Прохор Озорнин - On the Wings of Hope - Prose

It happens that we don't know the exact limits of own powers until the moment they are truly needed… and neither did Vasily. Having grabbed him by a wrist, he pulled the child with both of his hands with such a force that he has flown away on a surface and landed two meters behind. But this breakthrough shook Vasily, turning him around, his legs slid off and he fell into icy waters himself.

Time and again, up to the moment when hands and legs finally refused to obey him, he has been fighting for life. Over and over again he was trying to get out on the ice, but forces were fleeing from him – or perhaps this so memorable for his soul and destiny winter has finally decided to take its toll. Here icy water flows into his mouth, forcing to stop breathing. Flashes of light – last messengers of this world – and he is drowning to the bottom of the river…

***

…In that last farewell instant of his life he had no idea of what would happen afterward when the very concept of time will change itself. He had no idea how in a world of immense beauty, which was unimaginable for his tormented and exhausted mortal body, three golden drops – one for each soul that he has saved – would fall one day down on a bowl of great Scales, forgotten by many. How these drops, similar to ones of rain, – so small and so big at the same time! – would touch its surface, and in that instant, one of two bowls will bend and light up with inextinguishable fire. During that instant these three drops, which were seeming too small for many, will overweight all mistakes and pain of his past, lighting up his way. At that moment – a moment of fading link between this world and another one which is being constantly forgotten by those born in this, – Vasily by no means could know this. Mortal beings are rarely granted a privilege to know their future in advance. He didn't know that these drops would become his – absolutely sincerely and disinterestedly coming to the rescue – most significant Justification.

He couldn't think of how shortly after this moment two glowing with warm and soft light figures would stand to right and left from him and lead him into the Great Hall – a divine place where only worthy ones will once be gathered.

Where there is a place for justified and expiated and no place for paying off ones.

19.01.2016

Small nomadic tribe. Hunting and living, living and hunting on each new terrestrial haven. But they were short – for the 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 learned 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 the sword back. The sword describes an arch over opponent’s head 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 his head… this should be the last blow, the opponent will be defeated.

The steel racing into attack… the opponent is turning to face him… The 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 men, 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 the 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 a 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, the 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 traveling by air. The fight began to boil…

His formation bit into enemy ranks. The exposed forward spear… a sword's swing – and rival's shaft fly aside. Forward strike – the enemy falls on the ground.

A blow on his armor from behind. He has reeled, but has resisted – armor has absorbed a blow. The turn towards new danger… a blade, sparkling in morning beams of the sun – and another opponent falls down.

A block. Someone from behind tries to strike at him again. A movement of blade downwards – and swift attack back without turning…

And yet again the blade flits in hands. Again, as countless times before, once the simple legionary, and now the leader of a phalanx – is in a fight, in the glorious battle of great Roman empire. The shouts of battle and clanging of metal once again. Enemies, falling from blows of the blade. His comrades in arms, dying on the battlefield…

A battle once again. Battle of his empire – and his battle also. Glorious fight of the grand empire…

***

The scientist and the researcher, the physicist and the chemist, the writer and the philosopher, a wise man. He was all of them – all of them were living in him. He devoted himself to work – for the queen, for commoners, for all citizens of his own country, for the ones in other. It was his life – his life of studying the world…

***

They were hunted and pursued. They were searched for and eliminated. They were hated – hated by those, who had not the slightest idea before of the right to execute and grant pardon, which they would soon gain. But they have gained this right – received it for murder and persecution of others, have chosen it as a necessary step – the one, leading nowhere. But did they really know about it?