My shadows of hope

Chapter 1 The bridge was vast, yet narrow. The chasm it spanned was deep and winding. And upon that rickety, narrow bridge that spanned the vast chasm stood a lone figure. A tired and lone figure who bled from a hundred cuts and yet gripped his shield and spear with great ferocity. His nest brothers were dead; of this he was certain. His vast bulk, armoured after the style of the S’Nickthian school of warfare, spoke of a life as a soldier and a career as a front line combatant. But the ankh of Ing’nass on his right shoulder and the mantle of Ponsible also spoke of a scholar, a digger and a searcher of artefacts and knowledge. The spear of A’butl looked like an extension of his arm, like they had spent a lifetime of practice, for this very moment. And they had indeed. And now, he needed every item in his store, every piece of knowledge, every trick of the mind and every ounce of strength from his body, if he were to survive this. This, of course, being the enemy arrayed against ...

O moon,slow your steps tonight. Walk slower than ever before. For, as the sun rises On morrow, my son, he goes to war. O winds, blow soft and cool as the horizon reddens with dawn. Wake not my lover, from deep slumber, for when he wakes, he goes to war. O heart, slow your beating, many are the farewells I should say. To mother and father and love and home afore I go to war. But love them though I do Weaken me not, my beating heart. For country calls and her sons answer. For her, they go to war.

Dawn falls hard, upon the beach. Scrambling for a hold, upon grainy sand. Buffeted by waves, drowned by the surf. The light still tries, to reach safety. The darkness watches, gentle mother night. She'll wait for him, not fight his fight. Bloodied fingers, and watery lungs. Eyes on fire, lacerated bone, he still comes. Sand in his tears, salt in his wounds, he tries to stand and not fall down. She waits for him still, nothing she hasn't seen before. A million days before and few million more to come.

Like careless spilt draught, of poison most foul. A night begins, and the darkness flows. O'er land lain fallow for long, yearning for plough and love. O'er brook, ever babbling, now with a touch of hysteria. What bony shoulders, shaken from long slumbers, may shrug their indifference, when such a night comes to visit living flesh. The young trash about, their vitality drained from limbs, in the throes of their dreams, now turned to darker purpose. And the old lay sleepless, in beds no longer their own, their lips dried and cracked as prayers evaporate and die. Such a dark night, is this night, and the poison spreads, like a stain, invisible yet heavy, upon this land.

They never taught me How to let go And how to live without you But then they never taught me much did they. They never taught me How to live someone More than I'll ever know They never did teach me What I should have known. Someone like you is a star Shining so bright and clean But only from afar. Cos you're as broken as me From up close aren't you. I should have held Your hand till the light fell From the skies and into your eyes. I should have felt What you had felt But that's not the hand we were dealt, was it. And so here I stand in the darkness Looking at you burn yourself up And I don't know what to do Cos they didn't teach me much Did they.

To all, we open our arms But there are those Whose hearts are closed. And to those cold hearts We say Open your hearts, to all, some day. To all truths our eyes are open But still there remain Those who are blind. And to those closed rooms We say Open the shutters, to truth, some day. To all fears and hopes we listen But there are those To whom none but them suffer. And to those who suffer this way We say Open your hearts, to all, some day.

Chapter 1 "Give us your belongings and I will spare your life", the oldest threat of all. A promise of exchange. Self, for a sacrifice. As empty as the stomachs of those who surround, hungry and outcast. "Surely, a lost traveler like you knows the price of crossing these lands. Your belongings NOW!", the escalation of threat. Most barbaric. But what choice do they have? These creatures are shaped by their circumstances, poor as they are. All violence and base hunger. "It is true that I am lost. But what I am not, is helpless." Surprise. Voice still works. Grates like sand on parched throat, but my voice nonetheless. Should not have come to this. Path was to be deserted. No distractions. So close, it hurts. But path blocked. Will exert energy needed elsewhere. But to give up what I carry? Not optimal. Needed elsewhere. Needed more there, than here. "Last warning, old man. You die, one way or another." Heh. Old man. Show them what ex...

