Thursday, 21 July 2016

The Prince of Exiles, 33

"What do we do now?" I have no idea, feel the grip beneath my diaphragm, a twisting, a constriction, at once strange and utterly familiar.


What is the point of me?

The scene fades. The smell of furniture polish and roses. The sound of rain outside.

"What do you do?" says that same voice, calm, gentle, just concerned enough not to violate the client-professional divide.

I sigh and fall back into the trance.

And here is Xipil, and it is high afternoon. We are standing side by side alone, atop the hill that overlooks the whole of the city, and the sun is shining hard and dry above me and reflects off the skin of the priest's scalp.

"I had wondered," the priest's tone is conversational. I do not for a moment appreciate the context.

"You are the Chariot. You are the Reckoning. That is the Fate granted to you. You are the one who excels in all violence, brings ruin to the field of conflict. You are a sign that our land is soon to meet its end. You will survive as long as the land survives. And no longer. When the land dies, so too will you."

"When?"

"Don't know. Soon."

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