Infinity's End - Quismeral's Requiem

Chapter 3 - Illuminaria Under Siege

I

Gabriel stood in the air, floating, his wings flapping. His people looked at him like an angel, invulnerable, all powerful. Yet, he knew in his heart that he is not. The warrior-king looked at his city with its white buildings and the thousands of soldiers gathered behind the gate and another hundred or so in the wall's battlements. He cannot lose this war. Losing means complete obliteration and yet he cannot help but think of losing.

The enemy is numerous and he knew that there are more phantasms there, more than a hundred perhaps. The rest are the phantasms' army, black things with four legs. Their hides are black as night. Upon closer inspection, one will notice they are not animals nor are they human. They were closer now, a thousand horses or so. The whole plain is covered in black. Gabriel flew closer to the approaching army. His breath was nearly knocked out of him upon seeing what his army is up against. The crawling things are indescribable. They are not even of this world. Their hides are black as night with pointed needle-like bristles for hair. Their head is a round heap of flesh with glowing yellow eyes. Their two front legs are not legs; they are hands with claws instead of fingers. He can see the bulging muscles in their arms. Their mouths stretched across their faces with misshapen sharp teeth inside. Their tails ended in a pointed tip with holes on its side. These holes emitted black fumes which seemed to cloak the army with black smoke. It seemed that they are bringing with them their darkness.

Gabriel flew back to the city and landed beside Quismeral.

"What did you see? You look shaken." Quismeral said as he looked at his brother.

"Demons Quismeral. They are demons. Dispatch a messenger. Send it to Altamia. We need their help. Tell them that we are ready to pay them anything, even our freedom." Gabriel said, looking at his brothers eyes.

Quismeral hesitated, the hesitation turned to anger. "What do you mean ask for help? We don't need help. We can handle this! Those barbarians will take our freedom! I would rather die than give up my freedom to those filthy barbarians!"

Quismeral was thrown, his back hitting the white wall. Gabriel flashed in front of him, his sword pointed at Quismeral's throat. "DO AS I SAY QUISMERAL." He said. Soldiers around them stared at them, shaken by this sudden show of violence. Quismeral stood, his head bleeding, his eyes as red as the blood on his head. Anger showed in his eyes and yet he can't do anything. He is no match for the warrior-king. He stared at Gabriel with his hateful eyes and walked away.

Gabriel watched as his brother walked away. He looked at the nearest soldier and motioned for him to come. "Send a message to Altamia. Tell them we need help. Payment shall be given after." The soldier ran off, dropping his weapons and disappearing in a blinding flash. He hoped that their messenger will be back in time.

He faced the enforced gate, made of the same material as their walls. "BRACE YOURSELF MEN!" He shouted, his voice ringing in every street. There was complete silence, the calm before the storm.

II

Popo looked at the table. Mosa sat upon his usual chair, staring at his old table. "This looks bad Popo. The Illuminarians are in for a big fight."

Popo passed his hand on the table, trying to grab the black things who are marching towards the Illuminarian capital. "Argh!" He said as his hands passed the image, causing no harm whatsoever to the black army. "I think we should help them Mosa. I'll go tell Jihad to send his troops their." Popo jumped off his chair and climbed out of Mosa's tree house.

Mosa shook his head. The Volumians are not yet ready. They are considered as rebels, outlaws, plunderers, all because of his brother's doing. Mosa stood up, leaving Popo playing with the scrying table. He went to the side of his tree house, wood creaking with every step he made. His bookshelf was unnaturally clean despite the dust that grew on the sides of his tree house. He made it a point every day to clean his books. "It is the book that teaches you things you never would've learned on your own" he told Popo once. He removed a thick volume from the bamboo shelf and touched it reverently on its leather-bound cover and fireglass bindings.

"Popo" he said. The boy turned to look at the old man. "I think it's time to teach you how to read."

III

He was old, fragile at first look because of his thin built. His white hair flowed down his shoulders, unkempt and shaggy. The robe he wore was white once but time made it fade and the city's dirt clung to it. They called him the white beggar, the white fool and sometimes the shamed general. His looks caused fear among children and spite among grown men. He was an outcast, easily ignored. He sat there for as long as one can remember, never leaving his place except in occasions where he needs to attend to his toiletries but otherwise, he stayed there. Some good-hearted men give him food from time to time and so far, he has survived.

Today was another day for the white fool. He looked at his empty copper bowl. The sun shone on the street but the shop that he was beside helped shade him. The shop keeper allowed him to stay there so long as he doesn't invite trouble and so far, the only trouble he has caused is when he lost control of his bowels.

A boy of eight passed him, looked at him and dropped a copper in his bowl. The boy wore a clean elegant blue tunic that matched his eye color. Then the boy's mother came and took the boy's hand and almost dragged him, all the while casting a nasty look at the white fool. The white fool turned his gaze downwards, feeling shamed. Everyday is a torture, a reminder of what he was and what he has become.

Truly, everything is fleeting. Nothing is stays the same. Even the hope of love forever was stolen from him, crushed in front of him. His hopes, dreams, convictions were shattered at that very instant. His body became a hollow shell, devoid of any feeling or sense. However, his wits remained intact. He wanted to forget he can think. Thinking makes him remember and remembering brings back the pain.

He stretched his right hand, opened and closed them, a habit hardly forgotten. Suddenly, he was in battle again, his right hand opening and closing as he flexed it, preparing to draw his sword. Then the sound of a coin bouncing on his tin bowl transported him back into the bitter present. He sighed and bowed down, forgetting that he can think.