The Chronicles of Heaven's War: Burning Phoenix (105 page)

As the staff officers hurried away with
their duffle bags, Ardon could not help but wonder, puzzled. He had
expected nothing less than a sound verbal beating, and possibly a
physical pummeling, but no, Darla had treated him the same as her
other staff officers. He shuddered, thinking that her attacks might
come later, when no one was around, or possibly this Captain
Kristina was to do her dirty work for her. With that trepidation
flooding his mind, he timidly made his way aboard the Shikkeron in
search of his new accommodations.

From a distant tower, two emerald-green eyes
stared off toward the spaceport. A distraught person mourned, “I
have sent my child to her doom, bringing to ruin everything she
holds dear! Will she ever be able to forgive me?”

A fleeting hand brushed its shadowy fingers
across the person’s back, a haunting voice answering reassuringly,
“You had no other choice…that you have long known. No more can you
put off her hour of destiny. Cast her to the wolves, you must. In
death there comes renewed life and, for this child, a chance to
live free of her demons within.”

“But at such a terrible cost...!” The first
person moaned.

The whispering voice softly replied, “My
ZoeStethos, you can return life to a broken soul, but the heart
must mend itself. This child must find her own cure for her madness
within. You have only set the stage. Let us hope the actors play
their parts well, and then you shall have success.”

Zoe bowed her head, weeping. “I do so hope
my child will understand… that there is no other way, not now, not
at this late hour! To save this child, I must preserve Hell. To
preserve Hell, I must burn Heaven. Hell must then run its course to
the finish so that Heaven may be reborn. Oh, the dread of it
all...”

* * *

The warm morning breeze drifted through the
windows, catching up the curtains like billowy, flowered clouds. It
swept across the room, exciting the tiny hairs on naked flesh,
waking sleepy eyes that slowly fluttered open to stare into a
placid face still caught up in a world of dreamless snooze. For
seemingly endless moments, those eyes studied this sublime
creature, while her ears listened to the hypnotic rhythm of musical
repose.

Chasileah slowly rolled back on her side,
resting her weight on an elbow. She allowed her gaze to drift back
and forth across the body sleeping beside her. How beautiful -
mesmerizingly beautiful - and to think she had passed the night
entwined in rapturous love with this person. She reached over and
began playing her golden brown fingers upon the shimmering,
olive-colored skin of her companion.

A sighing moan drifted from the person’s
lips, and then came the returning of deep restful sleep. Chasileah
softly cooed in just above a whisper, “Sweet Elaia… my sweet Elaia…
your teasing promise to me was but a shadow of the dreams from
Love’s passion that you have delivered to me. I can now go to my
ever rest in peace, having witnessed the World of the Immortals
through your tender caresses and gentle kisses.”

How long Chasileah lingered there, she did
not know. Trisha did not wake, her sleep deep and peaceful. As the
morning sun warmed her back and the warm breeze played across her
skin, Chasileah pondered the hour. Today she and the field marshal
were to take a shuttle to Oros Army Headquarters. As time
permitted, they would see to how the secret preparations for the
MueoPoros invasion were coming along, and then visit the training
facilities in the Oros High Desert, if time permitted - something
the field marshal liked doing on regular occasions.

Then there were the endless meetings they
would be attending. Staff command was truly different from being in
the field. As Zadar often lamented, “Paperwork, paperwork,
paperwork, and then blah, blah, blah, and then more paperwork.”

She chuckled. Zadar was a fine fellow, kind,
courteous, and, oh, so polite, and his humor was contagious, but he
had a serious side that one could not ignore. Yes, it felt good to
have him on the team.

Then there was Jonathan. He was kind and
polite almost to a fault, especially with her. She could see in his
eyes a growing endearment - not sensual - yet even more alluring,
something she had not noticed in other men. He was rather bashful,
too, but not so much to avoid feigning excuse to be near her. She
smiled. How long could she play her tease-game of impassive
seduction before her heart was also caught up in it? Then… she
wondered… who was really seducing who? Jonathan was already getting
in her head, her waking thoughts, even now while sharing the bed of
a goddess divine.

