Soul commander, p.18
Soul Commander, page 18
"Wake up. Please, don’t give up. Not now."
Akai doesn’t move. Raphael sits and crosses his legs. He stares at the ground and tries to keep his thoughts from destroying his composure but they are persistent. His heart broils in anger as he shakes back and forth uncontrollably. His gaze his smudged. He digs his fingers into the ground and scrapes dirt into his fingernails. A sensation resembling a knot in his brain becoming untied precedes a hysterical smile. He laughs as he recounts the situation’s many horrifying angles. the perpetual gleam in his eyes takes a rest. He falls forward to bury his face in the sand. His body shakes from hiccups of laughter. He doesn’t want to be brought to the brink of madness. He just needs rest. He wishes that the creator of the grand galaxy he hails from would allow him to cease to exist, just for a bit. For the next page of his life to just be blank.
..
Raphael, unaware that he’d received his break, falls asleep from mental and emotional exhaustion. He turns his cheek to the ground and escapes his problems. Dreams bring him messages from a past life that refuses to be forgotten. A suit of armor and a long lost friend wait for him in the Arctic. A strong compulsion overwhelms him. He is made aware that he cannot continue without traveling to the Arctic. Then, he sees something he doesn’t understand. A man much too old for mortal life, stands on a torn corner on the absolute edge of space. He remains emotionless while ripples originating from the white canvas of a separate underlying dimension exposed. Raphael doesn’t recognize him. He awakens from his slumber and checks Akai to see if he’d moved. He hadn’t. Deep sorrow returns but his pupils face a drought. The in-dream compulsion hasn’t left him but the existential dread that he thought he expelled during his training invites itself in. He doesn’t want to continue but dying slow in stagnation only offers more time to over analyze. He convinces his heart to let him move and exits the area to find means of transportation. He believes dreams to be calls from the subconscious. He hasn’t been proven wrong yet. He searches amongst a vast amount of structural remains and bodies lacking in sufficient temperature. Visions of annihilation regurgitate his focus. He has to shake free the creeping darkness more often than reasonable. He realized he’d taken for granted the absence of his woes. He finds the underground entrance and settles into the Bird Unit. Several ships with dead pilots and missing purpose wait to serve him in mint condition. Raphael would normally choose the ship most appealing to the eye but he doesn’t appraise. He’s not in the mood. He releases the latch of the door belonging to the one closest to him and starts the engine. He hadn’t taken any piloting courses but Cavlov’s transferred knowledge proves useful. The exit hatch above remains hidden in allowance for Raphael's venture. He leads the sky submarine into emotionally uncharted waters. Misery prefers company but loneliness is an unwanted companion. Loneliness lingers. Raphael stares forward, his point of focus is irrelevant and his pessimism disguises itself as the altered lyrics of his favorite love song. He avoids thoughts of a cloudy day too dampening to smear the makeup of his mind. If he can’t hide his heart behind the drapes of responsibility to strife, the warming embrace of suicide may become more than a temptation. Cavlov hadn’t taken music into account when he had the Ellory ships designed. Even if he had, the universe probably would have the radio playing the very song that’s on in his head. Raphael believes the universe to be a jester, at the wrong moments, who pretends its antagonistic humor is nothing more than coincidental. But he is well aware that coincidences don’t exist. He watches as swarms of ships swim by like schools of fish. they remind him to ensure the collision avoidance system is compassionate. He doesn’t need to press anything. An LED symbol on the bottom left corner of the windshield serves to offer assurance. Raphael remains hunched forward as he flies.Comfortability seems absurd at a time like this. Raphael coasts above the tundra while searching for an obscure structure that he could have visited in his past life. A single thought reminds him how ridiculous it is that he’d follow the contents of a dream as literal and take such a detour. Compulsory thoughts come as antibodies for the negative mindframe and convince Raphael not to leave his path. Cold flakes of confetti warrant his windshield’s self-heating function. He was never a fan of the cold despite his counterpart being a winter fanatic. Anything below sixty-four degrees in insulting in his eyes. He hears a noise resembling the initial collapse of a metal support beam. A warning appears on screen prior to the ship lowering itself to ground level to avoid probable impact. "This isn’t happening right now. This isn’t happening. I know it isn’t" Raphael hyperventilates.
