Visant
05-06-2007, 04:08 AM
::Warning: Adult Situations and Vulgar Language::
It is getting late and I should sleep. Izrail is here next to me, pale hair obscuring his face. Earlier in the evening, after dinner, we had spent time traveling from place to place via portals. None of his business was particularly important; it was an excuse to talk more then anything else.
I learned something about Izrail that made me respect him even more. He isn’t interested in being a hero. Perhaps some would say that makes him selfish or a coward in these difficult times, and I couldn’t say they are wrong. So what? We have plenty of heroes these days; they populate the most stylish of graveyards in large numbers. Even our older, less fashionable cemeteries have a waiting list.
My first lover, now he was a genuine hero. Everyone said so.
While I have holes in my memory I can still remember most of how it was.
It was always so cold wearing nothing but those thin, sleeveless tunics. Idris was older then I by a few years, his arm around my shoulders for warmth and then it became something else. I was confused at first, I couldn’t grasp what was happening because my mind was being torn to pieces and confusion was my typical state of mind at that time. When he kissed me it finally dawned on me what we were doing and it felt good to have him there with me in the endless dark of the dungeon, all of us marked, numbered, waiting or praying to die.
He and I didn’t die though, and later after our escape it became a sun-drenched affair, a stark contrast to the constant darkness it had started in. I remember his hands, rough and strong, the way they wrapped around my wrists when he held me down to take me. I would see others to feed my newfound need for control, but I submitted only to him.
Afterwards we would lie together, talking as the afternoon slipped away. Inevitably he would need to leave, a young ranger off to do his duty.
We were discreet, as I was recently married. Madris, my wife, knew of course. I doubt anyone else did though they might have suspected.
A year. We had a year of freedom and light.
One day he didn’t arrive. I went home not suspecting anything, as he was often delayed by various duties. Madris was there, and she told me Idris was dead, her eyes full of tears. She had loved him too.
That was the last time she and I slept together, grief and the need for a warm body and nothing more.
There was a ceremony with everyone’s mouths full of praise celebrating his sacrifice. The Ranger-General himself was there and gave a rousing eulogy. The Ranger-General said all the right things, called him a hero, and swore that Idris’ death would not be forgotten. He spoke with such sincerity that I almost believed him.
Fuck heroes. A hero gets a heartfelt but shoddy statue tucked away in some back alley of Silvermoon. Eventually the little plaque at the bottom that proclaims what worthy cause he died for will be hidden beneath a sprawling mass of overgrown ivy.
Within a month those who extolled the virtues of the hero can barely remember his name, and in time they will forget because he is one of so many that have fallen, just another corpse in a well-maintained graveyard that no one visits anymore.
No, I don’t need another Idris Fullbright. Once was enough. I’m tired of heroes.
It is getting late and I should sleep. Izrail is here next to me, pale hair obscuring his face. Earlier in the evening, after dinner, we had spent time traveling from place to place via portals. None of his business was particularly important; it was an excuse to talk more then anything else.
I learned something about Izrail that made me respect him even more. He isn’t interested in being a hero. Perhaps some would say that makes him selfish or a coward in these difficult times, and I couldn’t say they are wrong. So what? We have plenty of heroes these days; they populate the most stylish of graveyards in large numbers. Even our older, less fashionable cemeteries have a waiting list.
My first lover, now he was a genuine hero. Everyone said so.
While I have holes in my memory I can still remember most of how it was.
It was always so cold wearing nothing but those thin, sleeveless tunics. Idris was older then I by a few years, his arm around my shoulders for warmth and then it became something else. I was confused at first, I couldn’t grasp what was happening because my mind was being torn to pieces and confusion was my typical state of mind at that time. When he kissed me it finally dawned on me what we were doing and it felt good to have him there with me in the endless dark of the dungeon, all of us marked, numbered, waiting or praying to die.
He and I didn’t die though, and later after our escape it became a sun-drenched affair, a stark contrast to the constant darkness it had started in. I remember his hands, rough and strong, the way they wrapped around my wrists when he held me down to take me. I would see others to feed my newfound need for control, but I submitted only to him.
Afterwards we would lie together, talking as the afternoon slipped away. Inevitably he would need to leave, a young ranger off to do his duty.
We were discreet, as I was recently married. Madris, my wife, knew of course. I doubt anyone else did though they might have suspected.
A year. We had a year of freedom and light.
One day he didn’t arrive. I went home not suspecting anything, as he was often delayed by various duties. Madris was there, and she told me Idris was dead, her eyes full of tears. She had loved him too.
That was the last time she and I slept together, grief and the need for a warm body and nothing more.
There was a ceremony with everyone’s mouths full of praise celebrating his sacrifice. The Ranger-General himself was there and gave a rousing eulogy. The Ranger-General said all the right things, called him a hero, and swore that Idris’ death would not be forgotten. He spoke with such sincerity that I almost believed him.
Fuck heroes. A hero gets a heartfelt but shoddy statue tucked away in some back alley of Silvermoon. Eventually the little plaque at the bottom that proclaims what worthy cause he died for will be hidden beneath a sprawling mass of overgrown ivy.
Within a month those who extolled the virtues of the hero can barely remember his name, and in time they will forget because he is one of so many that have fallen, just another corpse in a well-maintained graveyard that no one visits anymore.
No, I don’t need another Idris Fullbright. Once was enough. I’m tired of heroes.