literature

Silus oneshot, random.

Deviation Actions

leonkennedyisgod's avatar
Published:
766 Views

Literature Text

He may have been a boy, but his legs pumped fast and his small but sturdy frame carried him past the men in red, past the burning huts and the screams of the villagers.  Boys could run like the wind, it was something everyone knew and accepted, and had he ran straight north, he and his sturdy frame could have disappeared into the night, sole survivors of an ambush, of a genocide, but stupidity or some sense of obligation carried him instead to the nearest fallen tribal warrior, caused him to jerk the strange, crude sword from his uncle's bloody chest, caused him to find a nearby invader and head for the legs.

The child was fighting amid tears, and they were surprisingly not tears of sorrow for his already-slain mother, or his many, many brothers and sisters.  He was the oldest and still too young to see death like this, but he had been given no choice.  It was the inky-black haired boy who had urged his father, the chief, to strengthen the troops, give them better arms than their thin fabric cloaks and shoddy shields and bows.  It wasn't the way of the tribe, he'd been told since he could remember.  To keep the world out wasn't their way.  Upon hearing that the red army marched, the calm older man had said, "Let them come."

"But sir, they sent a messenger.  They intend no peaceful offer.  They want our territory."

"Then we'll make no peaceful offer."

"Father!" Son had barked in his almost condescending tone.  "They outnumber and outarm us!"

"You can't keep the world out forever," the older man said, his kind green eyes masked by something that looked like regret, or perhaps even sorrow.  His long and wavy black hair, which touched his waist, was tucked behind his ears and ran down his back.  The young boy, who had since grown into a man, would always remember his father this way, sitting in his simple chair, in his simple robes, his prominent nose and profile turned in the direction of the fat orange sun which sank across the flat, simple and endless landscape. As if to combat the simplicity in which the world and its people bedecked themselves in, the sky took on majestic, breathtaking colors, golds and reds and purples, colors that the boy would forever try to imitate when he bedecked himself.

"Your orders, my lord."  The squire looked nervously from chief to son.  

"Send out the soldiers."  Now he stood slowly, the look of defeat obvious to all who stood nearby.  "I may not send you to your death, but death awaits.  No matter where we go.  It will always be, kill or be killed."  As though he just noticed the small, olive-skinned and sour-faced child who hung on his every word, the simple yet regal man turned and stared down at him.  Now the father spoke, slowly, thoughtfully.

"These men who are coming."

"Yes."

"I know what they believe.  Have you heard word of any of their tales?"

Slowly, the young man shook his head, fearing the still-far off army.  Hearing their drum beats.  Though it wasn't befitting a chief to kneel to comfort his son, the former did put a hand on the latter's shoulder.   "They believe in a red god, a vengeful creator who sends his successor to retake the earth.  What do you know of gods?"

The boy was neglectful of all of his studies, except the scant few swordfighting lessons he received.  His complexion paled and he tentatively said, "Nothing, sir."

"Then I will tell you."  There was a long pause.  Then, "There is only one god."

"The red tribes god?"

"No.  There is no such god.  Only one god, and his name is death.  And do you know what we say to him?"

Now too confused, stressed, and terrified for words, pale boy shook his head miserably.

"We say, 'not today.'"  With that, the chief seemed to forget his son existed again, and his eyes glazed underneath the majesty of the sunset.  His last sunset.  

"Father," the boy now said with a hint of urgency, and the older man didn't turn from his intent gazing. "What can I do?"

"Your best," was the response.  

His best was currently not good enough, for after severely wounding the legs of several red soldiers, he found himself snatched up and dragged toward what looked like a pencart.  A pen cart led by Brahmin, in its cart many other tired, dirty, pleading children from his tribe.  The way of the barbarians, he thought, and the child kicked and screamed, stabbing the adult who dragged him.  A laugh sounded from nearby, and the world seemed to slow when the mustang and rider approached, the beast at a threatening trot, the man sitting high in the saddle.

These mustangs were nearly extinct thanks to their inability to find food in the wastes, plus the vast array of plains predators, but apparently the red tribe had captured some, for one of their generals now sat atop one.  It, like the Brahmin, had two heads, which now neighed and stared down the boy who'd just stabbed a full grown man in the leg.

