The rise of a new age led to a tragedy beyond words. Genocide. The murder of millions for the simple fact of their existence. In the face of the seemingly endless Fraldian army, resistance seemed futile. Yet in the face of such inevitability some fought. Jonah Grimlek had peered deep into the shadows and understood the inevitability of his death. Yet he refused to give in, kindling the pieces of his broken mind to fight something inexorable. The will to continue in the face of absolute impossibility. That is the resolve required to face God.
A sea of corpses stretched from horizon to horizon, the myriad of colorful uniforms reduced to one. Only red ruled here. A child cried out before her mother shushed her. Jonah breathed in deeply, remembering the time before red had ruled. It had happened in an instant, a spark flashing from the flint and the roaring fire in its wake. Its actual reason lost in the screams of dying men and whimpers of starving children. The sun had been shining when they first came. Men, dressed in uniform blues, bearing the crest of the so-called Savior, king of Frald. Jonah closed his eyes and let memory take him back. Time, merely a few months, yet seemingly like a lifetime, robbed him of the details. He remembered their polished black boots, the crisp shouted orders, the disdainful gazes. Yet he couldn't remember what they had first said to his father, the mayor of their small village. Nor could he remember what their officer had looked like. But he remembered the first shot, the first scream, the first flame. And he remembered the street full of corpses, illuminated by the haunting orange glow of embers, when they had returned in the night. He had reached out to an ember, wondering of the reality of the scene. It had burned, burned like nothing he had ever felt before that day. Yet it was nothing next to listening to the sick sizzling of blood on embers. He had breathed in deeply through his nose, almost tasting the iron, feeling the ember burning through his skin. A sound came from far away, fighting through time itself to reach him,
“...Jonah! Jonah!”
He let himself travel forward through time, arriving back at the endless sea of corpses.
“Yes?” he responded softly, looking at the speaker.
Mary flinched at his gaze, perhaps seeing those flames in his eyes once more. Then, visibly gathering herself, she spoke,
“What…” she swallowed, “What do we do?”
Back before hell had come to earth, Mary, a woman of nearly 35 years, had been well respected in their little village. Yet now she deferred to him, a boy of barely 17 years. He looked at the small crowd behind him, merely two dozen of the hundreds that had once inhabited their small village, and that they too looked to him for an answer. He wondered why. He was broken. He had died alongside his mother. Alongside his father. Alongside his sister. Why did he get to live while they died? It wasn't fair. Then again he thought, a dark chuckle escaping his lips, not like there’s much to live for.
“...Jonah? Jonah! What do we do!?”
Mary looked on the verge of tears, desperately trying not to look at the gruesome scene behind her.
He responded instinctively, hating himself for lying to his people,
“We move forward” he somehow got out, sounding much more confident than he felt,
“past that ridge” he pointed to a ridge lining the eastern side of the battlefield.
“The map says there's a village there. We can get water and food there. Remember, all we need to do is outlast them. Everything will be fine”
Mary nodded silently, and the rest joined her.
He led them over the ridge and into the village, hating himself every step of the way.
He woke up the next morning covered in cold sweat, gasping for breath.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Mom! Dad!” he cried out futility, hands desperately grasping at something unseen.
They found nothing but air, and his desperate flailing slowed as it was crushed under the immense weight of reality.
They were gone.
For a moment he simply lay still, letting blood and embers dance across the dark ceiling.
Then, with a gasp he shot out of bed, rushing to the window and opening it to the predawn light.
He let out a sigh of relief at seeing he had not overslept. He was in the attic of a nice couple they had offered to let them spend the night. He remembered the night before, the desperate bartering of some of the few possessions they had managed to scavenge from the remains of their village. He remembered them offering the cramped attic room to him, and the cold floor to his people. He had wanted to refuse, wanted to sleep with them, but upon seeing their hopeful faces he stopped. They wanted someone to take charge. Wanted someone to lead them. To give them hope. If they discovered he was the most broken of all… then it would rob them of the last of their hope. He had recalled the lessons of his now-dead father. Leadership is not about power. It's about sacrifice. He could sacrifice his comfort for his people.
He started, remembering why he had gotten up early in the first place.
He crept downstairs and knocked on the door of the nice couple.
Silence.
He knocked harder, praying with all his might.
Silence.
He burst into the room. Only to find it empty.
Adrenaline pumping, he ran into the common room where his people lay sleeping.
The couple was nowhere to be seen.
“Everybody up!” he yelled, “We need to go! Now!”
His tired people shot up, weeks on edge readily preparing them for such quick action.
“Grab all the food you can get! We leave in 5 minutes!”
He was the first to follow his orders, running to the pantry, cursing himself all the way.
How could he have fallen for such an obvious ploy?
He was Zorish, and so were his people. The Savior had called for the culling of the Zorish people. He had spit on their faith, calling their women witches and their men rapists. Any he found vanished, never to be seen again. Jonah knew where they had gone. He remembered the bodies.
I remembered too. More than he did. I remembered the Savior’s hate, his burning abhor. His proclamation came like a punch to the gut. It was an end to a people. For no other reason than their mere existence. I once more began to doubt my creation…
A doorframe rapidly rushing at his head, snapped him out of his self-recrimination.
It only took an instant to grab everything in the pantry, recent practice and the meager amount of food speeding him along. The war had not been kind even to the non-Zorish people. Perhaps that’s why they were constantly betrayed.
He returned to find everybody mostly ready,
“Let's go!”
They fled west, running from the predawn sun.
That night an exhausted Jonah watched his people pray, thanking God for their miracles. More miraculous than anyone but Jonah knew. In the end, pure dumb luck had been their savior. Their low chants echoed throughout the small grove they had chosen to shelter in for the night. Rising and falling like the sun, they wove a tapestry of sound and devotion, carefully assuring its sincerity and essence before sending it to the heavens above. To God.
From far above I watched, a silent tear dripping from my non-existent eyes. I wanted nothing more than to take my children in my arms and reassure them. But I could not. The fate of man was for man to decide. I turned my attention to the young man, no young king standing off to the side.
Once upon a time, Jonah would have joined in eagerly, sinking into the presence of both mortality and divinity. Now he wondered if God even deserved such faith. When had God protected them? He had let their families die. Let their home burn. Let their people be hunted.
Far above, his every accusation pierced me like a blade, all the more powerful for their truth.
He sat down on a nearby rock letting his thoughts sink into a rare moment of introspection.
God had abandoned them. All they had were themselves. Yet as he lifted his head to look at his praying people, he could bring himself to tell them. He saw their joy and peace. The truth would shatter that. It would bring their end. But they were doomed, only able to run for so long. Looking at their smiling visages, illuminated only by the stars, he came to a conclusion. All men were ultimately doomed. All that mattered was how they faced their doom. He would ensure his people faced theirs with faith and hope. As for him. It's about sacrifice. He would face it with eyes wide open if only to survive another second. If only to grant his people another moment of hope. He had failed his family, run while they died. He WOULD NOT fail his people.
For the first time in months, he didn't have any nightmares.