Among vast deserts, its hard to forget what was lost.
A paved asphalt road extending miles lay in front of the priest, and the droid.
Lisan stand proud next to the visibly tired Mercury, eons before revelation.
Hours were needed to reach this road along the violent dust storms.
Mercury trembles.
Noticing, "Are you tired Mercury? Afraid even?" Lisan asked.
"Yeah, I'd say so." Mercury mutters weakly.
. . .
"Are you tired of living but afraid to die?" Lisan inquired.
Mercury glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Maybe you're afraid to die because you haven't lived yet."
". . . I suppose."
They both stare down at the road, to their right holds a wooden old bus stop with two broken seats.
Mercury murmurs, "The thought of living petrifies me. They all tried but they died tragically."
"I'd say that's the difference between us and the Sklaves. They pride a heroic death, because they don't fear death." Lisan said.
The dust storms silence in his sake.
He continues, "A placeholder for honor, we lack that motivation."
He pauses, "We created tragic ends, Mercury."
Mercury added, "And they sent me to die for all this . . ."
"Not that they sent you to die, more like they wouldn't bat an eye if you did . . ." Lisan said.
"But I believe there was more to it." Mercury added.
They both gaze out into the endless desert beyond the road and see no civilization ahead.
Rumbling roared near.
A train of incarceration mellowed, slowing down with steel bars and hands sticking out.
It looked as if it were made for bloody war, but it was only for withholding.
A prison bus. And not just any generic one, a cathedral of chains
The transport that entails the worst of all condemned.
Your worst thoughts? They've done those . . .
Its Iron-coated with ashes of rust and old blood. Its arrival stirred like an ancient war cry.
Although a general, Mercury quivered slightly at the sight.
He glanced downward at his hands, coursing cyan-blue arteries.
Then staring at the hell-born train in silence, the name choked in his dry throat.
Lisan simply smiled.
Stenciled on the gates of death, lie gargoyles still, boiling without expression as they melt pondering upon their actions; true burden of stillness.
They opened, screeching like a fork on a plate.
The conductor, a scarred man with a plethora of years behind his eyes, he froze when he saw white-robed man patiently waiting.
No credentials, no identification. He gestured for the men to enter, and eyed Mercury.
The priest stared at the man without a word.
Rows of guards stood idle like statues waiting to be sculpted. Gray rifles lay in their arms in a hollow manner.
The air crushed the atmosphere of the vehicle with each step the priest took into the transport's three step entrance.
A Step. Then another, and the final before standing in the vehicle.
Guards exhaled in stress, sweat dripped from their silver and green uniform with cyan lining. They all stared at the tall man with long, tiger-like hair laying past his shoulders.
His robes brushed the gritty floor, coating it in blessing like a whisper of forgiveness for the poor soul who built it with incense.
The conductor sat hunched behind layers of armored glass, with a face lined with unforgotten memories. Operating the console that emitted cerulean glows on his wrinkled, empty-eyed complexion.
Adjusting each setting and operation, as if muscle memory alone can erase fear as he then stared at the man who stood tall.
His breath heightened, his heart pounded, eyes widened farther and farther.
Lisan did not knock. He did not greet. He simply removed his sunglasses.
Gently. The motion was slow, reverent, like uncovering a sacred relic.
Then, the conductor saw them.
Spiraling gold eyes . . .
A nameless constellation of resplendent rings, layered with embroidered symmetry. Orbits layer atop each other, leading to emptiness on clockwork spirals.
Each orbit turned, slowly like each layer condemns one as they spiral downward into despair.
Threaded lightly through the waves of pure gold. A faint hymn of origin. There was no pupil in lines of the order, only truth.
The conductor reacted instinctually, his throated swallowed dry. His mouth opened, then closed again, like a child caught lying in church.
Lisan smiled, barely. He put back on his sunglasses, slow and surgical, adjusting them so that none can remove it.
Behind arrays of guards, lie a gate with seats.
Mercury stepped in the vehicle of the guards that refused to look. The gate holds prisoners condemned with heinous crimes, and behind those seats, lay a more barricaded door . . .
Lisan put his hand out, and a guard swiftly gave him a keycard without looking.
The priest swiped it gracefully, and the gate slowly open.
Steel seats of prisoners lay amongst rusted floors bolted to the war-machine, with two empty front seats.
Lisan and Mercury sit in the seats, exhaling their breath as it flows into the steel-barbed windows, behind shackles of monsters.
Lisan sits back, relaxed, exhaling deeply.
Mercury looks around, cautious, his fist bawled.
