TMarkos
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Chapter 55 - Hamartēma, Ataraxia
🕑 Added 2022-04-06 16:00:27 +0000 UTCIt is difficult for many men to reconcile the exhortation to love one’s brother with the reality of war and conflict. The divinity within us is merciful and kind beyond human limits, and we hear it calling out to the divine in others even as they strive to their utmost against us.
All men are men; this is not a mere tautology, as it is a truth oft-forgotten in the midst of struggle. Men shape themselves with their will, however; and the shape they take forms their eventual purpose. For every righteous man, there will be another man raised up to that same height that he may test the strength of the first’s conviction.
This righteous man, should he prevail, may well weep at the death of his foe. It is good and proper to mourn the passing of a man - and he was a man, this vanquished enemy! But in setting himself against the divine he created a choice: that only one of these men may live.
There is no third option that might avoid this test, once set; the path that leads away from fate brings its travelers to stagnation, and in all things that is a crueler fate than death.
- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687
—
The smell came through first, before the doors of the airship’s landing bay groaned open; the effluvium of smoldering corpses crawled slowly up Michael’s nose alongside paired notes of gunsmoke and exhaust. The noise followed - men yelling, groaning and screaming, the pervasive rumble of engines.
Michael made no move to exit the bay. He stood next to Antolin, his nerves thrilling with borrowed tension from the men around him; medics, engineers and other supporting soldiers took the lead in filing out of the aircraft. He saw Luc’s pale face amid a crowd of men wearing the mark of a branching tree on their armbands. The tumult made it impossible to pick Luc’s fear out from the rest, but it was written plainly on his face - along with a grim sort of determination that hardened as it came time for his group to move forward.
Antolin turned to look at Michael, nodded, and began to walk after the last of the groups as they left. Their cadre was small; only Antolin, Michael, and four soldiers that hovered around them. Each bore only a sidearm, but Michael saw hints of solidity in their souls that reminded him of Amira.
Their party walked past the idling tanks, past units of infantry laughing and talking in low voices. It was a stark contrast to the field that lay just beyond, thick with corpses. Michael could see one or two hung up in the wire. Clouds of flies made a low drone that filled the rare silent moments in their walk.
The three tanks at the head of the column had long since ceased burning, but dimmer lights hung about them - headlights from some of the Mendiko transports were trained on them as artifices carefully peeled back the layers of armor. Soot flaked in layers from the metal as it flowed away - then stopped.
A somber mood pulsed through the crowd surrounding the tank before two men bent to lift a human form from the wreckage. It was barely-recognizable as such, blackened and twisted, but Michael caught a glimpse of gnarled fingers clutching together when it was pulled into the light. The men moved slowly as they carried the corpse out; eight blanket-shrouded forms lay on the dirt, and they placed the body down reverently as the ninth.
“Three per tank,” Antolin said quietly as they watched the men wrap a blanket around the body. “The Safid rushed the front of the column before the end, they were able to get a handful of men close. It was an error on my part; I didn’t consider that some of the routed Safid might regroup and come from a more protected angle.” He straightened up and nodded at the wreckage. “If I had chosen differently, been just a bit better, those nine men might be alive.”
Michael had nothing to say in response; he looked at the silent corpses and wondered which three had been in that final tank. Antolin had made no implications, but his meaning was clear. All nine bodies were Antolin’s burden, but three were Michael’s to bear as well.
He inhaled deeply, the stink of the battlefield oily and foul in his nose - then let his breath out. “I understand,” he said.
Antolin turned and raised an eyebrow. “I wonder,” he said. The grand marshal paced back toward the main body of the column; Michael followed behind.
“Do you know why I asked you to save that tank?” Antolin asked.
Michael pressed his lips together. “To save the lives of those men,” he said.
“Yes, in part,” Antolin confirmed. “But you were far from the only one I asked. Tanks, infantry, aircraft, Leire - none could kill the Safid without harming the tank. Out of position for those crucial moments. You could, however. I knew this from the first, yet of all those options I asked you last. Do you know why that is?”
“Because you had already guessed what would happen,” Michael sighed. “You didn’t think I could do it.”
Antolin’s lips curved upward. “On the contrary,” he said. “I judged you to be the simplest and most effective solution to the problem - but I don’t know you. If you want to judge a man’s capabilities, judge the man. As you discovered, the ability to do a thing is not sufficient to see a thing done. Not on its own.”
He raised his hand, gesturing to Michael. “Today I learned a bit about you,” he said. “That I can’t rely on you to kill men for me.”