I sought you in the red haze, I called to you in the green maze. But all I found were broken pieces, of the memories that lived there before. I yearned for you by deepening pool. I missed your shadows by blowing breeze. But I found nothing at all, among these bountiful ruins, these dying trees. I now grow tired, and older, but yet I remember. That face that drove me to the brink. That voice that called me back. Where are you now? I beseech thee. Release me from these chains that bind. I was made a prisoner, by your design. But I remain so, by my own hand. Then so be it. Favor me not. But search for you I still shall. By blade and torch, by arrow and by cruel steel I now search. Is it there that you are hidden? Behind proud walls and tall shields? Then they shall fall too, so I may see if I can find deliverance in these ruins. If I may find your face in these red pools, in the crimson blossoms blooming in the snow. If I shall find you where innocence goes to die. I shall d...

An immersion, a son lonely drowns, ignored by the drums and the thrum of the crowds. Mother watches from afar seeing only the mirth of the mob Neither the reaching fingers, nor the suffocating sobs. A kaleidoscope of colors and sounds to expunge all doubts. The mother watches from afar and her son lonely drowns.

A farce, to have lived, and yet to hold sand. The castle's gone, rubble and dust under mid-day sun. And shadows are cast, never to really last. Just a moment's respite, despite the blazing light that follows. Just a shadow's graze, a glance from the crowd, that unforgettable face. And all is soon swallowed whole by implacable sand that will have what you hold, this day or the next. Eroding all, the strongest soul is but paper thin, before inexorable tide coming in. And all we are, as we stand, are shadows upon shifting sands. And sometimes a grace may fall upon one, even such as us.

Dust on the mirror, shards in the sand. A drop in the ocean, scattered by my hand. What does the lord command? What now, does he demand. Another lifeless body, another death, in lifeless sand. Quailed might, thieving honor, Discolored, her face, half buried. By my hand. Lost in time itself, yet slaved to it's command. I walk these lifeless shores, I walk this damned land. Dust falls off the mirror, the shards become the sand. Another drop makes an ocean, I still stay lost. By my own hand.

Mr. John, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you enough. I didn't see how this life was getting to be too much. How your shoulders drooped from the strain you were under. How your mind started to come apart. One thread at a time. And how you were less and less present in your own picture. How you had seemed to fade into the background. And no amount of light could ever penetrate the gloom you wore as a blanket, too young to wear a shroud. Mr.John, what was it? How could I not see that you just werent' able to cope. With what life was sending your way. How you were becoming deaf to everyone who said that it would get better. Eventually. And one day, you were gone. Never to be seen again. Or remembered. Except as a picture on someone's wall. I wish I could see you again. I wish I could have stopped you. I miss you so much Mr. John. Now that you are forever gone.

There was once a house A long time  ago Far, far away. It was an ordinary one, With a hall And a kitchen And a bedroom. The hall was just Big enough to fit All his friends On his birthday. The kitchen was Just big enough For them both to cook in On lazy Sundays. It was a small house Just cozy enough For their needs But big enough To fit all the happiness They could ever want. And even to this day He feels That he could just go back. Take the key from the landlord And the door would open And all would be as it were. But she is gone now And the world has gotten Just a bit smaller. And the house is no longer Big enough. To hold all his grief and his anger. It is a tiny house, after all. Just big enough. For two people in love.

The eyes that looked The heart that saw The hand that was The fingers that touched. In darkness found. And to darkness lost. The light betrays The one with sight. And the blind ones dance Round and around The same mistakes For misery's sake.

The bike chugs down the road at a sedate pace, matching the rider and the ride. It slows and stops besides a lady, the rising sun to her back. The man raises his hands in mock surrender and asks if he can give the lady a lift till down the road. She seems apprehensive and asks why he would offer a lift to a stranger. He says that she can pay him. With a story. "Make it a sad story", he says. Puzzled, but mollified, there is something about him that tells that he isn't going to harm her. And she is confident that if he tries anything, it won't be during daylight, in the middle of the office rush. And she is getting late to work. So she gets on. "Story, please" he prompts again. So she starts, and tells him the story of how her mother died and her father remarried and her step-mother always hated her. And the minute she ends it, the story is different. It is shared now. He grabs his end of the story and yanks. And the tale is eaten. The fiction ...

