He came from above like a hawk encroaching on its victims.
The Angel descended from the heavens; their scales gilded and glistening in the morning sun; their wings large and spread as they made impact with the street below. Tall and beautiful, even at the beginning of the end.
Death polluted his vision: Sharan killed by the attacks; Sharan killed by enforcers... Sharan killed by Sharan.
Ignar stared at this vision for a long while. He had seen it before. He had been the cause of it, and now he would be so again. He shook his head and gestured. The bodies ignited, quickly burning away, not leaving behind bones or anything like that. Just ash, which he allowed to be washed away by the wind.
The Angel let it wash over him; he let the wind and its ashes touch him as they went by, a reminder of those who had died. Surely, their deaths would not be for nothing.
He turned around and walked down the street, and as he walked, the bodies around him set afire, turning into ash. But he did not let the wind carry this ash away, not yet. There would be time later.
Mangled, apart, ruined, and disfigured; placed all around, on the streets, hanging from windows, their eyes empty, if their eyes were intact, and where they were supposed to be. Set afire. Not all of them were dead; some were still alive and suffering; shallow breaths taken, eyes filled with pain and then hope as they might see the Angel and his shadow pass them by; soon turned into a returned agony, as they, too, departed the world far too soon.
Alive or dead, it did not matter. Everything would burn.
Wash it. Remove the filth of our failures. Remove the taint of our existence.
We would be forgiven. Surely we all deserve forgiveness.
Ignar walked onto a part of the city that had grown too familiar for him. This part of the city and he had too much history by now. The very center of it. Where once a great tower ruled its skyline, emerging as a symbol of truth... and deceit.
Ruin, everything in ruins. Just more color to decorate its white bricks, just red that had now tainted it, flowing down, where the tower had met the street below, both turning into rubble. This new state of being tried to hide so many crimes.
It was where truth went to die. It is where those who thought they knew better watched over the city and its people, with disgust in their eyes, they would speculate about what tomorrow might bring, from where they might garner more wealth for themselves, who had committed which crime, and if anything ever mattered at all.
Ignar's own crimes related to it. Café N'Sharan, the hellfire he had released in the midst of its customers. Had it not been purified? Had it not been justified?
Had it not been far too late?
He walked toward the tower, bodies burning around him; he stared at the tower and its ruins. This is what he had wanted. Was it not? After all, the tower had been the very symbol of tyranny, one so structural that most would miss it and not pay any attention to it. Yet... profound emptiness claimed a place within his heart. It had not been the correct way. His actions... his actions had led them here. This was the consequence of his actions—their actions.
Ignar gritted his teeth and tried to ignore this emerging emptiness within and the disillusionment that had begun bombarding him with questions and critiques that he could not rationalize or explain away. Even when it all bothered him, he had to abide by his duty. He still had to believe that everything would lead to something just, to something that would make all of this correct...
He released his magics, he released a great fire that hurled at the tower and its remains; the thousands that had been crushed with it; the innocent and the not-so-innocent Sharan, who had gone to work that day, only to find themselves in a tower that collapsed beneath their feet; only to be crushed under its weight. Only to die for some made-up reasons that tried to justify themselves by placing "ideals" and the "wanted outcome" as a valid explanation as to why the killing of tens of thousands was somehow... just?
The fire hurled and came in contact with the bricks, bursting into an intense fire that would melt and burn everything it came into contact with. Nothing survived its touch; the white bricks started melting away, and the bodies turned into ash in an instant, only to come in contact with the burning hot magma formed from marble. It began flowing onto the streets, but the Angel waved his hand, stopping it from taking over, freezing it, and allowing it to crystallize into ashen igneous rock.
The smell of burning flesh reminded him of what Kalma had done right before them. Visions of a woman, someone he had loved long ago, burning away, turning into ash right before his eyes, by the will of Kalma and his divine flames...
