Post by The Sky King on May 10, 2011 18:28:32 GMT -5
‘Here in Germania, slain by Cheruscan hand, Glory of Rome has come to an end.’ – “Cheruscan” – Ancient Rites. |
“You are lucky, Centurion. The standards around your waist were nought more than trophies declaring your prized belonging to your cohort. If you had lost the vexillum, then you would be facing a painful, dishonourable death. As such, you guarded it with your life as you retreated. They thought you dead. They were wrong. Under the bodies of your comrades you lay for two nights, waiting for the Gauls to tuck tail and run. You remained there and allowed the blood of the men who trusted with their lives to permanently stain your skin. You have slain many heathens on the long trek back to this honorable camp, but this is not a cause for celebration. You lost your standards. You let Legionnaires die. You cannot depend on my mercy. It is time for you to choose your punishment, unless you wish to be cast out into the woods for the rest of your mortal days where the heathens will enjoy picking you apart.” Spoke Riverii mercifully.
“Gracious Emperor. I thank you for your mercy…but I am your Centurion no longer..” muttered Hettus. With heavy hands and tired spirit, Hettus clasped the helmet upon his skull and pulled it straight off, revealing blackened eyes, a cut lip, and a horrible gash across his right cheek, ending mere centimetres from the corners of his parched, cracked lips. With the last shards of virtus still pounding in his aching heart, he cast the helmet to the feet of his Emperor with a ringing clang as the precious metal pounded into the hard dirt.
The Praetorians lips curled, quivered, sneered. They found themselves more superior to a man who had long claimed his own supremacy in the fields of battle. He was no more a man than a cockroach. He had suffered the ultimate disgrace: He had lost his personal standards to a Gaul of all beings!
Hettus ignored their sneers in a rare moment of humility. He felt all too human. He felt disappointed and humiliated. He felt deserving of such a punishment.
“I am disappointed in you, Hettus. Very disappointed. You know how dimly I look upon failures. It is only by the grace and virtus of your final stand that you escape the death penalty. We had expected you to commit suicide, but you did not. Why?” asked Riverii, placing a thumb under his smooth chin as he awaited his former centurions next words with baited breath.
“…I…have unfinished business…” muttered Hettus, his tired eyes darting manically in his skull as he examined the commanders tent. Soon, the black cloth interior would be no more, and he would be cast aside into the cold world without the protection of his Emperor. He admired the golden medals pinned to the cloth while he could, feeling he had done them absolutely no justice whatsoever.
“With whom?” asked Riverii.
“My men did not tell you about the ambush?” asked Hettus. Riverii launched himself to his feet in a rare moment of unrestraint.
“Ambush?! TELL ME!!” he yelled.
“…The Gaul they call the oblivion…The head of the tribes….He led a united force against us..Enough to reinforce Whitus and Scotia…Enough to turn the tide in their favour…They assaulted from the rear, when we didn’t expect it..” muttered Hettus. Riverii snorted as roughly as a bull, looking down upon his once-favoured centurion.
“I should have expected as so! No-one can defeat you in open battle, so instead they ambush you! They stab you in the back because they cannot bare to look you in your face! Such heathens, such barbarians…Such fucking barbarians!” growled Riverii, sitting down in his throne casted in steel once more. He placed a clenched fist under his chin, thinking deeply.
The tent remained silent. Praetorians sneered. Hettus’ head remained bowed. His eyes ached, feeling as if the sockets had been broken. His mouth was dry, but he dare not ask for a drink of water.
“Emperor. I believe that we should cast Hettus out of the camp for fourteen nights and into the forest. Despite news of this ambush, he is still at fault. Men have died under his command. He lost the standards you gave him out of kindness! If he can survive, then he deserves your mercy. If he cannot, then may the Gods curse his soul!!” Spat a Praetorian to the left of Riverii, the black plume upon his helmet bristling in a sharp hit of cold wind as if it was agreeing with its wearer.
“You are wise, Scorpio. Hettus, you shall remain outside the camp for fourteen nights. You will hunt your own food. Gather your own water. Shelter yourself. If you can survive, then you are deserving of a return back into the ranks. But for now, you are to stay out there where the spirits of the Legionnaires slain under your command rest.” Ordered Riverii. “Give up your armor. You are only allowed to carry your Gladius with you, and that is a sign of utmost generosity. May Jupiter have mercy upon your soul.”