A hot pang of shame flared in Michael’s gut, but it was tempered by a twin joy - mortifying as it was to hear Antolin’s words, Michael could not help but feel relieved to hear him say it. There was no part of him that wanted to be a killer.
Michael raised his head. “What does that mean?” he asked. “In practical terms.”
“Not much,” Antolin said. “It was my default assumption, as it is with most men. I did not think I would see you reach out with your soul and kill those men, or touch their minds. If I had, I would have learned that you were a reliable killer - and that you found it reasonable to use your souls in that manner.”
Antolin slowed his pace. “Instead we have the counterhypothesis - that you are not a reliable killer, and that you do not find it reasonable to use your souls in that manner, even during wartime.” He turned and stopped. “Please try to appreciate how immensely relieving this is for me. I have men I can turn to for killing already; I have none whom I could rely upon to impose morality on you.”
He resumed walking; Michael lagged behind for a moment while his mind chewed upon Antolin’s statement. “It would be convenient for the war,” Antolin admitted. “And fewer men would die. But peace follows war, and hopefully for longer. It would be inconvenient for that peace should your standard for killing extend that far. Now I know it doesn’t.”
The gentle grinding of their footsteps seemed a slow metronome against Michael’s mind. Sentences formed and died unsaid. Eventually, he let out a slow sigh. “This doesn’t work with your plan,” Michael said. “I’m meant to be proving myself an asset out here, not shrinking back from the war I instigated. Will my mere presence here be enough to quiet Mendoza? He’ll eventually have more evidence for the truth of my soul than Saleh’s letters.”
“He will,” Antolin said. “And you’re right: acting as an observer will not quiet your detractors. They have a powerful negative argument, one that must be opposed by an equal positive reply. Again, the shine of neutrality is fading.” The marshal allowed himself a grim smile. “Peace is only possible with men who have seen the alternative.” He gestured for Michael to follow as he altered course.
Michael did; Antolin led him towards the ad-hoc center of camp, set up near the old Safid command post. Here, tanks sat in neat rows while artifices ministered to their armor. Michael watched the metal flow back to unblemished perfection, wheels and gun barrels returned to true.
The equivalent area for soldiers was far smaller; few Mendiko had taken wounds during the action, and the small number of serious injuries had been taken to the airship already. Those still waiting to receive attention from an anatomens sported only minor injuries, already bandaged and stanched.
Smaller still was the third cluster of men; Michael wondered at its purpose for a long moment before he saw the Safid uniforms on the downed soldiers. There were only a handful of prisoners, outnumbered by twice as many watchful soldiers. Michael blinked as he spotted Luc tending to one of the men, his face drawn and beaded with sweat. The glove was missing from his hand.
The prisoner he was treating had the leg of his trousers cut away to reveal a bloody hole in the meat of his thigh; Luc gingerly laid his fingers upon the bared skin. The wounded man gave a strangled cry of pain, then grit his teeth as the flesh finished knitting. Luc let his breath out and withdrew his fingers, wiping them with a cloth - then wiping the man’s leg free of blood to reveal the unbroken skin beneath. The man spat something low, laughing shakily and extending his hand to Luc; the anatomens slipped his glove back on before shaking it.
Antolin stood beside Michael as the two watched the Safid prisoners. The marshal’s eyes flicked between Michael’s face and the wounded men; the Safid soldiers watched them with some trepidation but little fear. Michael supposed that it boded well for their prospects if the Mendiko were willing to task an anatomens to heal them, even a novice such as Luc.
The marshal looked between Michael and the prisoners a moment more, expectant - then sighed. “It’s good to see the enemy as men,” Antolin said quietly. “Good to recognize that they have minds of their own. I could not judge you for being reticent to kill, even out of necessity.” He turned to face Michael, raising his voice. “But the ultimate struggle we must face, Michael Baumgart, is not one of necessity.” He looked at the prisoners again; Michael felt a grim pulse of satisfaction. Antolin took a step back; the four guards followed him. “It is one of survival.”
Michael cocked his head to the side, wondering at the odd emphasis on Antolin’s words - and then spun to face the prisoners, spurred by a sudden upswell of fear. It raged and clawed at his mind, stronger than he had felt since the last time he had crossed these trenches. Shouts of alarm went up from the soldiers as some of the prisoners rose shakily to their feet, their eyes fixed on Michael. Luc scrambled back, eyes widening.