He pinches the skin on the bridge of his nose in frustration. His eyes take a break from reality for a couple of moments. He takes a deep breath and exhales longer than he inhales. Once he gathers the shred of courage necessary for him to continue, he raises his hood and enters the frosty terrain on foot. He opens the trunk which is entitled to the concealment of most vehicular operations, and is forced to climb yet another tier of disappointment. Both fuel cells have self-destructed. Despite his curious nature, he’s apathetic to the cause of malfunction. All he can do is accept the situation for its reality with a certain numbness and begin cushing the snow with his heels. Life seems cruel.
Cavlov pulls one of his ordained commanding officers to the side.
"Keep everyone on track. There's something I need to take care of."
The officer nods and waves th others forward. Cavlov takes off on a detour. A recurring thought continues to prod and interrupt his concentration. He can’t continue marching in delusion without taking care of loose ends. He comes to a house in an intact area of the city that has yet to be evacuated. He knocks gently on the door and hers concerned whispers emanating from inside. Beatrice’s mother looks through the peephole and refuses to answer the door. Their conversation is audible.
“It’s that terrorist. Did you call him here? Answer me.”
"No, I didn’t"
“What’s wrong with you? Are you trying to get your family killed?
"I said I didn’t call him."
The whispers grow quieter and Cavlov can only forge bits and pieces of words from their conversation. Beatrice opens the door.
“Get back-”
Her mother halts in her demand upon catching Cavlov’s stare. Beatrice walks outside and closes the door behind her.
"What are you doing here, Cavlov?"
"I had to see you."
"What's wrong with you? Why did you do all this? You’ve killed so many people. Your face is plastered on every channel"
"It wasn’t me, I swear. I created a clone and I didn’t form his brain correctly"
"Really? That’s your excuse? A clone?"
"Do you still love me?"
"Did you hear anything I just said? You’re a wanted terrorist. A terrorist. I have to be dreaming. This is crazy"
"I need you to trust me. Now, more than ever. Look at me. I didn’t do this. But it was my fault. If I’d just checked over my calculations better, none of this would be happening. I can’t imagine how crazy I must sound to you but I need you to believe me. I’ve never lied to you, you know that" Beatrice slowly becomes convinced that Cavlov’s argument is valid.
"Please, everyone is convinced I’m this horrible criminal. I have no one else to turn to. I need you"
Beatrice turns her head from Cavlov’s enticing stare and tries to make sense of all things considered.
"I can’t," she says.
"Don’t turn your back on me. Not like everyone else. Come with me, baby. Please. We promised to be there for each other, through thick and thin. And things are looking pretty thin right now."
Despite the media’s commentary on recent events, her mother’s opinion and her gut feelings, Beatrice can’t seem to separate the sweet and caring man she once fell intensely in love with from the supposed monster that stands before her. The heart is deceptive.
"Alright, I trust you."
"You won’t regret it baby. Here, get on my back," Cavlov says.
"What?"
"I'm serious. Go ahead," he laughs.
Cavlov bends down and Beatrice, confused, leaps onto his back and holds onto the front of his neck. Cavlov draws a sign alongside a gesture and takes for the skies. This brings immediate shock and fear to Beatrice.
"Wh-You can fly? How are you doing this?"
Cavlov smiles but doesn’t answer. Her hair and clothes billow in the wind. She rests her head onto his back and romanticizes the moment. She’d dreamed of this a few times but she never believed dreams could manifest to this calibur. She sees the birds flock amongst her. She finds it incredible to see things from this perspective. It’s as if life’s hidden mysteries were in plain sight only from a different angle. The moment is overwhelming and she wouldn’t trade it for the world. How easily she forgets the destruction on the ground. Love blinds her as light may during prolonged scrutiny. Black sunshine may prove gorgeous to those willing to ignore the shade. They arrive on the edge of Ironsight meadow’s cliff. A place of memories and a conductor for symphonies of endearment.
"How’d I know we were coming here?"
Cavlov gazes into the very fiber of Beatrice’s being, his soul incandescent enough to cue oblivion. She waits as the center of his infatuation with her heart drumming in suspense. She doesn’t remember anything pertaining to Cavlov being deemed a wanted man. Time and logic have a habit of ceasing when they’re together. She elevates her expectations as memories of dreams circumnavigate her mind. Cavlov grabs her hands and holds them softly in his. He smiles as joy encompasses the world. All of life’s moments have proved temporary but he doesn’t concern himself by overthinking and tallying such things that would usually ruin his fun. He, like his partner, enjoys the moment while it’s present.