How do I say what I see in you, blinded by your light, I stand, a constant companion. And in the darkness, you blossom, a shining North star, upon bleak and doomed horizon. Though great the distance and loud the whispers of the unkind, my hand seeks yours until hope is gone. But the candle sputters and waxes hope is loath to leave this heart and in the shadows of dying light, may a spark once more ignite, to burn the way to once what was. No more a forlorn memory but a living, breathing reality. Ah, the light dies, and the eyes awake awash once again in the stars of dreams and reality makes herself felt. And a little rain falls, one more time, a ritual enacted upon each mournful morn, and a little life dies upon withered, unsmiling lips.

She changes the sheets and cleans the place where, not a day ago, a man used to be. But that man is gone and he doesn't belong. His heart it just stopped beating, you see. So they took him away buried him under his favorite tree. The priest said a hymn and a prayer, his friends sang 'Let it be'. And now a new man lays where his heart used to beat. Where, not a day ago, a man used to breathe.

Grey ash, flecked red Bedecked, the bride, in evening's glare, stands. As the sun dies, so must she, but she clings, so powerfully, to these meager threads, saffron tainted, red rose tips. And all she asks is, for the ash to fall, where it must, for her own sake. So that he may find his way, back to his own mind, plucked away and torn away, from her loving embrace. But to no avail, for he is short of sight, and her sighs fall, on ears made deaf to her purpose. She screams her silent pleas, into the endless void of apathy, and finds all she can, in vacant eyes, a life and a lie.

Foot to foot, from glade to paved way, she is the traveler, for whom thorn and petal, are all parts of the same path. From sun to darkness, from hearth to road, she is the traveler, for whom neither light nor dark, dim her steps upon the path. Her songs are sung, mournful and young, upon the trail and by campfire. She is the traveler, who is alone, yet part, of the greater road that all beings must walk upon. So give thanks when she lights your way or shadows your steps. Give thanks for the silence of the stars in the night and the sound of birds at the break of dawn. For though right or wrong the trail you follow, know this traveler, She walks where you do and you are never alone.

Chapter 1 He'd been complacent, trusting in human greed to smooth things over. But greed is a fickle thing, leading to the attack on the very person feeding it. And he had paid. Both in terms of the loss of some irreplaceable informants and in terms of the long gash running down his thigh, bleeding freely. He spies a peasant, climbing up an embankment, carrying chickens for the market. He calls out for help, displaying a gold coin as proof of his solvency. The farmer clambers down, a frown marking his otherwise honest face. "Give me one of your chickens, mud hands.", the pain making his speech sharper than it is meant to be. The farmer's frown deepens at his tone and choice of words. But a gold coin is more than his dignity and he gives him one, without a word. "Not this one. That one, in the corner." "Them chicks be much like each other, fop. Ain't no difference twixt the twain.", the farmer opines. "Not to your eyes, may...

An ancient place and a young man. The place encompasses all and the man stands surrounded on all sides. Not by any direct malignancy, considering on of the participants, but as a specimen may be surrounded by interested scholars. They crowd around him, and at the same time, seem to occupy all the space in the area. The oldest of forces in creation carefully consider the youngest. To his right and left stand what he can accomplish. Good and bad. Good, self assured and righteous, ignoring all calls for mercy. A true tyrant who would impose their thought on a subjugated populace, for their good of course. Evil, a chaotic entity for endless freedom, great potential and unending conflict. An ever changing concept that would see each and every man empowered to make his own decisions and terrible choices. To his front and back stand entities as opposite as day and night. Light and darkness. Light, impatient and raging, trying to destroy all intrigue, all subterfuge. Seeking only to ...