“Thank you, gracious Emperor..” muttered Hettus sadly, standing up with his head raised. Without a single moment of hesitance, Hettus started to unlace and take apart his armor, removing metal from his aching bones. As he did, the extent of what should have been fatal injuries became apparent: His left forearm had a ragged wound on it, festering and starting to fill with pus. His right shoulder had been slashed deeply, cloth from the tunic soaking into the scabbing wound. A deep cut moved and weeped across his right chest, descending over where whatever heart he had still pounded ferociously, aching painfully for vengeance.
He threw his lorica segmentata armor to the floor, to the feet of the emperor. He bent over, unstrapped his greaves and sliding them across the dirt as Riverii looked on, nose upturned and his cold eyes, like shards of ice in his skull, scanned Hettus with growing disgust. Hettus stood up, arms at his sides, back straight, mouth straight and complexion swarthy with dirt and caked mud. The Praetorians threw him his pack that he had handed them upon his entrance to the camp: All was taken except for two blankets, a metal pot and a small, metal spoon. Hettus caught it instantly, letting it drop lifelessly into his right arm which swung down, hanging by his sides. Content, Riverii gave a simple flick of his right hand.
“Dimitto.” Spat Riverii. Hettus turned around, turning to face the lightly-shuffling black lace curtain, walking forward and parting it aside.
A gust of soft wind blew through the matted hair on his scalp and into his nostrils. The camp suddenly ground to a halt. Blacksmiths stopped hammering at shards of metal. Legionnaires stopped setting up tents, stopped talking, stopped polishing shields and graining Gladius’. They turned their heads to Hettus, their silence showcasing their contempt to a man once thought invincible, now all too mortal in their eyes to make a true Centurion. They sat in the mud, eyeing him with disgrace. They stood up on the planks of wood situated mid-way up the rampart, looking down at him with disdain. His own optio centuriae, Davus, stood at the side of the tent. The only man who still held Hettus with respect. Hettus slowly turned his head to Davus, knowing his friend was next, and gave the slightest of nods, his eyes stinging with a burning fury and humiliation.
He kept his head high, ignoring the tears welling in his cold eyes, and walked forward through the praetorum road, the road at the front of the camp, and toward the folding gate which had been dragged open. Two Praetorians stood on either side of the gate, heads bowed, their black cloaks flowing in the wind, the black bristles on their crests greeting Hettus with disdain as he completed his humiliation and walked outside the safety of the camp, his mouth clenched shut in respectful silence.
The gates grinded, ropes pulled taut, slaves grunted and groaned.
The gates shut behind him, barring him from safety. From here, he could do anything: He could defect to the Gauls, he could try and run back to Rome, or he could face his punishment like a man.
He walked forward into the forest guarded by tall oaks. Darkness swallowed Hettus as he stepped over gnarled roots and branches trapping his way. The smell turned from that of sweat, blood and testosterone into that of fresh grass, dew and animal droppings, stinging his nostrils.
He tightened his grip around the leather strap of his pack, walking deeper into the forest. There was no way he was going to let the oblivion break his spirit.
It was the only thing that the heathen couldn't take.
===
The night swallowed Hettus whole. The darkness smothered him, as black as a pit. The sweeping chirps of birds echoed throughout the forest, darting from branch to branch and dancing in a melodic, haunting echo above his head. Branches cracked heavily as they descended from the trees into the dirt to become a part of the earth once again. The only light in this clearing came from the moon, hanging in the air and glowing like a silver denarii, the light almost glistening off of Hettus’ scarred, beaten flesh.
He was sat, cross legged and wearing nothing but his red tunic and a leather belt with a scabbard on the right hip. His Gladius was laid on his lap, as this once-proud warrior was busy sharpening the edges with a whet stone, every streak of the stone off of the metal causing a horrific slicing sound to carve into the air, causing the wings of birds to flutter and flap violently in their nests.
The blade glinted in the moonlight. The only company Hettus had, aside from his pack and a blanket laid upon the mud, with another blanket lay upon that. It offered zero protection from the plethora of insects who buzzed around, desperately hungrily to drink from the annals of sweat slowly beading on the brow of Hettus. The pot hanging from his pack had been left in the shade of a towering oak tree whose leaves vibrated and glistened with life, in the hope that dew might collect in it and give Hettus something to drink.
He felt a dark fury claw at his chest, tearing at his ribcage, pulling the flesh from it and forcing his heart to squeeze through the gaps. Hettus’ breathing grew feral. The magnitude of the situation and embarrassment started to click inside his brilliant brain. He had been embarrassed by two dirty, filthy, unwashed Gauls. Scotia and Whitus. They had taken his standards. They had dealt humiliation upon him. The oblivion had cast his hand upon him, forcing him to succumb to the power of his combined forces, his input completely unneeded and embarrassing.