Shaking those visions from her mind,
Chasileah snuggled close, resting her head on Trisha’s breasts
while wrapping an arm tightly about the woman. The sun felt
comforting, the breeze tingly warm, and the city sounds far below
the tower distant and muffled. In little more than a breath or two,
she was sound asleep, dreamily lost in a world where two hearts
softly beat in a symphony as though only one.

* * *

“You shiver.” Treston spoke with concern as
he wrapped his officer’s cloak around Sirion’s shoulders. “Saying
that you are fine does not make it so. Why push yourself so hard
when even the surgeons suggest a little more bed rest would do you
good?”

Sirion pulled the cloak tight as she fussed
over the
motherly
treatment. “I’m fine… a little tired,
maybe, and yes, my knees are a bit shaky after this long walk, but
I’m fine. The exercise is doing me good.”

She squeezed Treston’s hand, smiling her
appreciation. “Your bringing me here has lifted my spirits so.”

Treston’s worry refused to retreat. “Still,
you must be careful not to catch your death of cold. You’re barely
back on your feet and being about. It’s still dangerous for someone
in your condition to stress oneself. My wife succumbed to the fever
in weather little different from this.”

Sirion stopped, eyeing Treston. “My dear
man, remember where you are. You fared little better than your wife
in that hopeless world of yours… just were forced to live a bit
longer in it. I’m a witch… true, not with powers equal to many, but
a witch, none the less. I am from these Upper Worlds, born of
Mother’s blood and sired by Whispering Shadows, or so go the fables
taught by the Ancients such as PalaHar.”

She looked down at her fingers, recalling
their tortured crushing and mutilation. “How quickly we children of
this world mend! Your kind often languished a lifetime with the
scars from war and injury. We – me - my kind bounce back quickly,
though it may take a while with certain damage.” She pointed at an
eye that shimmered ghostly grey in early evening light. “Yet one
day it will heal completely.”

Taking Treston’s hand, Sirion continued
their journey through the Silent Tombs. “Do not forget how ancient
I am in the eyes of your kind. Born I was before the strife of the
Third Age, I witnessing the downfall of both our worlds. More
damaged in body I have been than by the tortures of Legion and his
madmen. To the point of death, my shattered body has been carried
from the horrid field one more than one occasion, my face blown
away once when my fighter exploded around me, my arms torn from my
body at MegLaMore while holding the fortress gate, and my innards
cleaved at Memphis, just to name a few of my more serious
injuries.”

She shook her head in contemplation. “The
children of this world are made of tough stuff! Hard to break, we
are. We weren’t designed to get sick or stay hurt, the same as your
Adam had been before he rebelled.”

Sirion looked up at the countless graves and
monuments surrounding them, answering a question not asked. “Oh
yes, we die - by the millions we have - but countless more have
lived. Some of our veterans have suffered mutilation, torture, and
defilement countless times, and still they return to the bloodied
field. Indeed, I think few of the old guard in the ranks have not
suffered major injury - and on numerous occasions - even our king,
Mihai, Gabrielle, Zadar, and… and so many others.”

Sirion wheezed. Treston took her arm. “Well,
my valiant knightress, may I suggest you save your words for the
songs you wish to sing, and I, your faithful squire, shall assist
you with your quest?”

The woman was not amused. “I do not
stubbornly pretend power when help is…” She coughed, bringing up
some bloodied mucus. Quietly nodding, she leaned on Treston’s arm
for support.

The two slowly trudged pathways long become
familiar to Treston since Sirion’s captivity. He carefully led
Sirion along the darkening trails as the sun faded into evening
shadows. Each time they came to a chosen grave, Sirion would repeat
her little ritual, singing to lost love before carefully placing
some flowers on the grave’s earthen mound.

Late evening found Treston and Sirion down
in the deep draw, with Sirion singing her songs of lament to
Periste. When finished, she stood, placing some of the flowers
remaining upon the grave. Treston asked, curious, “Are we not at
the end? Yet more flowers you carry in your hand...”

