Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

By Coralie Olivier

Spring, when the nightingales sing, is also when men pick up their swords and reawaken ancestral enmities, as anger frozen by winter is the quickest to thaw.

I follow their song to a field of golden chrysanthemum that rolls toward the woods where two enemies have set up camp. In the morning, when the fighting begins, all those flowers will be mercilessly trampled, and the field will be flushed with bodies until it becomes as red as the sunset. Now, only a few drops have fallen on the petals as the champion of the north and the champion of the south battle for their King. I arrive to the clanking of metal, and the clashing of swords.

Perching on the branch of an oak tree towering over the field, I can feel the fight coming to an end. Death has a song of its own that makes the air suffocating like a summer day.  As I wait, a handful of nightingales flock to me without a sound. They watch, with their tiny black eyes, as swords come down, bash against armor, hiss again shields and slam on the ground.

Finally, the deadly blows. The champions find a weakness in their opponent’s armor. Swords sink between plates, through flesh and bowels. 

The champion of the south stumbles toward the tree. He lands amidst its roots with the ruckus of a bell. The champion of the north, though it takes all the strength he still possesses, remains upright before falling on his knees. He reaches for the sword still embedded in his midsection and pulls on it. Pain flashes through him. He falls face first in the chrysanthemum.

Now is my time to intervene, before Death has gripped either of them firmly enough. I descend from the tree, nightingale no more, and approach the two knights. The bleak light of day turns sunrise gold. The two men sit, relieved from pain. I find it easier to speak to people then, once agony has slackened her grip.

“I must command you both, at least, for your bravery. Naïve, given human nature, to believe that one’s death could prevent thousands when bloodthirsty hounds lead the charge, but brave.”

“Who are you?” the champion of the south asks.

I don’t introduce myself. Let them believe I am whoever they want me to be. A spirit, an angel, a god. By the end of this conversation it won’t matter anymore than whether or not the sun sets on time.

“One of you will die today. The other, though gravely injured, will recover to fight another day. I have come to take the one who gave his life for his King. However, I do not know which one of you it is.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you know?”

“It is more common than you might think. Death lingers around victims and killers alike, and sometimes, humans are both.”

The champion of the south, sensing an opportunity, clears his throat and throws himself into a tirade:

“I, ser Roland, should be allowed to live. I was a page to the great ser Frederick, who led the expedition to the north, where we crushed many a monster in our path. Once knighted, I won many a tournament, for I’m an excellent jouster and swordsman. I single-handedly defended my King from a curse by stopping the cult of witches. I’m his most trusted advisor and his champion. What has he done that is so noteworthy?” he scoffed at his rival.

The champion to the north, not to be outdone, stands once more and takes the bait:

“What did I do? I, ser Godewin, came from nothing. While his father found him his prestigious position, I had to fight for scraps. My King had the kindness to see a struggling orphan and take him into his court. Everything I have, I had to fight for. And while your King attacked our kingdom, we fought to regain our stolen lands. I didn’t have the luxury to go on expeditions fighting witches and monsters, not when I had to protect my people from yours.”

“You raided our lands,” the champion from the south snapped back. “Stole everything. Killed the men, took the women and children. We’ve come to rescue them.”

As much as I enjoy hearing humans argue, they will never get anywhere, and I have other places to attend to. Already, I can hear Death’s song traveling.

“You misunderstood me,” I declare, grabbing their attention just as the champion of the north pushes himself on his feet. “I am not a judge. I cannot decide which one of you deserves to live. You must choose for yourselves. However, I can tell you what will happen after you die. If I take one, the war will end swiftly, and a new age of peace will prosper throughout both kingdoms. Not a blade will be raised for many years to come, and when the King dies, his son will continue the great works he began. If I take the other, the war will drag on, until both kingdoms have been bled dry, then it will continue on, as the King expends his territory in every direction, and when the King dies, his son will continue the bloodshed he began.”