Hettus pursed his lips, spitting roughly at his feet. The wound on his forearm was starting to fester. A fly landed on it before fluttering off as Hettus twitched his muscles. He was a lone, abandoned man. Without Davus, without anyone. They had taken it all from him. All his glory, all he ever wanted, all he ever cared about. They called him a monster, a brute, and even the Gauls under Roman care still received Hettus with disdain. Everyone hated him, and now his own people had cast him aside, throwing him aside as dispensable, and Whitus and Scotia were to blame. The Romans muttered in hushed breaths about how Whitus and Scotia were just plain better. They spoke of an external force working against Hettus. Some men believed their victory was unearned, unfair, completely uncalled for. Some men believed it was magick that had worked against Hettus simply because he wasn’t what the Gods were looking for. Others believed it was hubris, a fall from grace, and Hettus was long overdue to receive the curse.
He swallowed, his throat burning with a bile forced up by an anger which outshone the stars and overpowered the Gods.
Lightning cracked the sky with the furious sound of an ethereal whip, a silver split within the darkened clouds which hung above. Rain started pound the sky, rattling against the leaves and the mud like cold stones. Raindrops pounded onto the head of Hettus, soaking his hair into his scalp and rendering his blankets absolutely useless. He gave a small growl, swiping the whet stone across his blade and throwing it onto his blankets, sitting there with his legs crossed and staring his head.
Lightning cracked the sky once more. Silver flooded the opening. Hettus’ eyes darkened angrily. Humiliation bit deeper into his heart. Right now, Whitus and Scotia were probably partaking in an exotic herb and witnessing a pink elephant mount a venus flytrap. Hettus snorted like a bull, allowing a stream of water to flow from the tip of it. His pot crackled as water filled it, and it seemed to attract something.
A rustling noise, dead ahead. Branches were cracking. Twigs snapping. Birds fluttering away. Something was heading for Hettus.
Straight for him.
A shrubby undergrowth parted in front of his line of sight, revealing two Gauls. Each man was huge, thick, heavy-set. It was hard to tell which was muscle and which was pure fat. Gristled beards hung from their jaws and dangled over their chests, dripping wet in the rain. Bear furs were tied over their backs and chests, guarding them from the rages of the tempests. Their thick, hair-covered bare knees did not shake nor rattle. Upon seeing Hettus, they grinned, their yellow, cracked teeth leering.
“Look. I’s that Roman! The one who got beaten by Whitus and Scotia.” Grinned the one on the left, his sour breath panting excitedly. Hettus’ head remained staring ahead, cutting a thousand yard stare through them.
“He looks unconscious..Shall we take ‘im? He could do well as a slave.” Came the reply of his friend.
“Aye, let’s get ‘im. Scotia and Whitus will be bloody proud to ‘ave ‘im..’ell, the oblivion will be proud.”
The Gauls slowly walked over to Hettus. As soon as a bare, hair-covered foot entered his nearby vicinity, his head snapped up, staring darkly at the taller and thicker of the two Gauls.
“Another step, heathens, and I will send you to your blood-spattered graves.” Spat Hettus angrily. The Gauls whooped and laughed.
“Really? Cause you got beaten by Whitus and Scotia..You got the oblivion onto ya…Ya think we fear you, eh? We don’t fear you….the big dog wants to tear your throat out, you little roach…so what’ve you got to say to that, eh? You fu—“
Hettus stormed up to his feet, his pride forcing his heart to pump into a chaotic overdrive. His virtus forcing his feet up. His glory dictating his actions. His Gladius clenched tightly in his hand, he stormed forward, clasping a hand around the Gauls left shoulder and thrusting the blade deep into his gut. A hot spurt of blood caressed the knuckles of Hettus, feeling a warm spray across his wrist as he jammed it in even further.
“…My head is bloody, Gaul..I do not deny I have been beaten..but my head is…and always will be..UNBOWED!! FORGIVE ME, JUPITER!! FORGIVE MY MISTAKES!! FORGIVE MY.....DEFEAT!!” bellowed Hettus, sweeping the blade up and cleaving the Gauls ribcage in half. The Gaul stumbled back, wrapping his thick arms around his body to prevent his now-vulnerable organs from spilling to the floor. Blood flowed like a waterfall from his lower lip and he let out a lifeless, pained gurgle, turning around and running back through the thicket as if it would somehow save his now-limited lifespan. The second Gaul remained frozen, staring at Hettus, before yelling out loudly, pulling a broadsword from a calfskin sheath at his hip. He slashed it across, but Hettus ducked under it, jamming his shoulder into the Gauls thick, heavy gut. The Gaul stumbled back, winded, and raised his head just long enough for Hettus to twist his back slightly before sweeping the sword with all his might, cutting the Gauls head off at the middle of his neck.