Turn the lights out, let the dark come rushing in. In this darkness hide, from the shadows you're living in. There's no judgement here, unlike in the light from which you've been so desperately running. Close the door now, keep the world where it belongs. Take some comfort, for now it won't be long. Yeah, I know you were always an outsider, never did belong. But hold on now, there are others like you. Be strong. Brick by brick, just shut yourself in. Don't listen to them, just tune out the din. They'll say a hundred words or more trying to make you another clone. They speak a hundred words of love to keep you a slave to their own way. Hurry up, hurry up, run away, run away from this world. Tarry not, tarry not, there's nothing here for you. Come along, come along, there's another world, just waiting. Turn out the lights, let the darkness into your mind. Let it in, breathe it in, let it soothe the hurt and help you understand. That your tears m...

Soldiers! Where is your home? Our home is on our backs. Our shield, which shelters us, is our only home! Soldiers! Where does your hope lie? Our hope lies in it's scabbard. Our sword, with which we fight, is our only hope! Soldiers! Where is your family? Our family is by our side. Our brothers, who fight and die for us, are our only family! Soldiers! Where is your king? He who sits on the throne. He who wears the crown. He, who shows us our enemies, is our only king! Soldiers! What is the truth? The truth is in life and death. Each immutable. We fight to live and through violence we die. This is our only truth! Soldiers! What is life? Life is at the frontline, shielding brother and king. Life is in the sword's edge and our skill as we seek a worthy foe. Soldiers! What is death? Death is our mother. She awaits the worthy so we may discard shield and sword. She awaits the worthy who go to her upholding King and Crown. We go to her when we see truth in...

We have had war. Upon the edge of the sword have we lived for the past few years. Children without fathers, born by the sword. And so many of our sons dead by the sword. Now, we have a day of peace. Gained by the sword. But it will not suffice. Not for me. I would have a peace beyond the sword. Beyond the blood in the land. I would have roads built, not barrows and I would walk amongst flowers, not the buried bodies of my brothers. We have fought a long war, my people. And y ou have fought it as fiercely as I have. And have lost much more than I ever will possess. Jory Walbick left his mother and wife behind, to fight for me. And fight he did. Never swerving, never faltering. He died, blocking a spear meant for my neck. William Joyhold, Billick Fastwick and Jaen Masthill. Brothers in all but blood. Young and restless, they were my wolves upon the fold. And so they fought. I saw them pass from fresh faced idealists to grim men and grim soldiers. Our enemy grew to hate their n...

They call me the hungry sword, amongst other, less salubrious, terms. They point to my arrogance, my vanity and my complete lack of compassion or empathy for 'common folk'. They disregard the countless wars I've fought and won. The desperate times that made desperate men beg me to lead them. Outnumbered, out equipped and out maneuvered and I have still won all the conflicts lain at my feet. So easily forgotten. The common people hate me for the sons and fathers my wars take. The nobles hate me for doing what they and their fathers fail to do. And they all hate the fact that I am simply better at them, at the fine art of war. The perfect double edged sword. The curse and the gift. Balanced on a very sharp edge. And such a gift I have. War demands sacrifice. Of men and money. And my price is high indeed. The greatest strategic mind to ever walk among them and all they can seem to remember is that I've always lost 8 in 10 men that go to war at my side. They ...

Do you really love me Or is it the concept of being loved? Would you rather love or be loved, beloved? Would you love the sun for it's intensity? Or the tides for their ever restlessness? Would you love the wrinkles that time would put on me. And will you love me beyond how close we can be? Will you love me when the moon falls and the stars die? In the darkness together, side by side. Or would you run, seeking shelter in another's aura? Less bright than mine, less tumultuous? But safe. Do you really know me enough to love me or do you just love the way I love you.

