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crazkoala

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       The crimson of the setting sun always brings forth the night’s endless shadow; A darkness only exhausted by the rebirth of the sun. In the radiance of the first beams of a new day’s hope, as the gloom of dusk gave way to a Golden Dawn, I gave myself to him, body and soul.

       A tear splattered onto the page as Fate let his eyes drift out of focus. The tear burst into miniscule droplets and marred Ivory’s beautiful script. It was followed by another; the first tear already making the parchment swell and warp, smudging the ink. Horrified that he was destroying such magnificence, Fate closed the book. Here, in the depths of her own journal, Fate knew Ivory’s truth was pure… She had loved him… a love he didn’t deserve… because he would be the death of her.

       The flesh under his nails had turned ghostly white. Fate relaxed his grip on the binding. His blood boiled, scorching him within and he allowed himself to be devoured by rage. Fate was destined to be powerful purity, but Wisteria had tainted that purpose… turned him into her monster. She had threatened the existence of everything he loved… and succeeded in demolishing most of it. And now, the only thing that was left to him, someone he would die for… would only live on through the words of a journal all because she didn’t want Wisteria to control him… She would die for a freedom that shouldn’t have been fought for at all.

       Infuriated with the outrageous inferno of it all, Fate stood and turned to leave the little meadow. Then his eyes fell on Ivory’s sword. Attached to the saddle bag and sheathed in its tattered cloth, Fate picked it up, tucking the journal under his arm. Thoughtlessly, he allowed it to slip through the loop on his belt that had been empty since he had given Yarborough his own blade.

       His momentary distraction caused the journal to slip from beneath his arm and tumble to the ground. He stooped over to place it back into the bag when he noticed a slip of paper uneven from the rest. Gently, Fate tugged it from the others. It was creased, as though it had been crumpled and discarded before being retrieved and smoothed to be placed back inside the journal.

       Fate read the words. They spurred him forward, causing whispered words to slip from his lips more powerful than any he had ever before uttered. He spoke for Ivory’s life and for the freedom of both himself and all others. He spoke for love and truth, and his words defied war and the fowl lies brought forth by it. But mostly, he spoke for the animals. The ones who didn’t have a voice to speak for themselves. And as he marched, the animals gathered around him—both small and clever; massive and strong. On and on Fate walked, and the more he walked the more the animals accumulated.

       A congregation of defiance, the mass march prevailed in the direction of their enemy. All the while, Ivory’s written played in Fate’s mind. Ivory’s last words…

       “I know what I have to do… it is my fate… I love you, Adonis. Never forget that.”