A New Flag

XVII.

Bartholomew retreated from the window, unable to bear the overwhelming grief that gripped him as the realization that he had ordered the execution of his greatest friend and his only surviving heir, that the only remnants of Fairfax’s family were slaughtered at his order. He began to wonder who he had been serving. Was it really Justice? Would Justice demand their lives? What had they really done? They had disagreed with the Lighthouse, fought against the Light, striving to sully it by bringing it to all, an openness that would bring unnecessary questions and cast shadow in places that could remain pure. Or had they only disagreed with him? Was he guilty of pride? Jealousy? Pushing his desire to be as great as Fairfax aside and justifying his own ‘higher ground’ by accusing Fairfax and now Roxanne of treason? No, it couldn’t be. He wanted Justice, that was all, he was committed to his ideals, unwilling to sacrifice regardless of the personal cost. Was that how it should be? Bartholomew was lost, struggling to reconcile his devotion to Justice with the horror that he had brought upon Tiesa. Could Justice really be responsible for such carnage and hate? Such disunity and despair? Shouldn’t Justice bring harmony to the city? The fruits seemed poisonous, not sweet and pure.

Bartholomew returned to the balcony, watching as the firing squad shoveled dirt over the bodies of the traitorous victims. The evidence of the morning’s rampage hidden almost before the first light. Within minutes, lives had been extinguished, as easy as blowing out a candle. All at his order, his signal. He gazed at his staff and the crystal that rested atop it, contemplating the power that rested in his hand. With admiration and disgust he stared. Awed by the sheer power and the possibility for good, yet disgusted that such disaster and wreckage had come by him. Was this truly the way of Justice?

“I have failed Fairfax. I have failed Tiesa. I have failed the Lighthouse.” Bartholomew gasped, tears running down his face at the utter failure that he consider the result of his commitment to Justice, overwhelmed with confusion and sheer helplessness.

“I have failed the Light.”

Bartholomew dropped his staff, looking over the edge of the balcony.

“Life is frail. Extinguished as easily as the Light from a candle. It would be quick, so easy. What more can I give? Justice has failed me. I devoted my life to achieving Justice for the Light and that has brought nothing but carnage. Is this really what should happen?”

Bartholomew walked to the edge of the balcony stepping onto the ledge and gazing over down to the ground below. He closed his eyes and gazed upward, considering the light that emanated from Radiant Tower blessing all of Tiesa with its rays. The Light seemed to rejuvenate him offering a slight hope that everything was not as dark as he had considered. Perhaps things could improve. Darkness must precede the Light, right? Yet, he feared that the Darkness that had descended upon Tiesa had extinguished the Light, leaving the Darkness to remain forever.

One foot in the air, the other about to join it, when shots rang about Bartholomew. He stumbled backward, looking around himself for the intruder that would be attracted such violence. Seeing none, he looked over the balcony confirming that it was indeed the firing squad, made up of the Light Police firing. As his head peeked out, shots of light aimed at his head, yet he retreated before they hit him, destroying the bulwark of the balcony and much of what had been shielding Bartholomew. Bartholomew grabbed his staff and shot light into the air, signaling that it was he, Bartholomew, the Chief Keeper and the Leader of the Lighthouse and not some impostor  He called out to them, “Cease! It is I, Bartholomew, a friend, and the Chief Keeper and Leader of the Lighthouse.”

He stood, assuming that his clarification would cause the Light Police to cease, but the fire continued, the shots causing brick to rain upon him, bruising him in several places and a shot or two burning his shoulder and chest. Bartholomew stumbled back into his room, shocked at the rebellion of his own guards. How could this be so? Unsure how widespread the treachery was, Bartholomew hobbled to the infirmary, trusting that at least the doctors and nurses would be loyal, able to help him. As he hurried, his resolve returned. Wasn’t it said that the arc of Justice was long? He may need to suffer, but his fight was just and Justice would triumph, of that he had no doubt.

Blasts rocked the Lighthouse. Warfare raged on outside the walls or even against and within the walls. The Light Police rushed inside after Bartholomew’s flight and entered, ready for what was to be their prime achievement. They rushed to the Radiant Tower, entering and climbing to the top, hoisting the flag of The Glare. No more was the Lighthouse free from outside control. The Glare had overtaken it. The Light Police, or rather the Glare posing as the Light Police had cornered any other guards and the Keepers, jailing those that expressed resistance or disgust about the Glare or the League or promoted the Lighthouse.

The Light Police, now sporting black armbands with the mark of the Glare, entered the infirmary, weapons ready to remove any protesters. As Bartholomew saw the mark, he knew that it may be lost. They singled him out, insisting that he come with them, where? He knew not. They roughly dragged, pushed, and pulled him to Radiant Tower, bringing him to the top chamber where the crystals were kept. Dropping him harshly onto the floor, with a few kicks and jabs.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“I dunno. Orders. Don’t ask stupid questions. He won’t like that, I’ll tell you. Not one little bit.”