The man Luc had healed took a step forward, raising a hand to point at Michael. “Baumgart,” he rasped. “Heart-eater.” The fear from the others intensified, augmented with iron determination; the man who had spoken tore his eyes from Michael to look at the Mendiko guards who had formed up around them, bayonets leveled. “You are misled, we are not your enemies. The true enemy of all people stands behind you. Join us in opposing him, or stand from our path.”
Michael’s heart thundered in his chest, the onslaught of fear and aggression washing over him from all sides. The Mendiko guards did not move; one barked a command to sit.
The prisoner’s lips pressed into a line as his eyes returned to Michael. “Rise,” he called out. “And fall with purpose.”
Behind him, more Safid struggled to their feet despite the renewed demands of their captors to sit; Michael felt their fear crystallize and stand aside for conviction. He darted a look at Antolin, eyes wide, only to find the grand marshal standing impassively amid his escort. Antolin’s eyes were fixed on Michael, watching - evaluating.
Anger flared up, entirely Michael’s own. He held Antolin’s gaze for a long moment before returning his attention to the Safid. The prisoners were terrified of him, hands trembling and breath coming fast, but in some few of them conviction pulsed stronger still. Their courage surged up, waiting only for some small sign that its moment had arrived.
Michael reached out with Spark’s soul before the Safid could fling themselves upon Mendiko bayonets. He felt the sensation of their will intensify as it made contact. It was obvious that fear was not the answer, as it had been for the Ardan soldiers; these men were as terrified as anyone he had ever seen, they stood ready to die nevertheless.
His concentration wavered as his anger with Antolin flared brighter. He had done this deliberately, another test to determine where Michael’s lines were drawn. The twinned fires in his chest flared in sympathy with his ire; Michael let it feed Spark’s power. “Sit,” he said, his voice rippling with intent. The image of Spark doing the same to him in the cramped cabin of his boat flitted through his mind. “You know I’m not your foe.”
He was gratified to see many of the Safid drop back to the ground, sudden confusion muddling their thoughts. Others did not, however. The man who had spoken dropped to one knee, grimacing. His hand jerked upward to grab a nearby scalpel from a physician’s kit, before the guards could do more than shout in alarm he had plunged the blade deep into his thigh.
The prisoner rose shakily to his feet, his hands trembling with fear and pain. “You will not take me,” he rasped. Two others rose beside him; one man with blood flowing from a bit tongue, another with a finger twisted back on his hand. They paused for only a moment before rushing headlong into the guards blocking their path. One man died instantly, a bayonet piercing just below his ribs. Another screamed as a blade struck him just above the hip, laying open his stomach.
The man with the scalpel dodged between the two entangled guards to spring at Michael. The world slowed into gilt-edged languor as Stanza took hold. Light glinted from the scalpel’s blade and the prisoner’s eyes in equal measure; Michael’s gaze settled upon the latter. The man was young, around Michael’s age, with close-cut dark hair and olive skin. His eyes were a light brown, burning with the intensity of his fear and focus.
The emotions seething behind those eyes sharpened as the prisoner’s foot struck the dirt. The muscles of his leg tensed, preparing to launch him forward. Michael saw his trajectory as he prepared to leap, saw the flash of the knife’s blade writ in mirror-light - a broad arc that ended at his neck.
It was trivial to step away. After fighting Sever, an unsouled man with a scalpel was barely worth noting. He did, gaining another footstep’s time; he saw the prisoner’s eyes narrow and reorient. The arc appeared again at his neck.
There had been no hesitation; that had already been discarded prior to his mad rush. Only the conviction remained, the surety that Michael must die. The intent pulsed from him, nearly as sharp as the scalpel - and infinitely more disturbing. Its intensity banished any thought of using Spark from Michael’s mind. The conviction was a pillar of the man’s being, and it could not be altered without destroying the man. What was left would be like Beni, or Peter - hollow shells with a human form, unable to grasp the horror of their existence.
He could step back again. The Mendiko guards had turned, teeth bared and bayonets leveled; one officer was raising his sidearm. The man had seconds to live, perhaps two or three steps further before the Mendiko brought him down.
Michael’s sight turned to Antolin, faster than he could move his head. For a moment his anger washed away everything else, his sight sharpening on Antolin’s face - and stuttering as he saw the emotion written there. His eyes were tight with strain and grief; through the fracas, his gaze had never left Michael.
Here, Jeorg had said, handing him the knife. Quickly.
Inexorably, his sight was drawn back towards the charging man. The scalpel’s blade shone with light both real and illusory, beginning its slow arc towards Michael’s throat.
Quickly.
