His gallant stature illuminated the hallways, as he strode
towards the square. His club, brandished and gleaming under the hot sun, was
handed to him by his late father. He held it with strength and grace. Each lengthy
stride cheered on by the strongest of men, eager for a glimpse of the Event.
His armor, polished and embellished by the most respected of servants, caught
the sunlight and shot out to a man standing in the audience. That person shielded
his sight with his forearm, never ceasing his battle cries.
The crowd cheered on. Our assailant, ready for his duty,
stood fast in the middle of the square. The cheering stopped in an instant, and
a ceremonial hush fell over the stone floors. Footsteps echoed from the other
end, two soldiers this time. They are not the assailant’s opponents; he has no
worries of them. Their steps clink over the cobbled circle surrounding the
square, approaching nearer and nearer to him. The large wooden burden they
shared between them swayed as they walked to the very center of the square.
They lay it down, and walk away.
The heavy casket, having been kept underground for the past
three days, emits a foul odor which all the audience shy away from; not out of
disgust, but out of a secret fear that they should be Chosen next. It is an
honorable duty: one of which sustains their very livelihood; but no one wishes
to endure being Chosen. Even as all of them stand with pride and excitement
over the Event, they all bore secret dread of being in such proximity of that
substance. That substance that was their wealth, that substance that was their
curse, that substance that was their manhood, that substance that made up their
life.
He stood there, awaiting the signal. Was the process done?
Should he unlock the crate presented before him? Behind his armor, he knew he
was immune. He knew his responsibility was not in being Chosen, but it was one
of equal dread. The near fortune of the entire village depended on him
extracting as much as he could, as well as he could. It depended on how much
the Chosen one was willing and able to fight. It was dependent on his ability
of knowing when to strike and when to yield. He shifted his feet, perspiring
under his gleaming armor. He heard the tiny crackle. It was time. The crowd
drew their breath. Everyone was silent
enough for each man to hear his own heartbeat. It was painful for each of them,
but even more so for one man in particular.
This man, was he who was Chosen. It was not his choice, nor
was it within his power to resist. Once the substance finds its host, the
option was either to die or to endure the process. The process itself took
three days. The first, of the deepest sufferings of Hellfire and the Wrath of
God himself, beating upon him hour after hour, minute after minute, second
after second. Then came the emptiness. When the substance has vacated all his
mortal consumptions from his living carcass, it gives the carcass life; if life
were what you deemed as a beating heart and surrounding flesh and bones. A full
grown man, returned to its foetal state; not capable of thought nor movement.
His beating heart was because the substance made it beat, made his carcass pump
itself through his veins and into the pits and crevices of his being.
………………to be continued.
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