Revolutions

101 - Haesan

What's done is done, yet my mind struggles to grasp the pandemonium before me. I can only look upon Onixem with pure shock. Though, should I be surprised? It's something she's stated she has wanted to do countless times before. But for her to actually go through with it, to actually kill both of her parents? I'm at a complete loss for words.

I wrestle with the idea of committing such an act against my father, the Arbiter of Pachil. There are so many reasons for me to despise him, to want him deposed of his position, to answer for his sins. It's why I wanted to work alongside the Qente Waila, after all. And there's the supposed prophecy which foretells that Achutli will fall, slain by his own blood. Knowing this destiny binds me to a dark future, I struggle with this calling, this curse.

Yet when I think about doing what Onixem has just done, I can't envision myself ever killing my father, no matter how much I loathe him and want to see him fall. What hatred must I possess in my heart to carry out such violence? At least Achutli had the decency to give me to two people who could raise me as if I were their child, instead of simply casting me away in the middle of the jungles of Achope. That being said, there has got to be a way for him to suffer for what he's done—to me and to those innocent lives of Pachil—to seize on the opportunity to only enrich himself at the expense of those he deems lesser.

Exhausted and battered, the Tuatiu warrior peels herself off the ground and struggles to her feet. Dust and dirt cling to her sweat-drenched skin as she steadies herself. Her eyes sweep across the quiet chaos around her, remnants of her clash with Onixem's parents. Our gazes eventually meet, though hers is one overcome with weariness. What was her name again? Too much has taken place between her arrival and now for me to recall such a thing. However, it appears she recognizes me, as she lowers her head in a solemn bow.

She takes only a few steps toward me before we hear it. Like a rolling thunder, the approaching footsteps of hundreds of warriors thud their way to our location. My heart leaps into my throat, fearing it's the Eye in the Flame closing in around us. When I see the orange and red tunics of the Tapeu, I'm only mildly relieved; while I'd be more than happy to never see the crimson or ashen gray robes of those cultists ever again, I'm uncertain if Achutli achieving victory is a good sign, either. How will he assert his rule, now that the sun has risen anew in his favor?

As the dust settles, the Tapeu warriors emerge, encircling us. Leather armor hangs heavy on their shoulders, scored by blades and arrows from the day's brutal encounters. With their edges caked in dried mud, sandals and boots shuffle silently over the scattered debris about the palace grounds. Their faces are streaked with sweat and grime, yet their eyes give no hint of surrender. These men and women are a storm worn thin, yet nowhere near broken.

From behind the line of the Tapeu warriors, an unmistakable figure detaches itself, striding forward with the setting sun crowning him in a brutal halo. His bronze armor clinks with a rhythmic clang of metal that echoes over the battlefield like the ominous tolling of a bell. Red and yellow feathers fan out from his back like the flames of a pyre. It's him—Achutli, the Arbiter, draped in the orange and red tunic of the Tapeu that's been speckled and splattered with blood.

He doesn't see me, or perhaps he chooses not to. His eyes in narrow slits search the horizon for threats. There's a grace to him, I'll grant him this much, as he gestures with the bronze spear that extends from his fist. The geometric gold on his turquoise sash glimmers. Upon seeing this, I can only view it as a symbol of the false promise of richness and prosperity under his rule. To Pachil, he is the Arbiter, the unyielding guardian of the land. To me, he's nothing but a stranger clad in the guise of a father, a man who fears his own blood more than the enemy before him.

Scowling next to him, The Falcon, Anqatil, stands. Though less ornate than the Arbiter's armor, hers still carries the marks of her high station: deep blues and vibrant reds woven into the fabric beneath her breastplate, which itself is embossed with the stylized image of a swooping falcon, wings outstretched in predatory grace. Lining her shoulders and cresting her helmet are shorter feathers of a less ostentatious plumage, in a mix of dark browns and muted golds.