He heard Jeorg’s voice, quiet and deep and drenched with sorrow. Sorrow at what he had done, and at what he had failed to do. Always a price for solitude. It withholds the harm you may visit on others, but also the good. Withholds a voice speaking against those who would turn neighbor against neighbor, shape a nation to their whim.
Michael looked into the eyes of the man holding the scalpel. This close, his fear was deafening, blinding, radiating from him with painful brilliance. He was a man, like any other. He had hopes, dreams, parents, perhaps siblings or lovers - and through Saleh’s words, his existence was now anathema to Michael’s own.
Does that make me evil, that I have let it come to this?
Moments passed with a century’s cadence. Michael could step back once more and watch the man fall to Mendiko arms - to the will of others, leaping to his defense. It had been Jeorg’s path, to retreat and watch the battle from afar; Michael had seen the tears in the old man’s eyes as he whispered his regrets. The peace he had found before the end.
I have paths of my own to draw, now. Paths between me and-
“Halt,” Michael said, his voice a mountain’s whisper that stilled the churning dust upon the road. The world was a skein of glass, exulting in the silent music of his command.
He did not let his gaze waver from the prisoner’s eyes; the man’s hand had frozen with the blade a handspan from Michael’s throat. He lifted his own hand to place it on the man’s cheek, feeling the warmth there, the slight growth of stubble over jaw muscles clenched with fear and determination.
“Be bloodless, wither dry.
End as I unmake you.”
The world converged to a brilliant moment, one which had been prepared for a single word:
“Die.”
There was a blurring, a shifting, an ache that darted through Michael’s chest too quickly for pain. Sound returned to the world in the groans of the wounded prisoners, the clatter as one soldier let his rifle slip from nerveless fingers.
The press of fear from all around returned, but from the Mendiko he felt something more, something that rang from his memories of Jeorg and Leire, of mountaintops in a storm and the river of souls flowing far overhead.
Awe. Michael felt it resonate within him, echoing vast and wide from a hundred hearts. He grit his teeth and turned from it, to the back of a man who was walking quickly towards the airship. His legs sprang into motion, still gripped with Stanza’s golden surety; he caught Antolin within moments.
The marshal looked at him, his hand flicking out in a subtle gesture; the four guards that had shadowed him hung back, watchful. “I will not apologize,” Antolin said quietly.
“Which apology in particular will you deny me?” Michael hissed. “For provoking those men to violence? For leaving me to defend myself? Or is it perhaps for praising my morality moments before you induce me to compromise it?”
Antolin frowned, then ran a thumb slowly across his jawline. “I told you that bonifices in Mendian manifest differently than in Ardalt,” he said. “In Ardalt they constrain them, bend them into thinking that their soul gives them mastery of a task or skill.”
He looked at Michael, his expression unreadable; Michael could feel no emotion past the tight discipline of his soul. “My soul shows me potentialities,” he said. “Not the cold and shifting futures that the auspex sees, but the golden light of human action as it branches from each living moment. I see my men die a thousand times, in a thousand ways - then show them the path that leads clear of it.”
A chill cut through Michael’s anger. “Was that your aim tonight?” he asked. “Saving my life?”
Antolin’s expression softened, his lips turning up in a grim smile. “No,” he said. “I suspect your sight is much the same as mine: for the future just ahead, and no further. You’ll face no true threats to your life tonight, not here.”
“Then why?” Michael rasped, the anger returning. “Just to toy with me? To prove a point?”
The marshal did not answer immediately; he looked back at the cluster of men still gathered around the body. A few heads were turned their way, watching, the pulse of awe tickling Michael’s senses. “You’ve killed before this,” Antolin said. “José, and that soldier just shy of our borders. Perhaps others you didn’t mention. In both cases I imagine they pressed you to your utmost before you yielded to violence.”
No trace of his smile remained. “I say again, that is admirable. Do not mistake my actions tonight for mockery. But - we are at war. Perhaps in the War itself, should things escalate to that degree. I will not ask you to kill where another might suffice, but - eventually, whether to turn the tide of battle or to cement your place within Mendian, there will be a need for you to impress yourself upon the world.”
Antolin nodded towards the soldiers, still pulsing awe. “As you have done today. The potential was there, the same as with the tank. I took it here, while you were in safety, rather than press it upon you later when more lives hung in the balance.”
Michael clenched his fists, then unclenched them slowly. “Was it necessary to do it like this?” he asked. “Ghar’s blood, those were prisoners. Your own codes would damn you for harming them.”
