Impending Boom
Slovakia—present day
Astorm is brewing.
I can feel it, feel it deep within my bones. The dull ache. The throbbing cold that starts in my marrow and resonates outward until it mingles with the scorching heat of my flesh, the mixture churning and raging like a tornado under my skin.
I imagine this is comparable to what humans feel when the weather takes a turn and rain is imminent.
Arthritis, I believe, though it isn't actually painful.
No, there is no pain. It's a warning. A warning of things to come, a shift in the carefully crafted balance, the harmony and flow cultivated by the universe.
A thunderstorm is coming, and with it the raging storm brings pain and destruction but also rebirth and new life.
Some may think I'm speaking metaphorically, that something as simple and common as a thunderstorm shouldn’t be taken so seriously. A little rain won't hurt anyone; it's needed, it's helpful.
Some would be wrong.
A boom of thunder. A crack of lightning. The sky opens up to pelt the needy soil, replenishing it with its ice-like tears.
Not always is Mother Nature, the giver of life, the kind and nurturing creature we like to think of her as. Sometimes she gives life only to take it away just as swiftly.
A thunderstorm is not always a sign of new life. Sometimes it's a reminder of how fragile that life can be.
I watch as the clouds roll in, thick, black clouds, pregnant with foreboding, heavily saturated and brimming with a flood to wipe away the remnants of what once was.
Thunder claps and I begin to count. One. Two. Three. Four. A bolt of lightning splits the sky, illuminates the bland and desolate landscape. It touches down amid an already burning city; my city, my home that has been reduced to skeletal buildings and smoldering carcasses.
"They've all gone." Milos appears to my right, clothes tattered, skin marred by dry blood and smudges of ash. "None of the Molnarva Clan remains."
"None of our clan remains," Henrich growls at my left. "The search produced nothing but blood and bones.”
My eyes scan the scene before me, my heart heavy but too full of rage to let the sadness and grief set in. There is nothing left but flames, flames of another clan brought forth to destroy my kingdom by piercing it directly through the heart.
Andrej, his presence felt rather than seen, speaks. "The Molnarva have gone, taken what few women and children that were left. Less than a dozen and closer to death than Cyril realized. They cut their army down to a quarter, but they will rebuild. Those loyal to him will rally, but it could take months before he is able to attack again."
"He never should have been able to attack in the first place," I spit out. "This never should have happened."
"No," he says solemnly. "But it did."
"Karel?" I inquire of our uncle.
"He is following the Molnarva. He will remain."
I nod, take in what is left of my people, a strategy formulating despite the immediate and unbridled need for vengeance.
"What now?" Milos asks through clenched teeth.
I watch the first few drops of rain as they splash against the rocks at my bare feet. They silently plummet, explode and multiply before rolling toward the valley below where they will once again become whole.
"We leave."
"What do you mean,we leave? We cannot just leave, we need to fight! Fight for our people, our home, our—"
Taking one last look at the only home we've ever known, I turn and start toward the clearing. "We leave, we regroup, and we plan."
"And what of our sisters? Our father, mother? Our people we've sworn to protect and avenge in circumstances just as this? Have their deaths all been in vain?" Milos growls before grabbing my shoulder to spin me toward him. "Shall they be nothing more than numbers in a war you have no intention of fighting in?"
