Annihilation

Dec 2007

A hooded face with haunted eyes
gazing into the distance, searching within
all that lies between them and the horizon.
Beneath the shaded eyes a mouth is set,
lined and cracked, in grim determination.
Flecks of ash smear against the stony face,
chips of blue ice glitter within the darkening visage.
Blink.
The hooded and robed figure kneels next to a ravine.
The ground groans and the rift grows wider.
Dying fires hiss and pop the last of their energy,
sending fresh flakes of ash up into the freezing air.
A breeze pushes the smoke and ash through the atmosphere,
pulls the clothing draped over the kneeling form,
creating a confusion of coloration between robes and skin.
Blink.
An ash wasteland, a muddied blur of greys
punctuated by charred remnants and flickering (fading) fires.
Scarred with innumerable rifts, each of astonishing depth.
The ravine nearest the figure protests and grows wider still,
soot-stained rocks tumbling down into its depths.
The wind pulls the robes, exposing scarred armor
and a scarred face with a wet smear creeping down one cheek.
Blink.
Water mixed with ash, oozing forth from soulless eyes
Jaw locked tight, clamping down on a rising urge.
The wind dies down, and the stained hood falls over the eyes.
A light strikes the horizon; spilling, spreading
At its core is fiery purity, obfuscated by eons of swirling ash.
The world seems to scream as this new warmth washes over it,
burning across the frozen fields and pouring down into its gorges.
Blink.
The kneeling figure moves, like a dancer trapped in Dream,
its arm reaches into the shifting ruins of the ground,
its lips peel back, exposing teeth clenched in a snarl,
the bright glow of the eyes defying the eddying darkness around them
simultaneously burning and freezing with tempered ferocity.
The hand closes around ash-coated steel with a familiar ease,
drawing the object out of the deepening ash.
Blink.
Another rift widening, another bridge turned to ash.
A final tear dries on the ash covered face,
the lips close in resignation, grim realization.
All the angry defiance in this world will not turn back time.
To survive means to adapt, change, and move.
The figure leaned on its newfound old friend.
With agonizing slowness, the ageless eyes close in a
Blink.
The armored figure rises to its feet with a tired slowness,
the hood and cloak of its robes billowing in the swirling ash
leaning against the sheathed blade for support; comfort.
Charred brickwork and masonry shatters beneath its steel tread.
Joints within and upon the ancient plate protest the struggle -
the tiring fight against gravity and inevitability
and the demands of the dead trying to live again -
Blink.
Surging speed, ruthless and selfish anger, a mad hate
the reckless warrior rages at the unrelenting darkness
he charges across a stonework bridge, alive with feeling
charged with purpose, invigorated and potent
He can tear down any demon, any devil.  Anything that It has.
There is nothing that can slow him down, let alone stop him.
A blur of robes and armor moving against its own darkness.
Blink.
A figure leans on its sword, heavily at first,
but as the ash sloughs off of the figure
its stance changes to one of thoughtful anticipation.
Its hard glare somehow both fixed and unfocused,
watching the coming firestorm without surprise.
It bows its cloaked and cowled head and waits,
knowing that resistance would be pointless.
Blink.
A blinding light had picked him up off of the bridge
tossing him like a pebble in a storm
one final, idle, thought drifting up in his mind
even as his body cracks and and bends on its trip through the air.
He slams back down on his feet, bloodied and shaken,
but unbowed and unrelenting, charging forward yet again.
It is a shame the bridge no longer exists.  Really.
Blink.
The forefront of the burning light slams into the sinister form,
peeling back all of the dust, ash, and age from its clothing and skin
peeling everything back, exposing its face and memories.
The purity of the Light burning the corruption out of his robes.
A gleaming white tabard, cloak, and hood gently resting,
offset by the deeply polished green and grey of his armor.
Once darkly glittering eyes begin to glow again.
Blink.
The figure in dark armor and white robes draws himself to his feet,
straightening his back and pulling the hood back over his head.
Ash streams off of the blade of his sword, exposing a mottled finish,
scarred silvery blue steel polished and honed with utter devotion.
The warrior raised his sword in salute to the coming firestorm.
With zeal and energy, this living weapon stretches to the sky -
silent defiance with a killing edge, he charges forward.
Blink.