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Chapter LXX : Shipwrecked
Latemorn of Denuo, Twenty-Fourth Day of Autumnmoon
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Bram woke to the warmth of the sun on his face. His head ached, and his body itched. He slowly turned on his stomach, planted both hands into the golden loam of a beach, and attempted to stand. His head pounded, especially the area above his right ear. He grazed its surface with his fingers and winced. The pain went deep, a concussive wound that brought him to his knees.
He recalled what happened in an instant: Fierce waves on an otherwise clear morn. A merchant vessel enroute to Kish. Gale force winds. A worried captain. Screams from the sailors. Monstrous tentacles ….
Yuri!
His heart sank as he remembered the child being ripped from his grasp, as his ship’s hull split in two by the appendages of the supposed leviathan of the sea, Typhon. One moment, Yuri was asleep in his arms. Then … they were gone. His memories in between were a blur, but they were gone. Gone.
He pounded the sand with his fists. He wanted to scream in agony, but he lacked the voice. He was badly dehydrated, and the best he could do was a rasping wheeze.
Though he never had a child of his own, he loved Yuri as a father would. Their gentle smile. Their innocent voice. Their playful nature. Every memory brought him pain.
They were more than just an endearing child. They were his beacon, a reminder of the virtues the Knighthood had forced him to surrender. Compassion, forgiveness, humility … standards of his youth that he lost on his journey to adulthood. Yuri was his compass, pointing him to the path of light. Without them, he was lost.
He drew a ragged breath. For a moment, he considered the possibility that they were still alive. That they had survived the assault. Perhaps, even drifted on the same ocean currents, to the same desolate beach. They might have even washed ashore, somewhere nearby. It might have been wishful thinking. Or a delirious mind playing tricks. But, what if ….
He fervently scanned the beach. “Yuri?”
He worked his legs, limped along the coastline, and rasped their name through his raw, dry throat. He pictured them, on the sand, just beyond the next bend. But, his hopes were dashed at every turn. He saw no one. There was nothing. He was alone.
His head swam. He forced his eyes open, planting both feet in the sand to steady himself against waves of dizziness.
“Yuri!”
He screamed, expelling every last ounce of adrenaline-infused energy. Until there was nothing left. His spirit and hope were gone.
He fell to his knees once more, eyes brimming, face caked with sand. The Goddess was cruel. He sacrificed everything to stand against evil, yet everything was taken from him. His homeland, Rosa, Yuri … all gone.
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He cursed the wretched seas for whisking him to a remote beach and leaving him with regret, instead of giving him the dignity to die at sea. He howled damnations to all the kings and chancellors, whose avarice led the world to ruin. They could all burn, damn them!
He refused to accept defeat, but the reality was clear. He was on a distant island, in the middle of the Great Ocean, where the chances of survival were close to none. Even if Yuri had survived Typhon’s deadly attack, there was little hope they landed on the same remote beach. He was kidding himself.
So he sat, with none for company but his own sorrows and regret. He imagined his past, when he was young and innocent, raised by a poor farmer in an altruistic, Angkorian village. Jack Morrison raised him to love and care for others, and he dreamt of spreading these principles throughout the world. He thought he could epitomize his ideals by joining the Gnostic Knights, which were famous across the land for their strength and fearlessness.
He succeeded in becoming an adept warrior, but only through the indoctrination of a new set of principles, ones which blurred the lines between loyalty and morality, to better align with the will of the king. By the time he joined, halfway into The War, the Knights were at the forefront of Richard’s bitter battle against his enemies. Koba and Kitezh, once peaceful neighbors, were dehumanized by Angkorian propaganda. The Knights called them swine, and Bram was to be the butcher. Along with his cohorts, he burned villages and murdered civilians. Anything to unleash Richard’s fury upon his enemies.
Once his youthful virtues had atrophied, he no longer saw his enemies as people. Yet, they were no different from the downtrodden farmers of Providence, desperate to defend their lands from invasion. Beneath their armor, they were men with families, the same as the ones Bram had sworn to protect. The Knights had never been a path to elevate his ideals. Their mandate was to forge their soldiers into weapons for King Richard. And perhaps Bram was the sharpest of them all.
Only in his darkest hour, on an empty beach in a distant land, did he finally look back and realize … he should have been cursing himself. He had been on the wrong side for so long that he lost track of right and wrong. The losses of those he cherished were merely restitutions for deeds he once committed. Karma, appropriately portioned.
Had he known better, he would have never gone to Minoa to unlock their sunstone. He might have even prevented the destruction of the Ur valley, leaving Yuri and their mother alive in their peaceful tribal village. He was responsible for their misfortunes, and only he could atone. Bad luck or ignorance was no longer an excuse.
Knowing this, he could no longer hold his emotions in check. He had nothing to hold back the pain. No Gnostic armor. No loved ones to give him strength. His shields of fortitude and stoicism collapsed.
His body heaved, and the sobs began. Evidence that he had finally accepted the truth. There was no holding back. He had nothing to prove, nor anyone there to mock his broken façade. So he gave in to the sadness and wept, ashamed that it had taken him so long. His past was full of sin. Hopelessness and despair overflowed.
Only one thing stopped him from walking into the sea and submerging his grief beneath its apathetic waves: his knowledge, which few on Gaia could match. He knew about the sunstones, as well as Virgil’s and Samuel’s plans to harness the Ahrimen’s power. He couldn’t in good conscience take his knowledge to the grave and doom Gaia’s inhabitants to a world of suffering.
Not to mention that King Józef and Emperor Zhao still needed help unifying the world’s nations. He could still make a difference, and his efforts could serve as penance. Nothing could bring back the ones he lost, but at least he could die in peace, knowing he had done everything possible to make things right. Otherwise, life had no meaning.
He stood up and attempted to wipe the streaks of sand from his cheeks and clothes. He headed inland, limping, one foot in front of the other. He would search for another soul upon the island. He would fight … or die trying.