The Musician

As my body lies beheaded on a field, I escape the seeming comfort of a human body and evaporate into what seems to me a mere ethereal composition. Once who was a mighty warrior with a thunderous sword, is now an ensemble of small particles exemplifying chaos and yet maintaining an exterior that resembles a human shape.

Scenes of my immediate past linger around. I was a killing monster. Over the years I had become so used to it that without a second thought I detached spines, spilled guts, exfoliated souls. Things had become routine and when things become routine you start observing things that you had never bothered about before. Much like expressions of a side act while the main characters are performing, in a play that you have seen a million times. War had become something similar. Thus, I need not focus on the position of my sword, the thrust on the mark; I knew it would be precise, prefect and deadly. What I did notice now were the scared eyes of my opponents. They charge forward, brain shut, hands swinging wildly; a seeming threat that they would crush anything that would stand against them. On the contrary the only thing that they did crush was their chance of survival. But then I looked closer in their wide eyes. I saw their instincts fighting for survival; a gripping fear like a creeper wrapped their bodily mass. They had in them the same feeling, same anxious heart that I had before I turned into a killing machine. I realized how much it had scared me then. Somewhere in my conscious the seeds of the creeper that were to grip my body were re-sown. But I had gone past this. I was stronger than this. I shattered the creeper and went on to behead my opponent. Then came another and another and another wave after wave of humans. Wave after wave of eyes. Wave after wave of anxious hearts. Waves of cries, waves of fear. I slaughtered them all. Without remorse each and every one of them lay spilled on the ground, their blood owing a little area of their own on my sword, a matter of privilege I thought. I felt like a musician in harmony with the sword, I was on a high. It didn't matter how much energy I had. I didn’t matter how much long it would take. As long as there were humans to kill, I would kill. The feeling of peace that one gets in being a perfectionist in one’s profession was divine and it needed a divine intervention to be overpowered.

There was this bright, blinding light from a door wreathed in flame. I responded to this stimulus by dropping my hands. A parallel process alarmed me of the consequences of lowering my guard.  Some “would be” will charge with his “would be” mighty sword and would swing for my head. His sword’s edge would invade my skin, negotiate the flesh, severe the veins and thrust upon the bone, dislodging it into components and then would ease its way out, toppling my head in the process. But I was overpowered, divine intervention I had asked for and divinity is what I got. Seconds after I had dropped my hands, my head rolled down as a consequence of the cascade of events mentioned before.

So, here I was floating over my beheaded corpse. Waiting. Angrily. Waiting for judgement may be. To be dragged and burnt in hell. Angry about the sheer unfairness. I was a swift killing machine. The best that there was. A shambolic end it seemed to a legend. But then from the flame something seemed to be coming out. My anger and scenes from the past scooted away like small fishes do when they sense a shark approaching. I could hear the footsteps and as they had an impact on the ground, a vibration reverberated that dissolved further doubts. The devil himself is it?

He came out of the door, clad in black, with a cape of skulls hanging from the shoulders. As he approached me the skulls from his cape cackled.

“Fear not. He is not here to burn you in an inferno. That is fate of the weak. He is here to recruit. Join the legion of the master himself” in the hissing voice the skulls persuaded.

What followed belittled all that I had achieved as a human. I got a glimpse of his plans. Crashing galaxies. Colliding planets. Bursting suns. Gorgeous umbrella clouds. Compared to this symphony of destruction my deeds were a cacophony of breakage.

“Destruction is the ancestor of construction. Important cog in the cycle” hissed the skulls.

I was convinced. Convinced of his greatness. I surrendered. With a raise of his hand I came to his eye level and then I diffused into him. One with the legion. A new feather in his cap, a new skull in his cape rather. I bow in front of you my master, the true musician.