An Enslaved Masslation
06-11-2006, 18:02
An old, balding man sat in a small hovel of a retirement home, his fingers crackling and his bones as thin as spring ice, his flabby exterior hidden beneath a paunch sweater and his gut of a stomach was visible as he laid in his wheelchair, his eyes barely visible beneath the thick canopies of the eyelids present upon his face. He sighed, as a group of children sat down by his feet, followed by a tall and lean woman, who smiled and kissed the old man softly on the forehead. “Hi dad.” She said, almost in a whisper, as the old man nodded, fully aware of his surroundings, his grandchildren still looking at him with boredom. He chuckled.
“How are my favourite grandchildren in the whole world?” He asked, arms outstretched, as his grandchildren half-heartedly gave him a hug, to which he sadly sighed. Before letting his hairy, old man hands let go, he grasped them once more lovingly, and then they sat down, to which he looked at them one by one, though he still looked as if he was blind and his eyelids were too large for his eyes. “How are things?” He asked, to no reply.
“I have a history term paper due on Thursday, though I don’t know what to write about.” The oldest boy said, as the other children looked at him, shrugging. The Grandfather chuckled.
“I know a story.” The Grandfather said, his hands clenched into a soft fist, his stomach gurgling as he lifted a small bottle of water and drank small gulps of it, putting it back down on the floor beside his wheelchair. “It’s a true story.” He said eagerly.
“What’s it about?” His eldest grandson asked.
“It’s about the Ram and the Bear.” He continued.
...
Our story begins as most stories do – with a young, fresh child, a boy who is no more than seven years old, looking at the broken frame of his father, crying his tears as flame crackled fingers upon the white silk sheets showed death. The nurses silently cried in the hospital, the boy in his stark, crisp uniform tearing down streaks of blue sorrow. He was a lonely boy, a boy without friends, and he was certain that he would avenge his father, his greatest friend and only friend.
But who was culprit? There were many that wanted him dead, that wanted his father dead, for his father was in the midst of a deathly conflict, a conflict that placed the independence of men in jeopardy. But things happen, and in his murder, this boy took the mantle of war onto his own hands, onto his shoulders. And so he spoke, with a feverish qualm, “By my blood I shall spill to feed the taste of war. By my young blood comes the sanctity and life of anew.”
For he was a child of the Sentinels, an enforcer of destruction. Though this was long ago, and his people died and crumbled, his beautiful capital crushed under the iron heel of a stone monster, a monster who had no problems with the use of chemical technology, a monster who dared to gas entire cities to reach one. And so the proud boy, executed at the age of nine for his crimes against a false crown, became the greatest weapon. He became a symbol.
The Enslaved rose, and from the treaty of Masslation the Fifth, the Sentinels prepared.
By pride we fight, by country we defend, by god we kill. The rifle flies high for the bloodshed that comes.
“How are my favourite grandchildren in the whole world?” He asked, arms outstretched, as his grandchildren half-heartedly gave him a hug, to which he sadly sighed. Before letting his hairy, old man hands let go, he grasped them once more lovingly, and then they sat down, to which he looked at them one by one, though he still looked as if he was blind and his eyelids were too large for his eyes. “How are things?” He asked, to no reply.
“I have a history term paper due on Thursday, though I don’t know what to write about.” The oldest boy said, as the other children looked at him, shrugging. The Grandfather chuckled.
“I know a story.” The Grandfather said, his hands clenched into a soft fist, his stomach gurgling as he lifted a small bottle of water and drank small gulps of it, putting it back down on the floor beside his wheelchair. “It’s a true story.” He said eagerly.
“What’s it about?” His eldest grandson asked.
“It’s about the Ram and the Bear.” He continued.
...
Our story begins as most stories do – with a young, fresh child, a boy who is no more than seven years old, looking at the broken frame of his father, crying his tears as flame crackled fingers upon the white silk sheets showed death. The nurses silently cried in the hospital, the boy in his stark, crisp uniform tearing down streaks of blue sorrow. He was a lonely boy, a boy without friends, and he was certain that he would avenge his father, his greatest friend and only friend.
But who was culprit? There were many that wanted him dead, that wanted his father dead, for his father was in the midst of a deathly conflict, a conflict that placed the independence of men in jeopardy. But things happen, and in his murder, this boy took the mantle of war onto his own hands, onto his shoulders. And so he spoke, with a feverish qualm, “By my blood I shall spill to feed the taste of war. By my young blood comes the sanctity and life of anew.”
For he was a child of the Sentinels, an enforcer of destruction. Though this was long ago, and his people died and crumbled, his beautiful capital crushed under the iron heel of a stone monster, a monster who had no problems with the use of chemical technology, a monster who dared to gas entire cities to reach one. And so the proud boy, executed at the age of nine for his crimes against a false crown, became the greatest weapon. He became a symbol.
The Enslaved rose, and from the treaty of Masslation the Fifth, the Sentinels prepared.
By pride we fight, by country we defend, by god we kill. The rifle flies high for the bloodshed that comes.