His gaze deepened as he stood there, looking at the now-melted tower. Finally, something other than emptiness had begun to claim his mind, as a thick fog formed within his mind, through which no other emotion could penetrate, except dread and sadness.
The wind that pushed through the city graced him with its gentle touch and smells of fire and death, but he barely noticed such things. His mind was elsewhere.
If only from the memory of her, he could find solace. If only he could place his head against her chest, and release the tears that he felt he had no right to cry. She could have been his solace.
From behind him, steps emerged, they felt so far away, and silent. Something at the very edge of reality. They might as well not exist, not at this moment. But a voice pierced through the fog and void: "You! Put your hands up and slowly turn around!"
"No quick movements, or we release fire!" The voice was beastly, booming in the empty street. The sound of weapons being harnessed echoed from behind.
Centered, again, into this reality. Ignar let out a long sigh and did as he was told. If he were to do his duty, he should at least look at his own actions as he committed them. As he turned around, his eyes were met with a figure dressed in black, grasping weapons pointed at him, their faces covered by masks. Ignar knew who these people were, or at least what their job was.
One of them stepped forth and pulled their mask away, showcasing their face, and from beneath a face of utter satisfaction emerged: "You seem like a powerful individual…" They pointed out, nodding, "What might you be doing here?"
Ignar peered at the Sharan, who dared to question him, and tilted his head to the side, observing them from slightly different angles. He knew who this Sharan was. He knew what they did, he knew many of the things this Sharan had done, and not just today, but through their history.
"Are you the one who calls themselves 'the Sharan of Death?'"
The Sharan of Death's expression altered from satisfaction to annoyance, and then—curiously, pride...
"You know of me? I wasn't aware your ilk ever visited the Anandam Colosseum."
Ignar shook his head, "It is my duty to know of the things that happen within my city. As well as of people, who claim to be something greater than what they in truth are." He mocked.
The Sharan of Death spat, their face becoming a mask of its own; annoyance had taken hold of it, turning into wrath that only needed a little more to be released, "I see…"
A grin came to the beast's lips, "Then tell me, oh dutiful knower of things, what is likely to happen in a moment or two?"
Ignar let his hands fall to his sides—the Officers of Death took no action—he looked at each of them in turn. Most of them had committed crimes that could never be forgiven, and just on this day. But even then...
He sighed, "Nothing good," replying at last.
The Sharan of Death's grin widened, and their pointy teeth flashed in the morning sun, "Wonderful." They exhaled a yearning confession of sadism, one that was instantly wiped away by the fires that consumed them and the other officers.
There were no screams as they burned away. Surely there was pain, but they were not allowed to exist for long enough to be tortured by it. They just became ash, just more ash to pollute the already ashen streets of this city.
Mercy. This was mercy. A gentle punishment for a deed so vile. A swift death when each of them deserved an eternity in torture. It was like covering an already cold corpse with a warm blanket so that they would not be cold even in their deaths. It was just mercy, and nothing more.
He turned around and continued to uphold his duty. There was so much more he had to do. There were so many bodies that polluted the streets; there were still so many that had yet to die.
He grimaced at his own actions and what he would do next. Just going around and burning bodies would never be enough. So many buildings. So many places to hide. He placed his gaze onto one of them; it stood still, untouched by most of the violence, not too far from where the Tower of Lies and Truths now lay.
Inside, there must be so many. Tens of families, hundreds of Sharan... His brows twitched, like a tremor that he could not control. The building began to collapse. Another tremor touched his brows, and instead of just collapsing, fire engulfed it. No screams of pain. No proof of anyone's death. The building collapsed, not turning into magma this time, but into rubble of blackened bricks and ash that burst out from the windows of the building.
He walked past it, not wanting to think just how many had died in a fraction of a second...
To do it once was already too much. But do it again, and again, and again... at first one building at a time, but soon tens of them, soon whole blocks of them... unable to stop, having to go on and walk past and through the rubble; the silent deaths that happened over and over again. His brows kept twitching, a constant tremor that had also attached itself to his eyes.
