Death Throes of an Age (2023)

    

    Flavius shuffled slowly into the mausoleum, inhaling the ancient dust as he and his retinue kicked it up. Solemnly, he approached the sarcophagus, which lay toppled on its side. The stone was riveted with cracks and chunks missing, obscuring the once intricate sculpting it had been adorned with. The most prominent fissure came up from the bottom corner, striking across the carved face of the hero whose likeness represented the corpse within, and curved down his body and into the other side. “Gaze upon your forebearer for the last time,” Flavius said. “We have failed him in life, so we deserve our death.”

***

Flavius sighed, kneeling down. His helmet, pitted and faded, crest missing hairs, lay on top of the bust, vines creeping around it. He lifted the battleworn helm, trying to summon his strength. It was heavier than normal, and as he placed it onto his own head, he looked into the splintered mirror in front of him. The harder he attempted to steel himself, the more weighed down he felt. His eyes wearily closed, one after another.

***

Flavius glared at the young man in front of him, who was drenched in sweat and tears. The man was soft of spirit, fragile of body, and passive of mind. His eyes pleaded with Flavius to release him from his training; he did not feel fit to be a warrior. And that, he maybe was not. For all the man’s weakness, Flavius could not blame him. Had he not been pampered and placated with excess, born into decadence, comfort, and security, he might’ve been a man Flavius would be proud to call a brother-in-arms. And yet, that dormant fire might still be lit in the man’s heart, Flavius thought. Flavius would not let the man go from the mustering grounds, resolute to carve out his potential.

***

Flavius shielded his eyes from the smoke, fires burning up and down the street. As he turned away, he noticed a figure curled amongst the rubble, rocking back and forth. It was the recruit. Flavius walked over to him with disdain. “Refusing to fight any longer is your choice. That will not stop their advance. Escape from them is impossible; face them, or let them take you.”

***

Flavius rolled out of his cot, the sounds of shattering stone and snapping wood ringing in his ears. He frantically searched for his wargear. In his fear and confusion, he ran out to the balcony, where his men sprinted to and fro. One of his great bastion weapons had been shattered, and iron fragments of detonated shells lay scattered amongst the debris of the fortress and viscera of its defenders. The rocks they had been using for ammunition surrounded him, knocked from their containers. He looked up into the pink sky, before gazing ahead into the black clouds that were rolling in from the east, approaching the edge of the city.

***

Flavius shuffled through the scouting reports mindlessly. He didn’t need to read them. He already knew what they were up against. He also knew their foe was insurmountable, inevitable, and no amount of intelligence was going to change that. He glanced upward, towards the faces of the sculptures around the courtyard. The cloaked women they represented seemed to peer back at him somberly, the kind of wistful look a mother would give her hopelessly sick child.  

***

Flavius pulled hard at the stuck winch, unable to make it budge. The bolt thrower had jammed again. The weapons weren’t cared for like they used to be. By now, the element of surprise had passed, and what extra damage they could’ve done to the enemy was minimized. Flavius couldn’t help but laugh to the crewman next to him. It wasn’t the same kind of laugh he’d normally have in this situation, a laugh normally borne from frustration. It was of despairing denial, an absurd refusal of reality.

***

Flavius listened to the trumpeteers playing their beautiful war chorus, tears running down his face with every high note. Ringing amongst the heat of battle, despite its recognizable harmony, it sounded a little strange. He took a step back from the melee, remembering the recruit. Flavius knew the man was assimilated now; he saw the man’s twisted face amongst the opposing throng. He told him hiding from them would not save him. His words were vindicated, though he was not happy to be right. 

***

Flavius stared pensively into the bleak night, hands pressed against the railing. One of the soldiers groggily got out from his bedding, surprised to see Flavius awake at this hour. The soldier glanced at a desk near the opening, noticing a small piece of parchment and a pen. “Throw it into the fire,” Flavius commanded. “It is a lament for our weakness, and so it will burn with us.”

***

Flavius bitterly took in the sound of the warhorns, the cascade of noise weaker than it should be; even the trumpeteers were taking casualties. The enemy was nowhere to be seen. He knew better than to think they had retreated, though. They were always close. If they did not advance in the open, then they were tucked in the shadows, waiting to prey upon any mistake.

***

Flavius jostled himself awake, and pulled himself off the crumbling masonry. He walked up to the ledge of the temple steps, peering into the stormy clouds that hovered over the shattered city. The sentry started over to see the commotion, finding Flavius grieving. The destruction mortified him, and he fell to his hands with a cry. 

***

Flavius grinned with anticipation, bracing against his shield. The crack of lightning illuminated the horrors that approached him, in all their grotesqueness. Twisted amalgamations of metal machine and living flesh, the skin and organs of people robbed of their souls and meshed with steel, plastic, silicone, and copper. Flavius and his men charged the monstrosities, in a mood for justified revenge. As he smote foe after foe, he pictured the bodies of the warriors that had fought and died under his command. They ceased to be individual people in his mind, blended into a singular idea, the righteous fire that fueled his spear hand. 

***

Flavius angrily cursed at the constables. They had fallen for the sorcery of the enemy long ago; they were a part of the rampant decay which had weakened the city so and invited malevolence into its gates. They claimed to struggle was only to bring pain and poison, and to oppose the enemy was to cede morality. Flavius and his men would rather flee from the city and leap into the abyss than voluntarily give in to darkness, as the constables preached. 

***

Flavius awoke the civilians. The enemy had seized the bridge, and now were heading for the building that housed them, crossing the river in strength. Few soldiers remained to form a bulwark against the oncoming tide. There was nowhere for the unarmed to run, and they stirred out of their slumber, scared and confused. Flavius had no choice but to lead the men down to fight, however outnumbered they were. Flavius told the civilians there was no protecting them anymore, and if they could find the courage and strength, to pick up stones and throw them onto the heads of the enemy. Flavius and his men quickly departed down the stairs, and the civilians glanced about, some moving for the loose rocks, no longer content to cower and leave their fate in the hands of others. Indignant anger drove them to action.

***

Flavius blew into the trumpet, taken from the fallen trumpeteer who lay by his feet. He had not the talent for instruments, so it did not sound like it should. Yet, he felt as though someone should be playing a tune as the city drew its final breath. He watched as through the smoke, the horde of aberrations approached him. He glanced behind him, his few remaining warriors meeting his gaze, knowing there was nowhere to run. The last tide was finally upon them. 

***

Flavius dropped his spear, surrounded by vanquished abominations. He no longer had the strength to keep on, barely able to keep on his feet as he tottered back and forth. The shattered bodies of his comrades laid strewn amongst fallen foes, none save him surviving their onslaught. He heard footsteps behind him, and turned to meet a boy. He stared into the boy's eyes, and the boy held out a paper. It was a drawing of Flavius and his men making their defiant last stand. Flavius studied it, before turning his head skyward. The oppressive dark miasma had nearly overtaken the last of the light sky, just a little shining on the edge of the city which he and the boy stood upon. He looked back at the paper, and then the boy. “Burn it,” he whispered, pointing to a smoldering fire as the black clouds overtook the sun and the whirring of mechanical bodies approached them.