Dear father, You do me a great honor by writing such a heartfelt and sincere letter. I feel proud to have you as a sire, both for your concern and your wisdom. But I cannot, in good faith, reply as a son, a Roman and a Legate. I can only reply as the one who has to do, simply because there is no one else. You speak of me as Horatio. But I do not stand alone. I am but one, in an army of 40,000 Horatios. You speak of my throwing away of Roman lives. I stand here, witnessing 40,000 soldiers, sons of Mars himself, that would rather fall on their swords than retreat. You only see the 70,000 barbarians against an army half that size. Daunting odds for the greatest strategist. But what you do not see is the difference between the 70,000 warriors they bring and the 40,000 soldiers I possess. They may each be stronger and more fierce than any of us. But while they fight alone, I fight with 119 more men watching my flanks and my back. While they rain blows upon us, we endure. Whil...

Dear son, I write today, to you, not only as a father, but also as a patrician and a senator. I write to you with love and concern, hope and fear. And I hope you will forgive an old man for the terrors that seem to grip my heart at the thought of what you have proposed. That is not to say that your plan falls squarely into the parameters of Roman romanticism. You wish to be Horatius on the bridge, defending the Empire against the encroachment of the barbarians. And I am proud of you, and your men, to embrace such idealism. But this is the father speaking. A man who is proud to have sired such a patriot. But the senator and patrician in me screams at such idealism. Now is not the time to throw away Roman lives for a sand not given to us by Terminus. We have shifted the borders that he protects and Terminus is, as always, a stolid God. I have had nightmares of a battlefield strewn with good soldiers, Roman swords firmly held in foreign hands and rebellion fermenting in the hea...

Gently fall, from your eyes let me wipe, these tears tonight. Though I know that I haven't got the right. Let me wipe away Your tears tonight. I can't be a witness silent or otherwise. I cannot stand to see you suffer inside. So please, let the darkness fall far, far behind. Let me please, wipe away your tears, before day ends night.

They are gone now into rich earth, made richer still, by this addition to her. Yet, play on, soft pipes, for more are yet to come, those oft unremembered, under tombstone dwelled. Their bones are yours, earth, but their stories are for us, to cherish and remember, like the sweet smell of spring begun. And odes will be written, as oft as their tales forgot. Smile, mother, for those brave children you've begot. When the world stills, in silent prayer, heads bowed, give shine to their medals, give voice to their tales, told and untold. For we are but the pale shadows, of those who've moved mount and hill. Living like automatons, remembrancers of those who truly have said to have lived.

You speak before us of peace, and hope. You speak of culture and sophistication. Of history and our own place in it. Do not look to us for these values. We are neither artisans nor poets. We are neither vain hedonists nor barbaric. We are not the lazy flag, fluttering in the wind. Nor the walls that stand, proud and thick. We are the bedrock of the future. And upon our bones will tomorrow be built. We will bring peace to these lands, by the scruff, bound and bloodied, if necessary. We will bring hope, but for those yet to come. Of our deeds will tales and poems be sung. Our place in history will not be granted to us by kindly historians. Instead, our wars and our actions will sear our place into the very heart of the accounting given of these years. We will stride across the world and make our own mark in it. We do not wish for glory or fond remembrance. We do not seek a life of battle or death on the battlefield. We will not bow, before God or man, before that right is ea...

A breaker of men am I! And yet, your faith moves me to tears. Who are you and from what fecund soil do you spring, o sons of Mars? That you would stand, stolidly, in the face of certain death and say, "Aye. I know you to be my death. And yet, if you are to be my end, then prove yourself so. Make yourself worthy of taking this soldier's life. And my brothers would avenge me." Fight me not, o faithful sons. Join me and we shall be mighty together indeed! And I will give unto yo u kingdoms and palaces and crowns as you ask. And even the doors to my own chambers shall be open to you, dawn to dusk. Sheath thine swords upon this fateful battlefield, for it deserves not your blood. "You speak kind words, o King. And generous is your offer. And we are but men, unworthy of this burden of crowns and wealth you place upon our shoulders. For you see, we already carry a mighty weight upon our shoulders. Our people have placed their trust upon us, to stand here on this grou...