As you lay there, as the life slowly leaves your eyes, as you slip into the netherworld... you wonder why. Why you? Why here? You always tried to be a good person. You wanted to be remembered as a strong, confident father. A bold, daring individual. A suave, decadent host. You think of all the money you saved. All the promises you made. The parties, festivals, re-unions, communions. All the people reaching out, hoping to snag a piece of your authentic eccentricity. What would the world do without you? Descend into chaos? Revert into the dizzying order? Perhaps a hybrid of calm haves and ravenous have nots. Perhaps a world of darkness and fear. But oh, you wonder, what calling does a hero have if none other than mankind's paralyzing fears? Fears of the future, regrets of the past... impulses in the present. It would all beautifully coalesce into unassuming wisdom, retrospective depth of not for once an invidious character. You hope, you wish, you pray that the world shall not be lost as the bells ring and you fade, or pull back as it were, to the landscape of the Jinas, to the shapeless void for which no words can fit.
This is the day. It must be. Turning back would be cowardly. The good people will see and remember. Society's collective grudges, intertwined and muddied as they are, are surely a force to be reckoned with. No longer are the days of populist rhetoric, of everyman's vernacular. All or none is the standard set by the masses. But you are hardly suited for the task. Why should anyone trust you with such a monumental occupancy? If not, you suspect, for the inquisitive nature of the crowd. That sobering reality that all is heard, no matter how brief or bellowed. You arrive at the post, frantic and lost in your own way. The ecstasy of expediency has dulled the roars and tamed the tritest of the mass. The aggregation and sublime rumination of such megalithic proportions, is it any wonder the last dozen participants have forfeited so fast?
It would seem, you suspect, that every year another winner is declared only to be shuffled into obscurity and lost to time. What great things does our hero do anyway? Does he actually contain the rot? Do the streets clear of their clouds and currents? Do the masons progress in their arts of their own admonition?
The splintering heat, the voracious chill... the blinding whisks of whooshing trance. A realm suited merely for the roughest and ragged from that horizon you once knew. The endless sprawling rows of riders, teeming troves of omnivore, stacks of steel-forged apparitions. How would one soul fight this fate? What form, you ask, by such decree, could resurrect that simple sonet, that industrious vessel of alacrity?
The urges boil vapidly as the screech of hollow definition calls your cloak ahead. You push through, fighting desperation, sprinkled hints of aspiration. The fabrics shuffle through their phases. They upend their natural inclinations. You blow the horn and disband reason - the time has come to battle treason.
The people know, they always have. The scorching karmic glory. You feel the surging span of pride, the feeling none can truly hide. First coursing through your veins and then, if by some trick, that story ends.
One will recall, as in summation, some sort of final tribulation. You tried and by some miracle you were approved for this old mission.
You gaze across the crowds and wonder how this mission works.
The silence pierces your ears. The deafening calm brings you to your knees. What a pity, you think, to die at the precipice of salvation. But no, your choice is absolute.
He approaches you as slowly as the clouds swim in the sky. He provides no sense of urgency. He brings no shaking doubt or dissonance. Utterly collected, infinitely somber, this individual is responding to your grave injections. He reaches closely, leaning forward, holding that position. Carefully, apologetically, he lowers his gaze to you. His eyes burn yellow, purple, green. A color cocktail, bright and beaming glows. He removes the rambunctious apparatus and once again breath fills your lungs. And as you reach your fill of air, you slow and freeze before exhaling. The rush of static up your spine... transforms into its lowest tune. It lifts you up then sets you down, and as you peer across the valley, the vast empty terrain unleashes madness.
"NO. NO. NO. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THEM?"
He stares you down with not a hint of apprehension. He does not beckon, sway or ease. His form is locked and unabashed. The blossoming rage encapsulates your vocal expedition.
"WHERE ARE THEY?? WHERE ARE THEY?!!? YOU FU-"
He raises one hand, then the other. Flips his palms up and extends his fingers. The innocence of the posturing is reductive. Your distress settles on a perch of solemn wisdom. He smiles, pauses and releases the words of ceremonial distinction. His voice is soothing, drawing discomfort from your ether.
"You have saved the good people, Silas."
"Saved... saved them how? What have I done?"
"Silas, you are one who must go on, but if you don't then they will perish."
Abruptly, succinctly, you run through every possibility. You are a host? No. You are the cure? If only. Confusion sets and passions grow. Minutes remain, of course, and time is no more friend than foe. You close your eyes, you clench them tight, you muster pithy trepidation. You open them, quickly now, no more delay. Your gazes meet.
"Silas."
The brush of sanctimonious malice. You come to see the path you've taken.
"You can end this."
You break his gaze and look among your friends and neighbors. Death is looming. No. No, you've been assuming. The scrawled scribbles of certain passing... gone themselves and hope amassing.
"I wanted to save the good people. I would die for them. Anything, please"
"You can end this."
You hesitate. A light turns on. You understand.
"I end this... I do this, and they don't die?"
He bows his head and grins. He seems sincere, though lying now would serve no purpose. You unsheathe the blade. It's decorations and jagged edges compete for attention. It glistens, clean and pure. You breath, deep and slow. Your heartbeat follows suit. And now, the grande finale, the dying hero saves his hopeless people.
A jab and twist, a sturdy fist. You grip and grip until you slip. You lose footing, then stumble down. You look once more upon this town.
These people hum together now. You feel their searing woes of sorrow. But no, unraveling, sporadic upheaval, retrieval, divisive truncated combustion. The chaos grows and grows, uphill, faster, exponential. Screams and chaos, chaos, chaos. And here you see this man again, peering at you with that grin. That grin, what is it, what does he know?
You step up, drenched in blood. You stand up straight and think and think.
You are Silas, Sy the Serpent. The infinite beast of spinning spite. The crumbling world around you, as you gander, now you understand. You are the world. You are the Universe. Your self-sacrifice will save your friends from death but no, deprive them of existence. You've been tricked. You sink to your knees again. You stare into your own blood puddle, you catch a glimpse of your reflection. You look tired. You look exhausted.
That man. That man that tricked you. He had no death mark. No date or name... those eyes. Those eyes do not exist in your world. Is he a spy? A spirit? A serpent? No. Impossible. But why?
You stand firm. You are held in place. Someone... him. He locks you into place. The world is crumbling. The swarm is spiraling into the void. Everything is rushing into nothing. The last moment, faintly distinguishable if only by a light imposing ringing... the ringing slows, then fades. The last moment, before you dissipate, disassemble into abysmal nothingness, he whispers sharp and angrily, he whispers
"Brother, Brother listen to me..."
He grabs you tight and groans with fury, he groans with vicious, undulating wrath, he groans...
I hate you
I HATE YOU