Another building collapsed, for he had willed so.
Constant repetition, turning into automation. Almost no thought was needed to perform this action of inherent violence. To purge a city with such efficiency. To kill your own, just because you're unable to realize and to come to terms with the truth... with the only thing that would allow him to not do what he was doing... the accepting of Kalma's prophecy.
A group of running Sharan set into flames, their screams muffled by the fires.
He had no will of his own. A lie he had to tell himself, over and over again. Duty, this is duty, one that manifests a twisted form of mercy, one ought to accept as just. They were right to do what they did. He was right to do it. It was his duty after all. There is no denying duty. To deny duty is the death of order. To deny duty is to accept chaos; to deny duty is to embrace the darkness. To deny duty is the death of love; it is the death of justice; it is the death of the past, and so, the death of the future as well.
These crimes are not crimes. These murders are not murders. This purge is not a purge.
This genocide... it is all just mercy; it is all just duty. It is all just something that you have to do or all else will fall into ruin, into chaos; the world itself would fall apart if not for the actions that I have made...
Believe these lies, so that you might exist. So that you might live on. So that you won't need to accept that you aren't brave enough to die in the stead of many; that you only wish to preserve your life; that you see your life, your experience, and your family as something that is far above the lives of others.
Around him, the bodies burned, leaving behind only traces of ash.
N'Sharan is only dead if I die. N'Sharan would have never existed if it were not for me. N'Sharan will live on for as long as I am alive, without me, it could only die...
This was the only choice he and the rest ever had since the first stones were set as a foundation for N'Sharan, the City of the Angels...
- - - - -
Ash traversed the streets of an empty city; great towers ruined and brought to rubble, walls once high and mighty now just a memory of safety. A labor of love disgraced and left at the mercy of erosion; a proclaimed freedom left to rot.
He stood alone on such a street and looked ahead. Remembering what once had been. He had built this city; he had made it great. He had given freedom to all men and life to those who were destined to die. A merciful god, who had led his people to a haven, where they all might live in bliss and peace; no longer would wars and the ills of gods dictate their lives, for they were free to live and die as they pleased.
Yet, it was all in ruins. Empty. Dead. A graveyard of hope. Of freedom and salvation.
He shook his head in shame. What had they done? What had we done? Are we not to be blamed?
The golden sun laid its warm rays upon his skin of scales. A golden butterfly flew past him, so free and beautiful, to flutter without a thought of fear or an understanding of who you are; there are no doubts. It was free as it flew. It was free, as it died.
The butterfly scorched by flames fell to the ground and became one with the rubble.
He had done so to so many of them. Not butterflies such as the one that now lay on the cobbles of the street, but his people, them too he had scorched; them too, he had murdered.
So lonely was the corpse of the butterfly, but the ash took it with it, and the wind carried away the dead.
"Ash, just ash—our words and those we were supposed to lead and protect…" He looked at him, and our eyes met as he asked, "I wonder when given all the choices a man could make, would you choose goodness or the comfort and ignorance of blissful evil?" The wind grew greater, a howl that pierced the ears with its sound, and ash covered everything that one could see…
Kanrel's mind became whole again. It emerged from nothing and made itself present at the center of it all. Standing before The Angel of War and Peace, he looked around, out of disgust, ignoring the creature that had elevated itself into a god, and observed the city and what was left of it...
So… empty. So lacking in… color; it is so gray. This world was created by actions that they have done; by actions he had done. Is there no justice? No greater good? Is there just this; this creation; this damned ending to something that was once beautiful?
There had been bodies; everywhere, just bodies. An ending to a rebellion. An ending to war; a new peace. This one, like perhaps the last one, was painted in blood; tainted by death; brought by those so vile, so disgusting.
Brought by those who, by now, must understand what power brings. What do corruption and tyranny bring forth? This—it brings this; this is misery; this is unfair. This. This, all this ash around him; all these dead lying on the streets.
