Post by lieutenant on Nov 22, 2015 21:47:25 GMT -5
In the dying light of the embers, a lone figure sat, hunched against the shaft of a spear. The long dreads hung around the female Yautja's shoulders. They were resplendent with beads, shards of bone, tiny trophies and equipment, worth a fortune on any spacefaring world, at the height of the universe's glory.
The lights of those stars were dimmed or snuffed out, now. They used to blaze across the sky of this world, but now the faint red sparks were fewer night by night. They barely illuminated her mighty figure, and the bluff on which she sat. The bluff of piled bones.
She had no feelings about the mass grave marking the passing of the great civilisation. Of the hunters who'd come here for one last test of worth. They had been dead for centuries. The universe had drawn near to it's end and her people, knowing there was nothing left, gave their all in one last, great struggle. The last warrior had died on this bluff, had succumbed to his wounds, the last of the great race of Yautja. Their last act had been a final battle. It could have been disappointing, it could have been heroic. It was neither. It just was. Yautja lived by the blade and there was no other way for them to die. It didn't matter one way or the other.
There were no other species left.
There had been a few, at the time when the last of the Yautja's came together for the final Irgun of blood. They had been snuffed out by the dying of the light, just as all the rest.
There was no one to remember.
She had come here, to the end of time, beyond the end of life, because here, with the universe dying around her, with the piled bones of her descendants at her feet, she could find peace.
In the great span of time since her death, she had served dutifully. Hunted the creatures from beyond the dark. Her dreadlocks shone with their teeth and claws. She had guarded her children's children and watched her brothers die, watched their remains burned to dust, or carried to the wall where the great leaders and arbiters of their clan were interred. But she hadn't greeted their spirits, because, for Yautja, death was solitary. There were no ghosts, just a lone hunt until the end of time.
Now, time was ending. And with it, the creatures and the memories and the very afterlife itself.
So she'd come here, stepped into the physical universe and sat alone, watching.
The otherworldly helmet sat beside her, catching reflections that weren't coming from any light that had ever been, and casting shadows deeper than the blackest night. Her mandibles were tight to her face and she was tensed. All her senses told her there was no danger, and never would be again. But instincts that made Vraala who she was, instincts that would never let go of her, kept her taught as a bowstring.
The bones shifted behind her as an immense weight stepped on the uneven footing. She didn't turn, but her mandibles relaxed into a less weary expression. A clawed hand much larger than that of a normal Yatuja settled on her shoulder. Her brows softened, she put her hand on it and looked up at him.
Death had separated them, but here, death was gathering in all things, and they could reach out and touch one another, as they had not since galaxies had been born and passed away.
She stood and looked up at him. They each had more scars, he had craggier features, but the depth of their connection hadn't soured.
They locked their mandibles in a burning embrace.
They burned.
A universe died.
A universe was born.
The fire they carried with them sparked a new blaze, and the skies filled with stars.
The cycle begins again.
The lights of those stars were dimmed or snuffed out, now. They used to blaze across the sky of this world, but now the faint red sparks were fewer night by night. They barely illuminated her mighty figure, and the bluff on which she sat. The bluff of piled bones.
She had no feelings about the mass grave marking the passing of the great civilisation. Of the hunters who'd come here for one last test of worth. They had been dead for centuries. The universe had drawn near to it's end and her people, knowing there was nothing left, gave their all in one last, great struggle. The last warrior had died on this bluff, had succumbed to his wounds, the last of the great race of Yautja. Their last act had been a final battle. It could have been disappointing, it could have been heroic. It was neither. It just was. Yautja lived by the blade and there was no other way for them to die. It didn't matter one way or the other.
There were no other species left.
There had been a few, at the time when the last of the Yautja's came together for the final Irgun of blood. They had been snuffed out by the dying of the light, just as all the rest.
There was no one to remember.
She had come here, to the end of time, beyond the end of life, because here, with the universe dying around her, with the piled bones of her descendants at her feet, she could find peace.
In the great span of time since her death, she had served dutifully. Hunted the creatures from beyond the dark. Her dreadlocks shone with their teeth and claws. She had guarded her children's children and watched her brothers die, watched their remains burned to dust, or carried to the wall where the great leaders and arbiters of their clan were interred. But she hadn't greeted their spirits, because, for Yautja, death was solitary. There were no ghosts, just a lone hunt until the end of time.
Now, time was ending. And with it, the creatures and the memories and the very afterlife itself.
So she'd come here, stepped into the physical universe and sat alone, watching.
The otherworldly helmet sat beside her, catching reflections that weren't coming from any light that had ever been, and casting shadows deeper than the blackest night. Her mandibles were tight to her face and she was tensed. All her senses told her there was no danger, and never would be again. But instincts that made Vraala who she was, instincts that would never let go of her, kept her taught as a bowstring.
The bones shifted behind her as an immense weight stepped on the uneven footing. She didn't turn, but her mandibles relaxed into a less weary expression. A clawed hand much larger than that of a normal Yatuja settled on her shoulder. Her brows softened, she put her hand on it and looked up at him.
Death had separated them, but here, death was gathering in all things, and they could reach out and touch one another, as they had not since galaxies had been born and passed away.
She stood and looked up at him. They each had more scars, he had craggier features, but the depth of their connection hadn't soured.
They locked their mandibles in a burning embrace.
They burned.
A universe died.
A universe was born.
The fire they carried with them sparked a new blaze, and the skies filled with stars.
The cycle begins again.