The prisoners stay silent, as the guards keep thier eye on them.
Whether it was a guest, or a god, they showed respect.
A brief silence filled the bus.
Too silent.
The two sit as the prisoners remain silent, staring into them.
A man behind them, tan-blistered skin with no hair, reached out.
Five fingers lay on Lisan's robe.
"Priest," The man whispered. "I know what your kind do to the innocent. You wear robes of saints, but you ain't any cleaner than the rest of us."
His hands twitched. Then, he pulled out a rusty scalpel from the inside of his mouth.
Before attempting to strike, Lisan already turned.
The guards behind the barbed gate looked down.
Eerily calm, he grabbed his arm, twisted, disarming his scalpel which clattered in beats on the steel floor.
All speech fell as the spotlight of the sun shown on Lisan. One again, he took off his sunglasses with his other arm, revealing true judgement.
Mercury stared in shock.
What the hell are you thinking, Lisan . . .
He looked at Lisan's eyes, knowing he'd seen it before.
Penance.
Even gods look away when he takes his glasses off. And I'm beside him? . . .
"Fine fingers, Five fingers touched my robe." Lisan said.
Lisan lifted his sleeves.
He glanced at Mercury, "What is the consequence, General?"
Mercury hesitated, his eyes scan the ceiling, looking for an answer that hands mercy for once. Not one arrived.
He turned to an armed guard that stood behind the gate.
"What's this convict in for?"
The guard answered expressionless. "Massacres of three orphanage-chapels. Said he wanted to see if God bled like the rest."
Mercury smirked.
"Then, for each finger that touched the robe . . . they must be broken."
The convict trembled, huddling himself into a corner, repeating to himself like a scared child. "Zaleth no. He exhaled.
"He is not waiting for you." Mercury stared with blank eyes.
Mercury grabbed the mans arm, as he screamed, "No!"
"Why do you resist? Did your victims resist? Did you let them go?" Mercury badgered.
Mercury grabbed the man's hand and-
Snap!
Snap!
Snap!
Snap!
Snap!
The man tried screamed like a dying goat, but couldn't make any sound, only a slight gasp was audible.
The convict teared, looking downward. He twitched, every muscle and fiber in his body ached with nerve activation as the hands he used to kill were being cleansed. Soon to be saved.
Curling in his seat, whimpering, begging to be put down.
"What's wrong . . . does it hurt?" Mercury smiled.
"Do you know how much kindness it took from me, to be this violent?"
Why did that feel . . . right?
Lisan glanced closer with piercing eyes at the distraught inmate, his voice hushed a soft lullaby.
"Paradise awaits if you endure it."
Nobody spoke, not the inmates, the guards, or the conductor.
Only stares, as the whimpering man bled from the exposed bones in his fingers, praying.
Lisan noticed his praying, lay a hand on him. "One day, you may be fully cleansed, for you a merely a lost lamb."
"I forgive you." The priest said.
Nobody came to console the convict, after all he committed unfathomable crimes, yet the priest forgave him. Why?
Dusk came as the man pondered.
. . .
Night fell, a regular black sky lay about. Slumber infected everyone except the conductor, guards, Lisan, and the suffering convict.
Weakly the convict spoke, "Why do you forgive me . . . father?"
The priest didn't speak.
"Why . . . someone like me?" The convict whispered faintly.
Without turning, he spoke, "Because you felt it."
He continued, "Now, tell me, what is your name?"
"No name, just a number. Thalatha. Because of what I did."
Thalatha means 'three' in the language of Mala.
Lisan nodded.
Silence fell. Before the convict could comprehend his message, he knocked out from shock and blood loss.
He looks around, noting the guards fell asleep standing up. The conductor placed the bus in autopilot, and now he stares outside the barred windows. He glare beams of moonlight shining on his sunglasses.
Not many get to see a moon like this.
Lisan lays out his cross necklace, praying while hugging it between both hands, begging . . .
. . .
Morning rose, Mercury woke up first, looking at the deeply sleeping priest, then glaring out at the displaying sunrise.
What a beautiful sunrise. Lisan was talking about beauty being forgotten, I hope this isn't forgotten.
But the question persists in me. Was all that . . . 'right'?
I need a new notebook . . .
He exhaled softly.
Time passed like innocence, was it already time to leave?
Mercury awoke Lisan by tapping him, standing above him. He arose, scratching his eyes.
"C'mon man, conductor just told me that's our stop."
Lisan got up, and followed Mercury past the barbed gate. He looked behind to see the convict staring out, hands together in prayer.
The priest smiled.
. . .