Stalks Shot From The Earth

Stalks of wheat shot up from the Earch, blanketing the landscape like fur. Kneeling, I brush my hands across the surface, a tingling brush meeting my hand.

In this moment, I know that I am free.

A stiff breeze rolls in, shifting the landscape and carrying with it a hot breath. I have already lost as many layers as modesty would allow, so I will have to live with the heat as it blankets me. I wear nothing but a tunic, prostrating myself in front of the one-armed man.

I look up at him, his eyes ablaze. He swelters under this heat just as I do, but through his sweat and the redness on his face I can tell he suffers more than me. I smile at this. And at my smiling, the rage in his eyes only deepens. No longer am I what he saw days before, but I am something new. I see it, he sees it. I am unafraid. He glances over to someone behind me, nodding at them to back off, and crouches down beside me. I wince at the effort he has to exert to get down to my level.

“I hope you understand you brought this on yourself. You get no reprieve being brave in the face of death,” he says.

“I am not being brave,” I said.

I didn’t need to say any more. His stunned reaction showed me he understood. I showed not bravery, but satisfaction. He stood back up with the same great difficulty and walked off.

Behind me, a cloth sack slid off of the sword and crushed the stalks by my feet. Bits of the powdered wheat picked up on the hot breeze and blew past, momentarily painting my visual field with wisps of white. Soon, I shall join them. Soon, I shall stain this Earth forever.

The sword creaked as it was raised in the air, ready to be brought down.