Hettus gave a deep, feral breath out, watching as the blood danced like a fountain from the raw sinews of the Gauls neck. Mockingly, Hettus slowly tapped the butt of the Gladius into the Gauls thick chest, allowing his lifeless body to tip over and hit the ground with a wet, resounding thud, the heavy rain quickly starting to mingle with the mans full supply of blood and wash it into the earth.
Hettus leant down, cracking open the Gauls fingers and pulled his broadsword free, dropping his Gladius down to do so. He walked over a few feet from the body where the head had spiralled to and leant down, grasping it by the thick, mud-clogged locks dangling from its scalp and pulling it open, a look of fear and surprise permanently engraved on the heathens face.
Hettus wished he could have done this to Scotia and Whitus, but this? This will have to do. A dead Gaul is a dead Gaul after all. Even in defeat, there was still Roman supremacy. The Romans had lost previously, and would lose in the future, but even now, in the face of humiliation, in the face of brash opponents, in the face of ignorant savages..
They remained completely and utterly supreme.
Hettus walked over to a tree stood tall to the left of the thicket, placing the back of the Gauls head against the thicket and pulling back his right hand. With a mighty lunge, he skewered the broadsword between the lips and out of the skulls back, bone cracking beautifully and flash slicing apart as the well-sharpened blade cleaved through it, attaching to the skull.
A warning. Romans were here. They resided in this forest, and any Gaul passing through would meet nought but death.
Hettus walked over to his small spot, sitting upon his soaked blankets and laying down on top of them, yawning casually and placing his arms around the back of his head. The rain pounded his face and chest, swept under his legs and caused his hair to matt and his flesh to ripple with irritating itches, but it didn’t matter. He was alive, after all.
He stopped, turned his head to the left. The dead Gauls thick body remained there. His standards did not lie around his waist. He hadn’t killed Scotia. He hadn’t killed Whitus. He couldn’t claim his standards back without marching through hell. The Romans still held him in disdain. His friends were gone, his comrades slain, and now he was laying there alone in the pouring rain. Whitus and Scotia were dining like kings amongst their men, their new standards proclaiming them as champions over the Romans.
Hettus screamed violently, starting to bawl like a wounded baby as the humiliation washed over him once more. His tears ran thick, his wounds remained tender, and the feeling of complete and utter desolation rendered his tired, aching body an immobile mess.
===
Luck shot up in his bed, his eyes bloodshot, his skin pale and clammy. He looked down at his right arm.
A long, swift, red cut across the forearm was now starting to coagulate and scab over. The white linen duvet was starting to blacken and encrust with a pool of blood underneath where the arm had lay.
Luck hissed and winced, clutching his right arm which was starting to throb with a dull pain, but it was nothing compared to the pain of the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Damaged Goods.
“..In times..of great despair..Sometimes..it is necessary to shed what makes us human..Necessary…to make our hearts cold..lifeless..unable to beat within our chests….I have been beaten..embarassed…by Oblivion…The greatest of all cowards and heathens….But I am growing colder…I cannot feel much anymore..Anger is gone, sadness is gone, happiness is gone, and my heart grows….so much colder…The fans..laugh at me…My peers..LAUGH AT ME! THEY DOUBT ME! THEY DOUBT ME!” Luck took a deep breath, lowering his head and quivering in anger. “..But they don’t realise..just what they’ve unlocked….a void…a black hole….a man without…fear….what more can he do?...He has taken away my pride…my treasure….I am nothing...They laugh…but now..they will cry….they hate…but now…they will fear….they cheer..but now..they will bawl….they turn their backs..but now…their eyelids will be cut off and they will be forced to stare…What can they do now?....I will make them fall to their knees…I will make them respect me..I will make them watch…” Luck gave a heavy, guttural sigh into his chest, slowly raising his head. “…I…am going to put an end to Oblivion…Then the fans will watch..and cry…as they behold…the pale horse….and after that..they will be nought….nought but ashes.”
Luck groaned loudly, slowly falling back and resting his head on the pillow, allowing himself to fall into a pitiful sleep.