"You're the most astoundingly perfect woman that i could have never expected to meet. You are an ocean of brilliance amongst a sea of vibrance. You are the love of my life, the center of my purpose, the elegance of magnificence incarnate. If I’m a broken record, allow me to be a shattered one. I love you more than anything divine hands could ever offer"
Tears tread Beatrice’s eyelashes. One remains dormant while the other trails down her cheek. He regularly has this effect on her.
"As long as you live, you will always be my point of relativity."
"You're such a nerd," she giggles.
"I mean it."
Cavlov’s smile wanes.
"And that's why you have to die."
Cavlov pushes Beatrice off the edge of the cliff, leaving her terrified and shocked. Her past reveals itself before her eyes. Every glamourous moment they’d shared together passes in front of her in a single glimpse. Her heart implodes and her hope for an elation filled future is snatched from her. Her hair flutters in the wind as she watches Cavlov while he stares down at her with a blank expression.The man whom she’d given her soul to was gone. As was she. Cavlov turns his head upon witnessing the impact and makes his way back to his army.
Chapter 20
Raphael traverses the Arctic tundra with his arms folded. He series as his breath leaves his body to attend its own funeral alongside the rest of the evaporate. He's ill-equipped to be in such a position. Frostbite in pneumonia wait patiently for his legs to stop like to vultures circling overhead. Negative thoughts surround him once again. It seems pessimism would sooner conquer him then he it. He's unable to see past the fog of falling ice. The wind that bathes his face is no Ally either. He feels like he's on the moon again but sky holds contempt and the ground is anxious for his demise. He's tempted to lay down and break into tears but that would only give compliment to the soil. His eyes lack perspective. They have become Windows of deserted Glory and an abiding loss of Salvation once sought for. His hope becomes tart and his wonderlust that the past once recognized parishes. the cold can you turn an adaption into a weakness and a bitterless man to bone. Raphael trips over and imperfectly-placed stick in the ground. He bashes his head on the grain of white and speaks curses until all has been said in vain. he picks himself up and wipes the snow from his chest. His fingers worry for their own sake and his nerves turn their back on the world. Numbness and contentment are brothers alike. One persist while the other lays dormant. His lips are cracked and his skin lacks empathy.
"I...Surrender"
He says this just to test the phrase as Nophra did. Gradier doesn’t come to his aid. Raphael's wallows in his own misfortune. Even the last man standing has a Breaking Point. He regrets coming to the Arctic. he regrets letting his allies fall in despair. but that doesn't matter now. hindsight only comes to mock when Foresight misses step. Raphael impresses upon himself the fundamentals of jealousy. if only he was someone else he might have been able to recall the gesture the sages used to create fire. if only he were more like his counterpart in an eidetic sense. Raphael spots for leather silhouette in the distance, a rather Grim looking tree shrouded in the charcoal wisdom of death defiance. Its sleeveless branches sing songs of depression as they whistle in the wind’s halitosis, longing only to see its children again. Raphael sees an acute chance of opportunity that spoils the shadows. if lightning where to put the tree out of its misery, maybe fire would be so courteous as to turn Frost to Fable. his stomach Thunders to remind him that he hasn't scheduled time for nourishment in a while. he fights the urge to let famine control his desires. besides food could not be sought for ages to come. he lifts his pistol, his arm weak and his aim unsteady. the back of the tree pleads its case and awaits judgement. Raphael pulls the trigger without repentance but the empty magazine is unresponsive even though his weapon is bathed in sorcery’s Grace, the empty chamber falls offensive to the Creed of the desperate. Raphael collapses beside the tree and the revisits the time of turmoil that has followed him like the tail of a snake. he screams at his own existence with doubt that his suffering will be pardoned. he thinks his head into his knees and hopes that something, anything, will come and miraculously tempt his demand for comfort. scattered blessings quell the agony of the Star-Crossed and he waits in desperate need of the giving hand’s arrival. thoughts of Distant Memories circumnavigate his mind and a mental Loop that speaks in deja vus invades his privacy. visions of struggle and missed opportunities look themselves in the mirror of his mind and appear what has become of them. the cycle of misdemeanor repeats like a starving scythe and not even Dreams May Come to offer their soothing lullaby to the potluck. Omero visits from his home in the sky and he stretches his hand forward to pull Raphael from the void that has swallowed him. Raphael lifts his weary head and looks at he who has emerged from transformation.
