Ancient Times Part 2


By Jacen

Drix stood on the battlefield, his sword hanging down in one hand, not quite believing that the battle was over. It’d been over for ten years, and for ten years he’d had to live with the nightmares, with the dreams of the battle and the casualties that’d been taken. It was as if the Crisis was still haunting him, still trying to reach out to the Cetra and infect them. He recalled many occasions when he’d wake up in the night, a cold sweat running down his brow and fear still rushing through his veins. He’d dream of warriors being struck down, of being and killed in horrible, terrifying ways. Limbs ripped off, bodies burned by acid and flame, brains and nerves electrocuted from lightning, all caused by the Crisis during its reign of darkness on the Planet. He couldn’t stand it any longer, and felt that if he ended his mortality, perhaps he’d get some peace. Perhaps the Crisis would no longer be able to haunt him.

He lifted his sword and placed it, point up, below his chest. He said a few prayers to the Cetra god of Life and Death, “Ktez,” and prepared to fall upon his sword.

“Drix!” he heard someone shout.

He nearly fell over in surprise, but managed to stop himself. No point in doing this now if someone was watching. He looked for the source of the voice, and was surprised when the other five survivors from Iut Nutrá came into his view directly behind him, about fifty feet away.

“Nukt?” he asked. (“What?”)

“U nukt yeh, Drix?” they retorted. (“What are you doing, Drix?”)

Drix stepped back and without realizing it, dropped his sword. Surely they understood, didn’t they?

“No, Drix, u setez otré,” one said, stepping forward; his name was Myuté. (“No, Drix, you cannot do this.”)

Drix’s face reddened with anger. They didn’t understand. How could they? Only he could, and if he wanted them to understand, he’d have to tell them.

He told them of his nightmares, of the terrible dreams he had every time he closed his eyes. He told him this was his last resort; he had to stop those horrible visions from invading his mind! He’d slept no more than a couple hours at a time since the battle and felt his grip on sanity begin to loosen. Fighting them didn’t help, it only made things worse, caused the nightmares to come back ever stronger. For the love of “Kuzma Diut,” Cetra’s most sacred god, the god of the Universe, couldn’t they understand that?

He finished after a half hour of near-hysterics and sat upon the ground weeping uncontrollably. Oh, why did things have to be like this? Why couldn’t everything be simple?

His former comrades slowly walked forward and sat all around him and embraced him, letting him weep. They’d all had the nightmares too, but Drix’s suffering was beyond what they endured. Still, they knew what must be done. Soon after Iut Nutrá, they’d all had the same problems, and eventually, a priest had shown them what they had to do. They stood back up and pulled Drix up with them. They handed him his sword and said in unison, “Zeh túra cteh a.” (“Come with us.”)

He nodded and walked them for a long time, on a journey he was thankful his friends took him on. They walked for many days and many nights, not resting more than a few hours at a time. The nights were pure hell for Drix. The nightmares were at their strongest and he tried killing himself again, but was stopped and once again comforted by his comrades-in-arms. After two months of walking, the six finally arrived at Yut Caht Ora. His friends instructed Drix to offer a sacrifice to Kuzma Diut. They said to offer his sword, which had shed the blood of the Crisis and was thus cursed by it. Drix did as he was told, praying to Kuzma Diut to cleanse and bless the sword, to purify it and take mercy upon him. As he did so, a white aura began to surround his kneeling form, as well as his sword, stuck in the ground now. His praying intensified and as it did, the aura got stronger, until it split into two distinct auras. One surrounded him, the other surrounded his sword. The aura grew brighter and brighter until neither Drix, nor his sword, could be seen. His comrades stood a good distance away when this occurred; it hadn’t happened to them and they had no clue what this was. Suddenly, the aura died out, revealing Drix, still kneeling, but not his sword. It’s said that the Planet took his sword down below the surface, infusing it with the slumbering Ultimate WEAPON, “Ota Diuté.”

For many years afterward, until his death forty years later, Drix was no longer haunted by the nightmares the Crisis had left him. He was finally able to live a life of peace after so many years of unrest.

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