Scenes from the Steppes of Slavia (flash fiction)
Oct 14, 2015 10:27:59 GMT -5
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Post by Von on Oct 14, 2015 10:27:59 GMT -5
DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL
The pitch and yaw, the grind and howl of wood straining against water; the creak of the long arms and the whistle of stones in the air, riding louder than the storm until they struck. Bodies, flailing, winnowing without arms the gathering deep. Masts locking as ships turned on the wave, the red flag and the white entangled like the ships beneath them, wrestling for supremacy on the lip of the grave.
This was not war. This was not fitting. This was cavorting with mortal sin, an ill death by design.
The chill of doubt, of sudden uncertainty that her course was the right and proper one; would Constans keep his vows? Would the sickle honour its word to the sword? What of the armies gathering on her border, the banners hanging on the hillsides of Bulgaria? A pledge had been given and received, yet clearly in bad faith...
This was not war. This was not honour. These were not the weapons she would use.
Defeat and doubt were not proper, not for the Empowered-on-Earth, and so Catherine knelt, and kept vigil. Beyond the ring of candles that cast her face in a painful glow, the Basilean was in darkness; it was the dead of night. The hilt of her sword pressed hard against her forehead, and her knuckles were white around the grip, as though they wrestled with it, though she did not move and had not moved since sunrise the day before.
The stars crept across the heavens and winked out. The moon hid her face behind the hills, blushing as the first presentiments of dawn flickered opposite her.
Within the Basilean, Catherine knelt still. She did not ignore the scuffle and the thud of boots in the great darkness behind her – she recognised them and overruled her instincts. Ignorance was not faith. Faith was an act of will.
The bootsteps halted. There was a rustle of fur and a clink as someone crossed themselves, and then a low voice spoke in the accent of Bulgaria.
“I bring tidings to Her Serene Highness, my Tsarina.”
Catherine spoke, without looking up. “You interrupt your Tsarina at vigil, Nikolai Sergeivich.”
“Not so, your Highness. Dawn broke over me. I rode at its tail. You will be glad that I did so.”
“Speak.”
“The Emperor of Byzantia is dead. A madness took him and all his household; a fever of the brain that turned the humours against the mind. The southern Slavs are leaderless. Our people, my Tsarina - ”
“Think you that you must tell me that? Think you that you must direct me?” She rose, laboriously, and crossed herself, still looking away, her face directed upward toward a window in which the first light was beginning to shine. It struck and stoked a companion light in her eyes, and she tugged her headscarf down, covering the marks where Empowerer had pressed against her skull. Their grand design had survived the night. The sun was coming up.
“I am the Empowered-on-Earth, Nikolai Sergeivich. I know what must be done. In three days you ride.”
The pitch and yaw, the grind and howl of wood straining against water; the creak of the long arms and the whistle of stones in the air, riding louder than the storm until they struck. Bodies, flailing, winnowing without arms the gathering deep. Masts locking as ships turned on the wave, the red flag and the white entangled like the ships beneath them, wrestling for supremacy on the lip of the grave.
This was not war. This was not fitting. This was cavorting with mortal sin, an ill death by design.
The chill of doubt, of sudden uncertainty that her course was the right and proper one; would Constans keep his vows? Would the sickle honour its word to the sword? What of the armies gathering on her border, the banners hanging on the hillsides of Bulgaria? A pledge had been given and received, yet clearly in bad faith...
This was not war. This was not honour. These were not the weapons she would use.
Defeat and doubt were not proper, not for the Empowered-on-Earth, and so Catherine knelt, and kept vigil. Beyond the ring of candles that cast her face in a painful glow, the Basilean was in darkness; it was the dead of night. The hilt of her sword pressed hard against her forehead, and her knuckles were white around the grip, as though they wrestled with it, though she did not move and had not moved since sunrise the day before.
The stars crept across the heavens and winked out. The moon hid her face behind the hills, blushing as the first presentiments of dawn flickered opposite her.
Within the Basilean, Catherine knelt still. She did not ignore the scuffle and the thud of boots in the great darkness behind her – she recognised them and overruled her instincts. Ignorance was not faith. Faith was an act of will.
The bootsteps halted. There was a rustle of fur and a clink as someone crossed themselves, and then a low voice spoke in the accent of Bulgaria.
“I bring tidings to Her Serene Highness, my Tsarina.”
Catherine spoke, without looking up. “You interrupt your Tsarina at vigil, Nikolai Sergeivich.”
“Not so, your Highness. Dawn broke over me. I rode at its tail. You will be glad that I did so.”
“Speak.”
“The Emperor of Byzantia is dead. A madness took him and all his household; a fever of the brain that turned the humours against the mind. The southern Slavs are leaderless. Our people, my Tsarina - ”
“Think you that you must tell me that? Think you that you must direct me?” She rose, laboriously, and crossed herself, still looking away, her face directed upward toward a window in which the first light was beginning to shine. It struck and stoked a companion light in her eyes, and she tugged her headscarf down, covering the marks where Empowerer had pressed against her skull. Their grand design had survived the night. The sun was coming up.
“I am the Empowered-on-Earth, Nikolai Sergeivich. I know what must be done. In three days you ride.”