Beneath their helmets, I can see the knights’ eyes flood with uncertainty.

“Which one?” the champion of the north asks. “Which one of us will bring peace?”

“As your Fates are intertwined, I cannot tell. Only once one of you has died will the future crystalize.”

Silence settles over the field, as neither knight moves nor speaks. Many of us feel that telling a dying man the future he left behind is a comfort, while just as many abhor the practice. I find it useful, because it’s my understanding that men who think of themselves as important can only be shaken by the knowledge of the destruction they wrought upon the world. The true measure of a person’s virtue always shines at the end.

“I must be the one whose fate it is to bring peace,” the champion of the south declares. 

Denial, then. His opponent scoffs:

“You? You think your bloodthirsty King will ever stop invading others?”

“Because yours who sanctioned all those raids would surely seek peace out?”

“We had no choice but to raid. Your people were stealing our land piece by piece, pushing us away from our farms, our homes. Every jarl who fought back was burned alive. We had to unite and fight back now, or we would have all been decimated.”

I expected a biting response from his adversary, but instead, silence follows. With an infernal banging, the champion of the north sits against the roots of the oak.

“We did what we had to do to survive,” he continues. “It doesn’t excuse all of it, but at the time, we didn’t have any other choice.” The champion of the south looks at him with confusion. “I’ve killed a lot of people in those raids. And hurt just as many. The more I think about it, the more I realize my whole life has been nothing but violence. For this reason, I can’t imagine my legacy will be one of peace. Take me.”

Before I can ask him if he was certain, the champion of the south interjects:

“Wait. You’re younger than me, and no matter how much violence you’ve inflicted on others, I certainly have you beat in every regard. I’m a fraud. I’ve been all my life. All the glorious monsters ser Frederick killed? Wounded by others, baited with the cries of villagers. Even back then I knew there was no glory in it, but I let my master convince me, because the fantasy was so tantalizing. And you’re right, my King has been seeking to expand, and I thought I could stay out of it by touring. But despite the glory and the gold and the alcohol and the women, I always knew one day he would call me to war too.” He lets out a grunt at the back of his throat, like a death rattle. “I’m beginning to think the witches were right to curse him. Do you know I almost didn’t come up here? I was petrified by fear, because I know you to be everything that I never was. A valiant knight, not a showman, who doesn’t fight for glory but for his people.”

One of the nightingales on the branches above lets out four notes, an ode to truth. The other birds around him take up the same tune, until my little choir has filled the air with their heartbreaking song.

“Can your King be reasoned with?” the champion of the south asks.

“I don’t know. Anger has burnt in his heart for so long, I’m not certain he has a heart anymore. Can yours be reasoned with?”

“I doubt it. He has become the worst of predators, because he sheds blood for his enjoyment.”

Finding themselves at an impasse once more, the knights fall quiet. Still, above them, the nightingales continue to sing, and I know a decision has been made. The champion of the south stands, his legs shaking under his dying weight.

“Give me this one act of bravery. Let me meet my maker standing. I’m ready to face the consequences of my lies. I place all my hopes on your shoulders. I know it isn’t fair of me to ask this of you, but I trust you to make this right.”

The champion of the north, stunned, doesn’t try to stop him. The knight of lavenders and sunflowers, the mythslayer, the vainglorious champion, stumbles closer to me. Before I can take his hand to lead him away, the champion of the north cries out:

“Does it make me a coward for being relieved that I won’t die today?”

His rival stops to face him.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I fell by your hand. Steady on, Lionheart. Your work has only just begun.”

With a final nod, the champion of the south turns back to me.

“I’m ready, nightingale. Take me where the weak of hearts burn for all eternity.”

I say nothing, because I’m not sure there is such a place, but as I present my hand, he takes it.

The knight, who stood on weakened legs, crumples on the ground, where the chrysanthemum catches his empty shell. Above, the nightingales sing him into the white, burning light of oblivion.