“He? Who?”

As Bartholomew asked in bewilderment about who was coming and wouldn’t like the asking of stupid questions, the door flung open, the tall thin figure framed in the doorway, his knee-length coat dramatically moving and the mark standing out marvelously against the black of his eye-patch.

“This was the end of the beginning for me and the beginning of the end for you, Bartholomew, old friend.”

*

Outside the Lighthouse, chaos reigned supreme. The word of the murder of Roxanne, the daughter of Fairfax, spread like wildfire. It wasn’t long before that was completely forgotten as the flag of The Glare rose above the Lighthouse. The people erupted. They had no boundaries, lost in the chaotic and abrupt change of leadership. They knew not what had happened or how the Lighthouse had suddenly been turned into the headquarters and stronghold of the Glare, but they embraced the chaos. Loyalties were largely forgotten, they had been mostly out of duty or fear, little love serving to bind either to the Lighthouse or the Glare. As they had become one, even less of a reason to distinguish seemed necessary.

However, the Light Police emerged from the Lighthouse and seemed to be engaged in battle against themselves. The battle was vicious and led to hundreds of casualties. Explosives hurtled around the city, leaving swaths of destruction in their wake. The outer walls of the Lighthouse suffered as well, crumbling in parts, exposing the towers including the Radiant Tower to the people. As the battle raged, the people didn’t know what side to take if any, as they all appeared to be the same. As innocents were wounded, the families and friends of the injured joined in the battle with whatever side had not injured or killed their loved one. Soon the larger part of Tiesa was engaging in warfare in the streets, leaving untold amounts of wreckage and flames. Dead piled up, houses and businesses were left in rubble, smoking rising and blocking more and more of the Light, shrouding more and more of Tiesa in darkness.

The violence escalated dramatically, the people acted more like animals than humans. The city was laid to waste and there seemed to be no hope for reconciliation, for repair. It seemed destined for Tiesa to remain desolate and in wreckage forever. Watching from a distance, the difference between the two groups were indistinguishable. Both fought viciously, willing to sacrifice the lives of others for what they felt was right, even to lose friends and family if necessary. The tactics were the same. Do whatever it cost to win, regardless of the ethics or morality of a situation. It seemed as if there was no reason to pick a side. The heat of the battle brought out the monster in everyone, showing the horror that man could accomplish if left in darkness or provoked to anger. The evidence of the brutality of man laid everywhere in the burning wreckage, the carcasses of friends and family and the senseless violence that continued, many fighting for an unknown cause, seeking vengeance for a wrong they didn’t understand, hoping to right what injustice there was with more injustice. The balance had been tipped, but Justice had yet to be served.

*

“’Love can reach beyond choice, to even the deepest, darkest crevices where love cannot shine.’” Thaddeus repeated the mantra as a prayer, hoping that if he continued to say it, perhaps it would be true and Love would reach out to him and pull him from the pit that held him prisoner, suffocating in darkness and shadow, untouched by the Light.

“What is to become of me? Will they kill me as he did the others? What use am I to them if I refuse to do his bidding and participate in his violent rebellion? I am nothing more than a burden, waiting to be dropped at the most convenient place, wherever that may be. May life is coming to an end. I will never see the Schism healed and if Tiesa continues in the direction it is going, it will likely lead to the complete and utter destruction of the city. Oh, Bartholomew, how far you have fallen. You could have led Tiesa to greatness, choosing to truly heal the deep divide that hide beneath the surface of us all, yet you chose to deepen that divide, forcing it open, until it was prepared to swallow the city whole. That is where we are, on the brink of being swallowed by the division and hatred that we built, we have no one to blame but ourselves. We could have stopped it, but we didn’t. We made it worse and now it may be too late. With the rise of violent revolutionists like The Glare we may not have time to heal the divide that runs so deep.”

Thaddeus was deep in his own thoughts as he spent most of his time, cut off from the Light and the world, the only source of interaction the occasional sound of footsteps headed in his direction, yet never quite reaching him, another side of the torturous pit he was in. Every step towards the cave sounded like a step toward his rescue, mocking his hope with every entrance to the cave and turn away from his exile.

Steps sounded, at first he ignored them, but they drew closer and closer, until he could no longer ignore them, hoping that perhaps this time, they would truly be coming to his aid, to salvage him from the lightless pit that he was in.

“Thaddeus?” A gruff voice shouted into the pit.

“Yes,” Thaddeus eked out, barely making an audible sound.

A rope was lowered into the pit, almost seeming to mock the pain he’d been feeling. Was this freedom?