Old Wounds

An eerie silence hung over the temple chambers as the High Priest carried his tomes deeper into the old stone structure. To the old man, such a silence seemed strange, considering the calamity unfolding just outside its walls. He made his way into another room and stopped, clutching the texts tightly to his chest. He could hear the noise now, booming in the distance. They were getting closer, just as he was getting closer to completing his task.

In this room, the age of the temple was painfully obvious, as it was the oldest room in the temple. The old grey walls, stood tall, dark, and looming, in spite of the cracks and old moss that clung to the stone. Scorch marks from a terrible fire reached up the wall like grasping tendrils. The Priest shuddered at the memory of that event. These very books had almost been claimed by the flames of that fire, a fire that the old man could almost still smell in the building’s old walls.

The room he stood in was left in a deep twilight. The only light within the room came from a hole in the ceiling from which a single ray of light came to pierce the darkness, glittering off of the covers of the High Priest’s tomes.

At the back of the room the archive deposit box was waiting, silent and just barely visible through the dark shadows of the room. The archive located deep underground could survive far beyond the temple. Only there would the tomes, those sacred texts, be safe from the dawning calamity.

With great care, he placed the texts within the box and listened as they slid gently downwards into the archive. The High Priest breathed a sigh of relief. No more than a moment later he drew in a sharp breath. An explosion sounded from the entrance and the sounds of battle intensified tenfold. Soon footsteps echoed through the temple, heralded by shouting and the barking of orders.

The High Priest‘s breathing stopped, recognizing one of the voices. Could it be? The footsteps drew closer, louder. They were heavy, echoing across the hard stone floor of the temple. The Priest steadied himself, turning towards the entrance.

As the footsteps drew closer, echoing towards him, the old man relaxed, his mind shifting into a calm place. Regardless of what happened, he was afraid no more. The texts were safe. The teachings of Dosh’Nakku, the god whom he served, would be preserved. Only fate would decide what happened to him now. That was simply the way it was.

The footsteps were even louder now, just outside the room. There was a brief silence as the steps briefly paused before once again resuming. In the doorway appeared a tall, muscular man, wearing an armored military uniform. His face bore many scars, earned from enslavement across many worlds. In the man’s hand was a weapon, a thrice notched blade, a blade that had been the end of many.

“Tassius Ouros Saito. Your return has brought dire ruin to this place,” the High Priest declared.

“High Priest. Do you not recall the destruction that the Rim Warlords brought upon us? What I bring is just and fair compared to the darkness they wrought upon us,” Tassius replied, threatening the Priest with his blade.

“I do indeed remember Tassius. I remember it all. But what you bring is not justice. It is slaughter.”

“You don’t remember it like I do,” Tassius cried. “The Rim Warlords came to this place when I was a mere boy. They killed everyone around me, but I was spared and also marked. No one cared for me after that day. Everyone here refused me, thinking that I was an enemy. A spy.”

“Don’t let injustices dealt to you justify your insidious murders,” the High Priest retorted.

“You were the only one who cared,” Tassius continued. “You took me in. Tried to raise me to be your successor. Yet not even you could save me when the Rim Warlords attacked again.”

The High Priest nodded, closing his eyes. He had many regrets about that day. He had committed many sins that day. Sins that now he would soon pay for.

“You let them burn your temple and steal me away. I cried to you for help and you did nothing!”

“The texts needed to be saved. My duty as always was to Dosh’Nakku, first and foremost. Everything else was secondary,” the High Priest replied, his voice as soft as falling snow.

“Your mistake is the reason I stand here today, old man. I was made into a slave, beaten and lashed every time I even stopped to rest. Even now I bear the physical scars of that torture,” Tassius roared, gesturing to the scars on his face.

There were thirteen of them, each given to Tassius during ruthless torture sessions after each failed escape.

“Your enslavement does not justify the devastation you bring upon this world, Tassius.”

Tassius snarled, starting to lose his patience with the old man. His mind battled itself within his skull, debating whether or not to end the existence of the High Priest.

“After I escaped my enslavement, I swore that the Rim Warlords would be annihilated. I gathered together what forces I could and drove them to victory, carving out my own place among the stars.”

“I shudder to imagine what you would do with the galaxy if your actions here are anything to go by.”

Tassius growled and swung with his blade. It struck only air. He had meant to miss but the next time he wouldn’t.

“Only a single thread holds me back from ending your life, old man. I am Warlord Tassius Saito, one of the most powerful of all the galactic warlords. Don’t think I won’t hesitate to destroy you.”

“But why this slaughter? Why burn this world?”

Tassius sighed.

“This world represents all the evils of my past. All the terrible suffering I’ve ever endured. The only way I can destroy that past is by destroying everything that stands here and everyone who ever wronged me. First, it shall start here and soon my vengeance will come to the Rim Warlords.”

“Many people here are innocent of the crimes done against you, Tassius. Destroying them will only further haunt you,” the High Priest warned.

Tassius snarled, extending his blade towards the old man’s throat.

“I’m giving you one chance, old man. One chance to repent the sins of your past. Tell me, on the night I was taken, would you have chosen to save me or those accursed tomes. Admit to me, that I have more value than a pile of dusty old tomes.”

Tension hung in the air as Tassius awaited his response. Inside he was praying for his desired outcome. Praying that he wouldn’t have to strike with the blade. The High Priest responded quickly, without remorse nor regret.

“Given the same circumstances, I would have made exactly the same choices. I wonder, Tassius, if you would think the same about this day.”

Tassius gave a cry of rage, as anger consumed every part of him. He reared back his blade and with a single swift stroke, sent the High Priest to his death. The Warlord’s heart pounded in his chest and his breathing came heavily as he glanced at the body of the one person who had shown care in his past. The person whose blood now stained his sword, and his soul.

In a handful of moments, the weight of his actions, at last, began to dawn on him. The High Priest’s final words still lingered in his mind. Tassius knelt by the old man’s body. If only he had repented. Then perhaps he could’ve been given a chance to continue his life. A tear began to slip from the Warlord’s eye as he contemplated the situation. He had accomplished what he had come here to do. Any living remnant of his past suffering upon this world had been slain. Yet, the memories still lingered.

“If only you had cared!” Tassius howled at the body on the ground. “Then I wouldn’t have had to do this.”

With that, Tassius rose to his feet and sheathed his thrice notched, blood-stained blade. In much the same manner as he had entered the temple, Tassius left, stepping out of the old stone walls and meeting the landscape of his homeworld. All around the temple, smoke billowed from the burning city below. The sounds of battle by now had all but stopped for no one was yet alive to oppose Tassius and his armies.

The air around him, held a dead eerie silence as the setting sun, glowing a deep red began to sink below the mountainous horizon. Around him the wind howled, carrying the whispers of the dead. Tassius glanced back at the old temple, burnt out and devoid of life.

When he had entered that temple, he had thought he would leave it free of his past phantoms. He thought he would leave it feeling a sense of relief. Yet what he felt now was far from relief. The ghosts of the dead haunted his skull, plaguing his thoughts. Images of the destruction, the dead, filled his mind and he could find no relief or salvation. Everything he had done here, everything that this place represented to him, lingered. Trapped within his skull, the hauntings of his past and his actions here today would remain, to stalk his every move.