The commander lived in a rest home, and he never had a single visitor until the day he died, probably because he smelled like ash and spoke only of the joys of killing.
He was known by all the staff as "commander" because that is the only name he would answer to. The name on his file met with no reaction. There was nothing in his file to indicate which war, if any, he had fought in or which military, if any, he had belonged to. In conversation he spoke of the glories of battle without enough specifics to clarify one way or another. The other patients avoided him, as they would rather drink tea and play backgammon than listen to him explain, for the thousandth time, how much he missed the taste of blood. When his health took a turn for the worst, they breathed a sigh of relief now that he was bedridden.
One cold winter day, after the first frost but before the first snow, the commander received his first visitor at the rest home. The woman stood a head taller than even the tallest nurse, and she wore a simple white robe with a red border along the bottom hem that looked startlingly like a dark blood stain. She smelled like an electrical fire. Her face was like a burnt log. She strode down the pastel corridors of the rest home like a battleship in human form.
When she arrived at the commander's room, he started in his bed. "Who are you? I don't know you. Get out!" She marched to his bedside, leaned over him until her mouth was beside his ear, and spoke. No one heard the words but the commander. His squinted eyes widened, and he gazed upon her like a long-lost child. "Yes. Yes, please," he rasped, reaching out to her like a child himself. "I agree. Take it, just give me that taste once more!"
A half-breath later, she had thrown him into a wheelchair and was rocketing down the pristinely carpeted halls with him bouncing before her. The nurses who tried to bar her path were smothered beneath her vicious stare. One particularly strong-willed orderly grasped the woman's arm, but no matter how much he tugged, her trajectory was unaffected, and he ended up with rug-burns on his knees.
When they reached the locked front door, she kicked it open without hesitation and brought the wheelchair out across the parking lot. All the nurses and patients, entranced now by the woman and her power, filed out the wrecked door and stood shivering in the flower beds, watching silently whatever happened next.
Beyond the parking lot stood a grove of trees, and within it the woman stopped. From within her robe, the tall woman produced a saber a half meter long with a golden hilt. She lowered it into the commander's lap and took a step back, bowing as she did so. The commander considered the weapon, turning it over, letting the dull winter light glitter along its blade. He took a breath so long and so deep that he nearly doubled in size. Then, quivering, he leaned forward until he slid out of the wheelchair and put his weight on his own feet. The sword nearly slipped from his hands, but then he gripped the handle, and from that grip his whole body seemed to draw strength
His back and legs straightened. His arms spread wide. He threw his head back with all the vigor of a warrior facing his enemy. With a wild scream, he kicked back the wheelchair, which clattered backwards into the parking lot and tipped over, and he held the sword over his head, the point aimed at the sky. At that moment, the sun reached through the clouds and golden light poured down on him like water from a basin. Every nurse and patient felt their eyes water with awe and terror.
The commander hit the ground like a tangled classroom skeleton. The sword bounced away. "There is your taste, commander," said the woman. "Now, for mine." As the woman stood over him, his body cracked apart and crumbled into ash. Even as he wasted away, he reached out towards where the sword had fallen, but not even the ashes of his hand touched it as they fell to the earth.
The goddess of war waved her hand, and the ash that had once been the commander rose from the ground and was drawn into her open mouth. When the last of him was gone, the light from the sun again passed behind the clouds, and the woman was nowhere to be seen.
The nurses and patients shuffled back inside where it was warm, and never spoke again of goddess of war or the commander, and they were better off for it.
He was known by all the staff as "commander" because that is the only name he would answer to. The name on his file met with no reaction. There was nothing in his file to indicate which war, if any, he had fought in or which military, if any, he had belonged to. In conversation he spoke of the glories of battle without enough specifics to clarify one way or another. The other patients avoided him, as they would rather drink tea and play backgammon than listen to him explain, for the thousandth time, how much he missed the taste of blood. When his health took a turn for the worst, they breathed a sigh of relief now that he was bedridden.
One cold winter day, after the first frost but before the first snow, the commander received his first visitor at the rest home. The woman stood a head taller than even the tallest nurse, and she wore a simple white robe with a red border along the bottom hem that looked startlingly like a dark blood stain. She smelled like an electrical fire. Her face was like a burnt log. She strode down the pastel corridors of the rest home like a battleship in human form.
When she arrived at the commander's room, he started in his bed. "Who are you? I don't know you. Get out!" She marched to his bedside, leaned over him until her mouth was beside his ear, and spoke. No one heard the words but the commander. His squinted eyes widened, and he gazed upon her like a long-lost child. "Yes. Yes, please," he rasped, reaching out to her like a child himself. "I agree. Take it, just give me that taste once more!"
A half-breath later, she had thrown him into a wheelchair and was rocketing down the pristinely carpeted halls with him bouncing before her. The nurses who tried to bar her path were smothered beneath her vicious stare. One particularly strong-willed orderly grasped the woman's arm, but no matter how much he tugged, her trajectory was unaffected, and he ended up with rug-burns on his knees.
When they reached the locked front door, she kicked it open without hesitation and brought the wheelchair out across the parking lot. All the nurses and patients, entranced now by the woman and her power, filed out the wrecked door and stood shivering in the flower beds, watching silently whatever happened next.
Beyond the parking lot stood a grove of trees, and within it the woman stopped. From within her robe, the tall woman produced a saber a half meter long with a golden hilt. She lowered it into the commander's lap and took a step back, bowing as she did so. The commander considered the weapon, turning it over, letting the dull winter light glitter along its blade. He took a breath so long and so deep that he nearly doubled in size. Then, quivering, he leaned forward until he slid out of the wheelchair and put his weight on his own feet. The sword nearly slipped from his hands, but then he gripped the handle, and from that grip his whole body seemed to draw strength
His back and legs straightened. His arms spread wide. He threw his head back with all the vigor of a warrior facing his enemy. With a wild scream, he kicked back the wheelchair, which clattered backwards into the parking lot and tipped over, and he held the sword over his head, the point aimed at the sky. At that moment, the sun reached through the clouds and golden light poured down on him like water from a basin. Every nurse and patient felt their eyes water with awe and terror.
The commander hit the ground like a tangled classroom skeleton. The sword bounced away. "There is your taste, commander," said the woman. "Now, for mine." As the woman stood over him, his body cracked apart and crumbled into ash. Even as he wasted away, he reached out towards where the sword had fallen, but not even the ashes of his hand touched it as they fell to the earth.
The goddess of war waved her hand, and the ash that had once been the commander rose from the ground and was drawn into her open mouth. When the last of him was gone, the light from the sun again passed behind the clouds, and the woman was nowhere to be seen.
The nurses and patients shuffled back inside where it was warm, and never spoke again of goddess of war or the commander, and they were better off for it.
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