On the Wings of Hope: Prose (Recognized)

Memory of the millenniums

Small nomadic tribe. Hunting and living, living and hunting on each new terrestrial haven. But they were short – for the vastness of steppes awaited them, they were short – for battles were inevitable.

Battles of equestrian orders. A lethal enemy's weapon – long bent sticks, firing killing needles. His companions died every day... he learned to get used to it, he had to. In peaceful times the tribe expanded and spread again – ready for new battles, new life, and new victories.

This was his life. In this world and in this time.

* * *

Turning to the opponent. Double swing of a sword in the right hand. A strike – and flatwise blow on the armor sideways. Moving the sword back. The sword describes an arch over opponent's head and again strikes in another side. Now the blade starts moving to the ground... both hands take it – and another blow on the plates, closing a shoulder on the right hand.

On the left. Right. Left. Right.

An arch again. Again the sword is turned in hands and flies into attack... another blow. Continuing to shower rival with strikes, he moved sideways. Some more steps and he has appeared behind the back. A blade, brought by two hands over his head... this should be the last blow, the opponent will be defeated.

The steel racing into attack... the opponent is turning to face him... The clanging of clashed steel. His strike has been beaten off. The one he battled was not the weakling at all. A series of successful blows – is everything he has managed to make in this duel. There will be no easy victory – but a long and daring fight instead, a battle which he has thirsted with all his heart for a long time – a battle of worthy ones. It will be the battle of worthy – and let the strongest prevail!

One step back. The foot set back aside for stability. Clanging of steel tools which have met in their dance – now it's his turn. A sharp withdrawal of a blade downwards – opponent's sword slides off the block. Now a blade's turn in a bottom. The blade has flushed, describing a circle in the air, – a blow. Opponent's plate armor has absorbed the major portion of blow again – he resisted.

Now a tap of a sword for repeated blow... he had no time left. His flatwise blow on an armor has not shaken the contender, and that has given him time. Now he has to resist rival's blow... his sword was describing an arch for another blow... but it was too late to use it as a block.

A hit. Stars in his eyes. The blow of the opponent has been made directly between the plates, covering a shoulder, and a helmet. A dangerous one, also demanding high skill, to lift a blade highly – and fair time for a swing.

Blow. Block. Blow. Block. Clanging steel, which has met in its favorite dance. Two flitting blades.

Two men, breathing heavily under heavy armor, enclosing their bodies. Two warriors, who have met each other in battle. Two knights, fighting for a title of the champion of the tournament – fighting for sighs of beautiful ladies and admiration of commoners. Battling, battling as if all their life goals and all hopes have been put into this battle...

And let the strongest prevail!

* * *

The centurion's order is clear. His phalanx along with others will pass in a wedge through the enemy – pass, sweeping steel-clad infantry and crushing the marksmen, positioned on a hill. It will be a glorious fight – yes, glorious fight. They will prevail, they will win a victory in this battle for the emperor. Legionaries of Rome know no defeats.

Quickly given orders. Movement in the ranks of contradictory armies. Minute, another, the third one. Phalanxes preparing for battle. It will be a great battle...

Two iron walls, bristling with swords and spears, which have moved towards each other. The fighting shouts, carried by a wind across the field of battle. The loud orders of commanders traveling by air. The fight began to boil...

His formation bit into enemy ranks. The exposed forward spear... a sword's swing – and rival's shaft fly aside. Forward strike – the enemy falls on the ground.

A blow on his armor from behind. He has reeled, but has resisted – armor has absorbed a blow. The turn towards new danger... a blade, sparkling in morning beams of the sun – and another opponent falls down.

A block. Someone from behind tries to strike at him again. A movement of blade downwards – and swift attack back without turning...

And yet again the blade flits in hands. Again, as countless times before, once the simple legionary, and now the leader of a phalanx – is in a fight, in the glorious battle of great Roman empire. The shouts of battle and clanging of metal once again. Enemies, falling from blows of the blade. His comrades in arms, dying on the battlefield...

A battle once again. Battle of his empire – and his battle also. Glorious fight of the grand empire...

* * *

The scientist and the researcher, the physicist and the chemist, the writer and the philosopher, a wise man. He was all of them – all of them were living in him. He devoted himself to work – for the queen, for commoners, for all citizens of his own country, for the ones in other. It was his life – his life of studying the world...

* * *

They were hunted and pursued. They were searched for and eliminated. They were hated – hated by those, who had not the slightest idea before of the right to execute and grant pardon, which they would soon gain.

But they have gained this right – received it for murder and persecution of others, have chosen it as a necessary step – the one, leading nowhere. But did they really know about it?

Prisons and colonies. Penal servitudes and executions without trial. The ruined families. The deformed destinies. The destroyed culture. It was a horrible time...

* * *

He was the creator – one of those, loving his work – the artist and the writer of a new century. The century of creativity and freedom, a century of democracy of reasonable people – a century of peace, a century of creative recovery and inspiration. The century of world's blossoming – century of sunrise.

He worked along with other people. Creativity for goodness became a symbol of the epoch. Virtue became a world star, the sincere love became the sun, tenderness became the drops of a rain irrigating the Earth, the purified human hearts – stars in a sky.

The wonderful epoch of sunrise and ascension...

* * *

Pictures emerged from his memory one after another and immediately rushed away into unknown lands.

Epochs and centuries, replacing each other. His life – his set of lives in this world, set of the ways, passed by him in different epochs. He was all of them... he was in many times.

Now, only now he has finally remembered it. He has remembered it at the long last – this memory of his ways was always with him, was in each new life, but only now he could feel and realize all immenseness of own life – and all its greatness. Lives in myriads of epochs, life in myriads of times. Myriads of lives in one of the myriads of worlds.

How huge was his journey! How even longer and greater it can become! He has learned much in this time – willpower in battles, determination, and courage, fidelity and devotion, creativity as a life feat – all this became him. All this has grown and has assimilated in him.

He was in all – and all was in him. He was the creator, he, as well as others, was the creation of God – and was becoming his semblance.

The man has still stood for some time on his knees, listening to himself. This memory was with him – it always was with him. Now it was with him forever. He has already learned much about himself and this world, but there is still even more left to discover. For his journey – is a journey in the eternity.

And then he stood up and with a confident gait has moved to an exit – and left a temple.

Has sighed deeply. So, this way has just begun – his work is awaiting him, his life is waiting for him. And let the memory of this day never leave him – let it become the fire, guiding his way – a new journey in the transformed world.

So be it!