Sirion looked over at him, moonlight
reflecting off tears welling up in her eyes. “No, not tonight…
Somewhere else I must go, but I fear my strength is waning. Will
you assist me, my valiant and loyal squire?”

After making their way back up the draw past
the bubbling brook, the two turned toward the west, past the
memorial wall and on toward the nearing orchards. At length, they
came to several freshly dug graves. There, in the golden glow of a
waxing moon, Treston read a hastily placed, engraved plaque
fastened upon a rough-hewn, oaken beam:

For the brave and valiant few who suffered the will
of foe

to guarantee our security and freedom.

To our fallen heroes of the Zephath...

Sirion slowly sat down between two of the
new graves, her fingers caressing the damp, bare mounds. She looked
up at Treston, tears streaming down her face. “These are my
brothers and sisters. I loved each of them as I have loved you. I
watched each of them die… one at a time… one at a time.”

With shaky hands, she placed some of her
flowers on the mounds, attempting to sing sweet night songs to them
in remembrance. After the longest silence, the girl cried,
“Oh
my! Oh my!”
She began to sob.
“I have no songs left to sing.
No willpower in my soul or music in my heart to make melody to lost
companions!”

Looking toward the sky, Sirion began to
wail. “Why does the urchin child live when the brave and valiant
wither about me?! Give me rest! Oh, God, please give your wicked
little child rest! Let me die the death of the unforgiven - for
unforgiven I should be. Let me hide in forgotten lands, to ever
rest in forgotten dreams.”

Flinging her arms high, Sirion screamed out
to the stars, beseeching them
. “You have made a road impossible
to travel - a journey my mortal strength cannot withstand. Please!
Take this cup of torment away from me! Let me die!”

Treston caught the girl up as she collapsed
in his arms. She looked up into his face, whimpering.
“I’m
afraid… so afraid. Hold me please, for I fear your Kriggerman, yet
long for his deathly touch. What do I do? What do I do?”

Holding Sirion close, he gently rocked her
back and forth. “My world had many gods and lords, but one in
particular I find even haunts yours. My mother sang of it when I
was but a little lad. Would you like me to sing her song to
you?”

Sirion smiled, saying she would. Snuggling
her head in Treston’s arms, she closed her eyes.

Treston cleared his voice, offering his
apologies for not being a polished songster.

“
Listen, my little child, and here me sing

A love song for only your ears.

Winter winds howl and darkness creeps close,

But the hearth-fire makes it cozy in here.

A man went a walking to the song of a bird.

He wandered far and lost sight of his home.

He fell into danger from a trove of old trolls,

Who tried to frighten him clear to his bones.

“
Let’s smash him then cook him and eat him up
clean,”

Cried the monsters, as they drew out their
knives.

“
Do be careful, my good fellows.” grinned the
toothy young man.

“
If you’re smart and truly value your
lives.”

They all laughed and moved forward, holding blades
high in hand.

But fear soon replaced the mirth in their eyes.

For the man grew in stature ‘til almost touching the
clouds.

He laughed, “I am the Lord of Distress in
disguise!”

And the trove of old trolls cowered, all frozen in
place,

‘
Til the last one down the man’s palate did
slide.

For the fear of distress is a most crippling
foe.

Even monsters must by it abide.

So, my child, please listen and learn from my
word,

From the Lord of Distress do not quail.

When you see him out walking to the song of a
bird,

Keep your distance from him and prevail.”

Thrice more Treston sang the verses of the
little ditty given him so long ago. Each time the lyrics, ‘
From
the Lord of Distress do not quail’
, were sung, Sirion slunk
further into Treston’s arms until, finally, after he completed the
tune the last time, she was fallen fast asleep.

It was a long, arduous walk back to the
motor-coach for Treston, what with his desire not to wake Sirion.
The woman was rather small in stature and underweight from her
previous ordeal to boot. Even so, a half league on darkened
pathways did make a difficult journey for the man. He was greatly
relieved to see that his companion remained fast asleep after he
lay her down in the rear seat of the machine.