"With those long beautiful locks, child, you'd pass for a little girl.  Yet you just crippled one of my men."  The man atop the horse had a brilliant smile, coal black hair--though it was cropped short--and beautiful black, red, and gold riding armor.  His voice, though soothing, had a hollow note to it, a note that would chill the boy to the bone for years to come, years and years, well into his manhood.  Now the warrior who had his leg torn open fell to the ground, and the young child saw it as an opportunity to run again, until the man atop the mustang withdrew something.  His smile faded, his eyebrows raised as he pointed the metal at the boy.

"I can tell you don't even know what this is, do you?" he asked on seeing the confused, guarded look.  "Your tribe is truly primitive.  I like that.  Makes you even more useful to me."  When the boy took a step away, tentatively considering running again, staring at the odd thing which was pointed at him, the man in the saddle squeezed his metal toy.  Fire blasted from the barrel, and the dust bit at the child's feet.  He jumped, terrified, and fell back.  Now Caesar lowered the gun.

"You fight, I like that, you fight more than the adults in your tribe.  You can fight here and die today, or you can fight for me and live today.  What do you choose?"

What do we say to Death? Not today.

Silus's eyes opened suddenly, though he didn't start; instead, his piercing greens stared up at the stars, and he paused in realization that he was sleeping outside, on the ground.  An unreadable look was on his sour face, and the Centurion slowly recovered from the dream--an actual memory, recounted detail for detail--allowing himself to listen to the sounds of the crackling fire, the soft whisper of slave's voices, the murmur and occasional curse or snort of laughter from his men.  It was late into the night, but they were returning to the Fort on a successful mission.  They had another two days at least before they could go home, and though the Centurion had a tent ready to unfold, he opted to sleep under the stars simply to unwind.  

Now he sat up in one fluid yet hesitant motion, the thick red blankets falling to his bare waist as he looked around the large camp.  Many were asleep, many still awake and guarding the area, or else reflecting on the successful battle.  There were prisoners of war, new slaves for the pens captured by Silus and his men and fitted with collars.  Mongrels, looking like sly demons, slunk around the perimeters of the camp and sniffed the chilly night air with hints of curiosity.  

The image of his father's profile still lingered in Silus's head, and as he tried to will it away, he heard Caesar's younger voice saying to him conversationally while Silus had ridden with him on his horse out of the fiery town, where a beaten up pre-War sign identified the once-city, "Augustus was your home.  Will you miss it?"

Silus shivered despite being well-blanketed, and his stirring affected Nicole, who slept under the same bedroll.  Earlier she hadn't objected to his seemingly impulsive request to lay on the ground instead of in a warm and cozy tent, but Silus had his own strange way of detoxing after taxing battles, and not seeing any Mars in the sky comforted him.  Not wanting to wake her further, he gingerly lay back down and stared unblinkingly at the stars again.  The damage was very nearly done, for the young woman muttered something in her sleep and then pressed her forehead to his shoulder.  Normally, the stoic warrior would have ignored the gesture and fallen to sleep quickly, but at the moment he didn't want to fall asleep, and he felt like both a little lost boy and an old, old man.  Clutching the female to him and pulling her closer to his chest, feeling her snuggle toward him happily (who didn't cherish the rare decent Silus moment?) and fall back into slumber, Silus very nearly glared at the night sky as he held onto her for dear life.

He'd done his best.  What more was there to do?
edit: FFFF PREVIEW PIC FOUND HERE [link]

MADE BY THE AWESOME AS USUAL :iconmissusmarler:



LOL IT'S BEEN SO LONG SINCE I WROTE ANYTHING

I ALMOST POSTED THIS AS A JOURNAL

THEN I WAS LIKE HEY WAIT A MINUTE

Congratulations if you know what novel I ripped off of in this. If not, that's okay. I was unlearned too.

Nicole belongs to Silus :iconmissusmarler:

:icontrollfaceplz:
© 2011 - 2024 leonkennedyisgod
Comments5
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
NTLDR's avatar
Number 1, TWO HEADED MUSTANGS. 8UUUUUU

Number 2, brilliant!! Good look into what shaped Silus into what he is, even before the Legion came around, and why even as an indomitable soldier, he knows better than to unwittingly throw his life away. "What do we say to Death? Not today."