Prokhor Ozornin - On the Wings of Hope - Prose

I stood nearby and started reading phrases taken out from some ancient doctrine – their original meaning got was lost in the depths of centuries very long time ago, but they still sounded very well … I would even say they sounded quite magically.

After a few minutes I sharply hitched my head up and rolled up my eyes, having upraised up own hands. Continuing my passes and uterine bawling out, I started bypassing my … client ... around.

Soon, soon … several more minutes … to lull vigilance … to force him to lost himself …

Secretly taken knife I reliably hide in a side pocket.

Suddenly, without opening his eyes, the man said : “Well … and why is that there is still nothing happening ? No illuminations … sort of enchanting fireworks … only some silly mantras from Bkhagavat-Geeta, forgotten by all … to tell the truth, I am already starting to be disappointed in you … mister … magician.”

He said the last word so frankly mockingly that I almost was distracted from the process of mantra-speaking.

- Be quiet ! You will break the ritual ! – I almost shouted.

- And it seems to me that you have already broken it, mister … magician. Broken very long ago … you and all your offsprings.

Something evil, something terrifying cut through the voice of this person, and all of a sudden I noticed with dread that mentioned ill-starred smile starts blurring on his face once again …

Now, now or never, while I am still having a chance ! I snatched out a knife, and have almost jumped on that mysterious stranger (who have obviously understood all falseness of my game), but …

- Fool ! Pity fool ! Have you not yet understood of who is standing before you ?!

Suddenly outlines of stanger’s figure began changing … it started growing more and more … and during that moment something with extreme force struck me sideways and flung away, depriving of hope and salvation.

Already fainting, I managed to behold my transformed stranger – and the horror, wild, eternal, never-ending dread of understanding extinguished its last bits …

* * *

Am I dead or alive ? Was reincarnated and destructed ? I don’t know…

Everything that I remembered – were sticky, viscous, become infinite instants of horror, fear and pain.

All I could not forget were words – words, with peals of thunder and stale ashes striking me in the face and ears …

- You have ruined my deed, pity fools ! They … these creatures calling themselves reasonable people, you must have made them helpless before my false prophets … you must have weaken their reason, their feeling of reality … you should lead them in the other imagined virtual world, invented by me …

You didn’t make it ! Instead, you became sort of city clowns so that even the smallest of these creatures gradually started laughing at you and mocking you! Were you really so blind that you didn’t see it, having sunk in your thirst of wealth ? Have you all, my called ones, become so blind ?!

And now … now ! – it seemed that my consciousness won’t sustain the anger which has been poured into these words and will forever leave my now useless body, - my false prophets cannot afflict them ! They are unable to confuse their minds, they can’t distort His word ! These beings are simply mocking you !

F-f-o-o-o-o-l-l-l-l !

But now you are mine – forever mine … until His warriors won’t invade my kingdom … All of you are forever mine! M-m-m-i-i-i-n-n-n-e-e-e !

Pain, never-ending, unstoppable stream of pain have fallen down on me like a stone bulk, killing the last remains of hope and taking the life away.

The last thing I remember, before the remnants of my consciousness were burned out by this fire of tortures, was the long, terrible, almost never-ending falling in the Lowest Layers of this very … Astral world.

18.09.2012

Small nomadic tribe. Hunting and living, living and hunting on each new terrestrial haven. But they were short – for vastness of steppes awaited them, they were short – for battles were inevitable.

Battles of equestrian orders. A lethal enemy’s weapon - long bent sticks, firing killing needles. His companions died every day … he learnt to get used to it, he had to. In peaceful times the tribe expanded and spread again – ready for new battles, new life and new victories.

This was his life. In this world and in this time.

* * *

Turning to the opponent. Double swing of a sword in the right hand. A strike - and flatwise blow on the armor sideways. Moving sword back. The sword describes an arch over a head of the opponent and again strikes in another side. Now the blade starts moving to the ground … both hands take it – and another blow on the plates, closing a shoulder on the right hand.

On the left. Right. Left. Right.

An arch again. Again the sword is turned in hands and flies into attack … another blow. Continuing to shower rival with strikes, he moved sideways. Some more steps and he has appeared behind the back. A blade, brought by two hands over a head … this should be the last blow, opponent will be defeated.

The steel racing into attack … the opponent is turning to face him… Clanging of clashed steel. His strike has been beaten off. The one he battled was not the weakling at all. A series of successful blows – is everything he has managed to make in this duel. There will be no easy victory – but a long and daring fight instead, a battle which he has thirsted with all his heart for a long time – a battle of worthy ones. It will be the battle of worthy – and let the strongest prevail !

One step back. The foot set back aside for stability. Clanging of steel tools which have met in their dance – now it’s his turn. A sharp withdrawal of a blade downwards – opponent’s sword slides off the block. Now a blade’s turn in a bottom. The blade has flushed, describing a circle in the air, - a blow. Opponent’s plate armor has absorbed the major portion of blow again – he resisted.

Now a tap of a sword for repeated blow … he had no time left. His flatwise blow on an armor has not shaken the contender, and that has given him time. Now he has to resist rival’s blow … his sword was describing an arch for another blow … but it was too late to use it as a block.

A hit. Stars in his eyes. The blow of the opponent has been made directly between the plates, covering a shoulder, and a helmet. A dangerous one, also demanding high skill, to lift a blade highly - and fair time for a swing.

Blow. Block. Blow. Block. Clanging steel, which has met in its favorite dance. Two flitting blades.

Two man, breathing heavily under heavy armor, enclosing their bodies. Two warriors, who have met each other in battle. Two knights, fighting for a title of the champion of tournament - fighting for sighs of beautiful ladies and admiration of commoners. Battling, battling as if all their life goals and all hopes have been put into this battle …

And let the strongest prevail !

* * *

The centurion’s order is clear. His phalanx along with others will pass in a wedge through the enemy - pass, sweeping steel-clad infantry and crushing the marksmen, positioned on a hill. It will be glorious fight - yes, glorious fight. They will prevail, they will win a victory in this battle for the emperor. Legionaries of Rome know no defeats.

Quickly given orders. Movement in the ranks of contradictory armies. Minute, another, third one. Phalanxes preparing for battle. It will be a great battle…

Two iron walls, bristling with swords and spears, which have moved towards each other. The fighting shouts, carried by a wind across the field of battle. The loud orders of commanders travelling by air. Fight began to boil …