“It was not a whim of mine,” Antolin said. “Every action should accomplish, or it should teach. Both, if possible.” He pursed his lips. “In this case, we’ve learned that Taskin has circulated your name, at least in part, but not your likeness. The prisoners did not react until I spoke.” He sighed, rubbing at his chin again. “Likely a stratagem to prevent affinity formation; you are hardly the only Baumgart in the world, but certainly the only one within Mendian’s forces.”
“Affinity?” Michael muttered, his heart suddenly pounding. In the moment he had not considered it, but the man had known his name, known him as the heart-eater of Safid legend. “He fears his soldiers-”
Michael’s mouth twisted, it felt foul to even speak the words. “He doesn’t want to feed me further. I have to say that in this case, I appreciate his consideration.”
“It’s the intelligent move,” Antolin sighed. “Although a hard line to walk. Saf’s fervor is its strength, you saw that well enough tonight. Their fear of you becomes power, but if they tie it to you personally they would build you into-”
“A monster,” Michael said wryly. “So Saleh tells them just enough that they might find their target if some loose-lipped idiot goes blabbing my name where they can hear it.”
Antolin’s mouth quirked. “Just so,” he chuckled. “But not much more than that. Affinity requires at least some knowledge of who the person is, enough that the representation of you in their minds cleaves true to your reality. Knowing that you’re an Ardan man named Baumgart wouldn’t be enough, by itself.”
There was a pause as both men thought; Antolin broke the silence first. “Tell me,” he said. “When you resolved to act just now-”
“When I killed that man,” Michael said firmly, spitting out each word. “Say it plainly. Some things should not be palatable.”
Antolin nodded. “When you killed him,” he said. “There was a shift in your path, a decision. May I know what it was?”
Michael looked back at the soldiers, now dispersing; he could see the outline of the body still laying on the dirt where it had fallen, brown and twisted.
“Did you know Jeorg?” Michael asked.
Antolin gave him a curious look, then shook his head. “I did not,” he admitted. “Though Leire speaks of him often. An admirable man, in her estimation, albeit a frustrating one at times.”
“He’s the one who began to teach me what it means to have a soul,” Michael said. “But more than that, he taught me what it means to be human. To appreciate your existence and your mind, to know its strength and frailty so that you can live life in its fullness.”
Michael frowned. “But he didn’t live those teachings. He wished that he had, but after Spark - José - I don’t think he felt it right to impose his will upon the world. He didn’t think his judgment was a match for his power, so he retreated from the world and did only what he knew to be right.”
“And you think that was incorrect?” Antolin asked.
“It was human,” Michael shrugged. “But it cost him everything that gained him his soul in the first place. His drive to seek out change, his sense that he should work to right injustice in the world.” He looked at Antolin, narrowing his eyes. “And then one day he killed four men to save my life. He acted without hesitation and regained some of what he had lost, became a man who exercised the force of his will. For a few short days before he died, he lived again.”
Antolin’s brow furrowed, but Michael continued before he could speak.
“I will not make Jeorg’s mistake,” Michael said, his voice dropping low. “He knew as he killed those men that they might have lived if he had chosen differently, years ago. I will not hide from the world, nor shrink away so that others bear burdens in my stead. But neither will I be manipulated into killing for purposes of politics or curiosity.” He leaned towards Antolin, his voice resonating in whisper-quiet echoes from every direction.
“I will walk my own path.”
The two men stood for a moment while dust trickled down from tanks and trucks; all around them men stirred with disquiet at something that had passed just beyond the range of their hearing.
Michael leaned back, looking somewhat abashed, then extended his hand to Antolin. “So thank you,” he said. “But please never do that again.”
Wordlessly, Antolin shook Michael’s hand; Michael met his eyes, nodded, and turned to walk back towards the airship. His eyes lingered on the road, though, on the corpse that lay upon the dirt as if dead for a hundred years. None of the soldiers had disturbed it. Only one man knelt beside the body, staring silently.
Does that make me evil, that I have let it come to this?
Michael left Luc kneeling by the man he had once healed and walked back to the airship, Jeorg’s words ringing in his ears.
Comments
Blah64
Seems awfully silly to agree to go to war, then say 'I will not kill for politics'.
TMarkos
They're both abbreviated in the same manner - should accomplish [something] or it should teach [something]. I just didn't like how it sounded with the repetition.
Benjamin Meyers
“Every action should accomplish, or it should teach. Both, if possible.” When not an infinitive I'm not used to seeing accomplish without an object. "accomplish its end?"