This was the City of the Angels. And now, it too, lay in ruins. In gray; in ash.
What had they done? What was this thing supposed to be? Justice? War? Tyranny? Will this, too, end in peace?
Everything turned into ash. The rubble, the buildings that still stood, the walls that surrounded them, the things that had been left untouched by the fire. All of it turned into ash.
The ashes of the city were slowly carried away by the wind, but the memory of the bodies remained on the ground. As if their existence was so substantial, so much important than the thousands of years of history, that they had to stay, just for a moment longer. So that they would linger in the minds of those who had brought injustice, who had brought war.
Kanrel had always believed that he was a man of peace; a man who had no such thing as murder in himself. Sure, he had killed before; he had done so when Yirn had betrayed them. He had killed the cultists that had attacked them back then; he had killed more of them the day he had found the Entrance to all of this. Back then, he had thought about it, he had thought of his actions, he had felt regret for them, but even then, he had been somewhat justified in his actions. But even with the justifications that he had made for himself, he still felt remorseful. He was still consumed by regret.
In his heart, he didn't want to believe that the things Ignar had done could ever be right, as the outcome of them was this... But the question Ignar had asked: "Just how many more did I kill by not doing anything earlier?"
Was Ignar just too late to change the course of N'Sharan, dooming himself, instead, to become its end?
It bothered him, the inability to know or say if the things that happened before the day N'Sharan was made into ash were then justified, as they tried to interject with the inevitable future foreseen by Kalma.
He stood where the City of the Angels had once stood. And he looked, at last, at the Angel of War and Peace who still stared back at him. He tried to not understand.
He could feel Ignar's remorse. He could feel his regret, and oh, there was so much of it that gnawed not only within Ignar's mind but in Kanrel's as well... Was there really no other way? Had war been the only option to bring an end to tyranny? Surely, it ended in tyranny, but now, the Sharan were all gone; only the Nine Magi remained.
Was their tyranny then not over as well?
His brows quivered. They were the Angels. They were his gods. As far as he was aware, their actions afterward weren't without tyranny either...
Bitter, so bitter is this blood on his hands; in his mouth, on his face. They cover his eyes, and all that he can see is blood.
The streets had first been baptized by the blood of the perceived innocent, and now that innocence was long gone, yet a memory of it remained somewhere within...
Tyranny could only end with tyranny. The tyrants had to be murdered so that the slaves could be free... But they had failed—then, and again. They had failed thousands of years ago, only to fail now as well. The tyrants were still alive to this very day, and they ruled from above, they ruled over a new set of slaves they found for themselves...
Through this thing called war, this thing which ended up becoming just a culling followed by another culling, a genocide. Was it not something inevitable among humans as well? Would Kanrel and his kin find themselves fighting against the heavens, continuing a "cycle of empires," going to war against gods themselves, so that humanity might claim their freedom; that they might break their shackles and emancipate themselves...
Would it all end up like this? Would the ashes of humanity claim the earth, would it all be covered by their memory? Would it fill Kanrel's mind with their absence?
Angels... He spat... Are they really so divine? He felt bitter. So very bitter, for he and some of his ilk carried a part of their divinity within them.
Could he reject them, could he fight against their tyranny, and if so, would it all end up like this? Was that the price of freedom, and just how many ought to die so that it could become something more than an ideal?
He broke eye contact with the angel across from him. Would there be hope for life at all?
N'Sharan, much like Anavasii, was now gone, but would it remain as this barren landscape, unpopulated by life...
And must it all be so gray? From those ashes, one day might burst into bloom a great flower for just one summer—a beautiful flower with a short life, with its beginning in the spring and its ending in the winter. Another life, one not so different from the life from which it was born.
His eyes swelled as tears broke through. He wept as the gray landscape remained as it was. No flowers to form a field in bloom; no butterfly to flutter from one flower to another. No proof that something that had become so twisted could give birth to beauty anew.
The darkness returned, and the memory was over.