind. what is beneath them? does anyone know? fox is a piece of the triumvirate-whole — and yet, when he gleams, it is not with the innate gilded austerity that sutherland exudes without trying, nor the light flickering within yamatov from time to time. there is gloss that coats him – that conceals. but what?
she does not doubt that he was capable of committing atrocities. of slaughtering the agathe survivors. of lying to dowling. it only leaves one question:
“why didn’t you? you may as well tell me something i’ll fucking believe.”
mentioned: @aveaugvstus / @wilccard
