Finding Contentus

Chapter 155: We Won

We thank you for having mercy on our souls. Have you forgiven us for living as One in Two?

When the sun fell up and the moon rose down; the pewter sky remained fastened in place, a glorified spectator seated below heaven and above hell. Aligned for Renero's forty-sixth day of birth on the fifteenth of the Fifth. Synchronised with the day that would bear witness to the Fight of Fatality between his Twins of Tenacity.

Neosa dignified the peak of the bumpy hill with the blushing sun behind her, glaring down at her rival; just as Genesia remained at the bottom of the precipice, glowering up at the chasm, the distance, the height that kept them apart. The moon was slim in its spherical fullness behind him, nonetheless, he acknowledged the palpable showcase of support.

Nothing had really changed, had it? Her on the run, him running after her, him being the chaser, her being the chased. How fitting, that they would battle—

Back in Mootlakeng.

Genesia reached down to cup the soil in the palm of his hand, holding it, smelling the irrefutable stench—

Of death.

He exhaled winter's breath, expression penitent.

For the brown earth had been dulled by an ashen graveyard, the green garden of remembrance greyed by a smokescreen of tragedy, the churning sky of wondering blanketed in hopelessness.

Neosa put her hands out, palms facing the hanging clouds, collecting the ash like it was gold dust, letting the breath of summer out with a conscience-stricken face. At the same time, she and her brother smeared the ashy remains of the Racaan race on their skin like chalk for their schooling, powder for their ammunition and salt for their collective wounds, for grey was the colour that celebrated the lives that once lived and finally died.

Monuments of misfortune poured down from above and spiked up from below the bleached grass. You could feel it in the toxic, polluted air. Spaces where bending streets, stone-built cities, worship-filled temples, joyful courtyards and geometric patterned villages used to be like wondrous constellations were replaced by ghostly pathways of crumbled grief.

It physically hurt to breathe, leaving their lungs bare and exposed to the hazardous particles. No adaptation prepared them for the onslaught of memories, scattering and multiplying like wilting trees. When every ounce of happiness they had known faded away in sacrificial flames and bloodcurdling screams.

The radiation from that dreadful day kept running, keeping the primals at bay. No animals roamed or grazed. Mushrooms of smoke sprouted from the ground like geysers, exhausted flames slithering in tendrils like veins. The quintessential battlefield. A blank canvas meant to be decorated in the art of warfare, a savannah of sulphur mines and suffering pits.

Miraculously enough, a resilient species of scattered trees had persisted throughout the years. Beggar trees, the twins decided to call them, for the reedy branches, devoid of leaves, looked like thin, malnourished, bony hands reaching for unavailable nutrition. No flowers germinated. Only thorns, for they could prick and stab away at any foolish trespasser that somehow stumbled upon the gaseous wasteland.

So many rivers and lakes in Mootlakeng had dried up, turning the province into a slumbering season of drought. After all, why bother flourishing when there's no thirst to quench? Why bother flowing when there were no more inhabitants to move with the flow?

Neosa scanned the cracks, criticising the dry, parched land, tapping with her feet. Even the Sinine desert had more life than this eyesore of arid behaviour. If only Bantii could smack some sense into a well and have it pump all the rivers and lakes back from their hiding spots.