The TwiceBorn

To Know What You'd Die For

"You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire."--Bukowski

The Priest had called them “empty vessels.”  As the blessing had progressed, they’d gone on to be “swords of vengeance.”  Gre, swaying back and forth on his little grulla gelding, had stared at the Priest owlishly and realized he didn’t like the sound of the words. Because it had been one of those kind of drinking days. 

Sometimes, he couldn’t even remember his name or where he was but other times, like this one, there was a small section of his mind that would neatly set him up as being the one who would remember everything.  Remember it and approve of very little of it. 

But still, the soothing tone and the righteous fury of the priest was galvanizing in a way, and judging from all the whoops and hollers around him, no one else besides him minded being an empty vessel or a vengeful sword. Back at the tavern this had all been a good idea, as most things are after several tankards of ale, but now he wasn’t so sure. 

Riding down a bunch of devil rooters had sounded like an entertaining pastime between drinks.  He didn’t know it was going to be such a grand affair with all the Sentinels and Priests and good men…righteous men…saying good-bye to their families as they prepared to…what?  Gre had felt a few prickles of misgiving work their way up his back but Heber had ridden over then and offered him a flask. All his misgivings had faded away into hazy unimportance.

Would he do it again, that was the stay-awake-at-night question he’d been left to ponder.  He could kneel on pebbles for all the rest of his days and donate every coin that passed through his fingers to the Church but none of it would be enough to erase that still, solemn voice that answered his question each and every night. 

No. 

He regretted every moment of it and the part of him, that part that remembered everything, never let him forget.

The children had been the worst.  The expressions on their faces had been open and blazing, filled with a dangerous good cheer as they ran to meet them…to meet them…as they’d ridden into the camp.  And it had all been very simple from that moment on.  The children had impaled themselves on his blade as the parents looked on.  And the parents had done the same.  All of them wearing the same infernal grins and exuding a maddening good cheer that was enough to make him vomit in the grass. 

The smell of steel and blood and smoke had almost suffocated him and he’d quickly sheathed his sword, horrified by the turn of events.  All around him were screams and grunts and shouting…from all the empty vessels that’d swooped in to do Brede’s will.  

Gre watched as one young girl, no more than nine winters, ran towards an advancing blade, grabbed it and placed it against her neck.  With a graceful twist she turned her head and blood sprayed in a delicate arc.  A young boy, laughing, walked himself into a sword and kept walking, his hands held high, as the blade punched through his back.

“No quail, for soul! Dis ya! Dis ya hurry-come-up! First dark, she own, bambai!  Brigin! She own juke!”

“What the fuck??” Gre thought blearily as he heard the words float over the clearing. They echoed as they were picked up by dying voices and hoarsely called out above the pandemonium.  A flask suddenly appeared in his line of vision and Gre grabbed for it as though it were a helping hand from Brede.  He took several deep swallows before handing it back to its owner.

“Ain’t this a fuck-up??”  Eldred moaned as he took the flask from Gre and raised it to his own lips. Gre waved a shaky hand towards the maelstrom.

“What the fuck are they all saying?  What is dis ya??”  The drone of the words had grown stronger and buzzed around Gre’s head like angry, reproachful bees.