"Why are you here, son? Trying to bring favor to the desolate?"
"I need to find my armor. I can’t do this without it."
"Take my hand. I'll show you the way."
Raphael reaches for Omero’s hand as the weight of the world is lifted from his shoulders. cataclysm seems prolonged for moment. Omero disappears before Raphael can touch his fingers and reality is portrayed in place of speculative Mercy. Raphael rises from his pit of despair certain that Omero is still with him, aiding from beyond perception. suddenly, he doesn't feel like he's trapped in the cold’s homicidal clutches rather he is a conqueror in the midst of endurance. he comes across a river that life in the tundra has made tough and guarded. Raphael looks closely for air traps in motion to discern whether the river had Frozen completely or if the guard was a superficial facade; a defense mechanism to protect the river’s majority from the cruelty of the climate. Raphael, in completely trusting of his eyes’ confidence, places a single foot on the hardened surface and slowly applies pressure. he is secured from undesired consequences. he trusts the surface’s stability with the remainder of his body mass and ambles cautiously across. he slips. his shoes aren't built to Traverse all terrains and are unwilling to compromise to his intentions. he thanks good fortune that he doesn't fall, concerned that impact would expose him to the river’s somber embrace. he stretches his legs forward, one toe at a time like an adolescent sneaking out of a windowless room after curfew. His arrival on the opposite side delivers a sensation of relief. he feels that all stress has left the vicinity until he is reminded that he hasn't quite yet opened the lid of the situational box he's confined within. he can feel the cold prolonging his movements with the stiffening of his joints and the yielding of his motor skills. he dreams of fireplaces and hot showers. he'd even be willing to fly a ship into the core of a neutron star if it meant welcoming temperature. It's moments like these that make hell seem more like a reward than eternal punishment. there, disguised as a silhouette on the horizon, his vision portrays a pyramid erected in obsidian. its appearance beckons him with a scornful dare. it stands at a frightening 96 meters in height and 153 meters serve the length of each side of its base. Raphael half expects a sign to read “abandon hope, all who enter here”. the closer he approaches, the more familiar the destination becomes. a dim light appears in his memory as he roughly recalls marching his comrades in his past life toward the place. he remembers that something awful occurred but can't quite recollect what event transpired. An expatriate thought creeps out of a dark corner in his mind to further unsettle his nerves. If fortune waned in his previous life upon visiting, it maybe insane of him to expect a different result in the second phase of the freshly formed pattern he's fostered for himself. the gravity of his anxiety doesn't slow his march, however. the Journey Back is far more daunting in comparison. besides, the limit of lives death serves rests on his time. the sooner he finds his old armor, the less souls may slip from nature's grasp. Two lives lived and neither have truly belonged to him. maybe it is his destiny to be stalked by calamity. perhaps in better weather, optimism will return. he breaks his amble. he's arrived in front of the door that would lead him out of the temperature tantrum. all the same, it rids him of expectation. Whatever may lie behind its rusted gray hinges could obstruct and assess him for all the will he's worth. his imagination scours the range of infinite possibilities that lead to turmoil and his increasing anxiety bids on the most caution provoking selections. he inhales and exhales deeply. his breath forms a miniature cloud before his face and expels itself from existence. he grabs the handle and pulls. the door doesn't budge. his hands are numb so it's difficult to discern between the amount of force to use. he exerts more effort. the door opens slightly, reluctant to let him proceed. he leans his back against the corner of wall beside the door and pushes the door’s inner side forward. he achieves a sliver of opening just wide enough for him to slip through. he pulls the door closed behind him to keep any retained heat from escaping. the door is much more willing to be closed. the inside is a tad shy of comfort warm but enough for him to keep from discarding his fingers. he cups his hands in front of his mouth and desperately tries to breathe life back into them. He looks around. There is nothing to see as no light pierces the outer walls to shed its glory inward. Fortunately, he came prepared with Cavlov’s innovative night vision lenses. He blinks three times, pauses, and blinks once more to activate the feature. Perception returns to him with hue untainted by the green overlay that prehistoric goggles had. He’s startled. a woman who appears to be in her mid-eighties turns the corridor corner with a cane in hand.
