Revolutions

1 - Teqosa

I remember my dream the night before the battle, the night before the gods died. I stood on the cliff of a mountain I've never before seen, steep peaks above the clouds. In this strange and foreign landscape, alien to the hills of my people, the cold was something I never experienced, as I felt my lungs burn with every icy breath and a chill rushed over my flesh. A sudden flash of light nearly blinded me, and, shielding my eyes with my left hand, I saw the silhouette of a young woman before me, floating ethereally as a radiant gold emanated from behind her. Her black, flowing hair cascaded over her gold and black cloak that enveloped her red and orange dress that stopped at the knees, metallic gold cuffs wrapped around her wrists and forearms, and a golden headpiece, embroidered with what appeared to be the sun, shimmered from the light. She stood gallantly, chest out and defiant, the shield, engraved with the head of a puma, held by her left hand at her side, and her golden spear gripped intensely, point up toward the sky. It felt as though I was in the presence of Entilqan, the fierce warrior goddess whose leadership our Qantua people rallied behind during the entirety of the war.

She looked at me, chin up and proud, lips moving as if to speak, but I couldn't distinguish any of her words. Then she gave me a single, solemn nod before turning to the glorious radiance. She raised her spear and, as the outlines of maybe a dozen warriors emerged just beyond her, I watched as she charged into the distance. She and the others are swallowed up by the incredible light as they all ran toward it, feet seemingly running on the clouds.

That morning, I found myself in the camp amidst the cold, dank morning in the eastern plains, with the sun barely peaking up over the horizon of the prominent hills. Running my hand down my arm, I still felt the goosebumps from the slight, lingering chill. I grabbed the bamboo-woven armor, interspersed with strips of weathered leather, and decorated with puma fur around the arm and neck holes that brushes my skin every time I put it on. I admired the craftsmanship of the gift one last time, then placed it over my head and the tunic that extended to my calves, the cloth dyed with red, black, and gold. I strapped on my leather sandals and grasped my glaive, patting the durable wooden handle that contained the marks and knocks from battles past.

As the smell of extinguished fires enveloped the area and their smoke blended into the morning fog, men had already begun preparing their weapons for battle, seated on the ground and rubbing stones on the blades of their maces and obsidian swords to hone the edge. The Qiapu faction distributed the weapons they expertly crafted to the various warriors. The slingers collected stones in their pouches, scrutinizing each one to make sure it made for a good projectile for their particular sling. The few archers from the Auilqa diligently prepared their arrows and pulled their bowstrings taut for inspection. A sea of colorful tunics and leather armor spanned the campsite, with nearly every faction in the land on display; warriors gathered from every part of the land, from the jungles of Tuatiu and Achope to the mountains of Qiapu, from the plains of the Aimue to the hills of my people. A vast array of yellows, oranges, greens, blacks, purples, and especially reds, each item of clothing presenting the warrior's achievements, hopes, and aspirations of their people in the varying shapes and patterns.

There is an almost religious ritual when one mentally prepares for war. Some men laugh and joke with one another to stay loose while others stare fixedly at the ground as they collect their thoughts and center themselves. No one wants to disrupt anyone's ritual, partly out of superstition, but partly because, if this is to be our last moment on Pachil, we recognize that one should spend it how they choose. For me, I internalize the peace and stillness before marching to my fate. I attempt to remember the mood, every face, every bellowing laugh, every prayer to the spirits of our land, for I don't want anyone's final hours to have been in vain.

The conch horn sounded and every man and woman's head raised, their pre-fight trance broken. Reality struck everyone in camp. Looking up, we could see through breaks in the clouds that the sky transformed from a hazy blue to orange, then to a nearly blood red. The sun grew dazzlingly white, and among the gasps and shouts in alarm, we had to shield our eyes from the searing pain caused by its brightness. I looked at the ground that appeared as white hot as a flame, and was forced to close my eyes, as nothing was safe for me to look upon. Even through closed eyes, I saw nothing but white, and I feared we may have become blind.