The End Revisited

XXVII.

“ROXANNE!!” Patrick screamed as he fell to his knees, picking up Roxanne’s dying body. As Patrick lifted her head and looked into her eyes, torment crossed his face as he knew that she was soon going to depart, never to see him again. Bartholomew also dropped to the ground, holding his head in his hands as he wept, realizing that he must have inadvertently killed Roxanne in trying to kill The Glare. His desire for peace and unity, started with one more death, was shattered. He was guilty of killing Roxanne a second time, he had sentenced her to death from which she had escaped, only to die at his hand in a twist of fate. Bartholomew was crushed. He could not lead anyone now, he had proven to himself that only death and destruction came from his hand. It would be better for The Glare to lead Tiesa than for him to taint the people with his rule any longer.

“Oh, Roxanne. Why? You had values and stuck to them, you were the one that could have healed the Schism. I cannot leave the track that I am on. There is no future for me, except for darkness. I am blind and cannot see. It would have been better for you to let me die. Why?”

“’Love extends beyond choice. Even to the deepest, darkest crevices where the Light cannot reach.’ Let it heal you, Patrick. You can bridge the Schism. You must.”

“But, Roxanne, why are you quoting old phrases to me? That means nothing, they are simply legends perpetuated to placate the people. I tried to bridge the Schism and have only deepened it. I have nowhere else to turn.”

Roxanne coughed, gasping for air, to reply before she was taken from the world.

“Legends may be truer than we give them credit for. You of all people should know that. Patrick, let the age of Light begin.” As she finished, a smile crossed her face and she was gone, leaving Patrick and Bartholomew alone with their grief.

Patrick sobbed, unable to go on. The Keepers and Light Police that stood at the door were unsure what they should do. Not knowing if this was part of Bartholomew’s face-off with The Glare or not, wondering if they should intervene and finish The Glare as Bartholomew had said needed to be done.

Bartholomew wept silent tears, mourning the loss of Roxanne again, as well as recognizing that the system of Justice that he had operated under had collapsed around him. He couldn’t fit himself into the world that he found himself in. His pursuit of Justice had led to the complete collapse of the Lighthouse, destruction of Tiesa and death of his closest friends. What had he missed? As he thought, Roxanne’s words struck him to the core and he realized that he had forgotten love. That he had valued the Light over all else, not realizing that there was anything higher, that something should govern his use of the Light. That misstep had led him to pursue Justice with no thought of where he was leading himself. He turned to Patrick, still holding the body of Roxanne, feeling only one way out.

“Kill me.”

Patrick looked at him in shock, and stammered something incomprehensible, numbed with grief.

“Kill…me,” Bartholomew’s voice had a note of pleading in it that bit at Patrick.

“I can’t. There has been enough killing in the name of the Light.” There was a slight twinge of regret in Patrick’s voice, as he thought of the pain and sorrow that Bartholomew had caused him. He had wanted to kill Bartholomew for years, seeking his vengeance, but now, something was different. He couldn’t do it. The words of Roxanne kept him from doing what seemed the easy thing to do. It was down to him and Bartholomew to restore balance and heal the divide that had plagued Tiesa for so long.

“Please, Patrick. For Justice to be satisfied.”

Patrick shook his head, unable to regardless of the pleading and the desire that was clear in Bartholomew’s voice. Patrick knew that if he killed Bartholomew, he would be cast back into the darkness that Roxanne’s sacrifice had lifted him from. He would return to the blindness that he had felt, alone, unable to see, driven to violence.

“No, Bartholomew. Justice needs no more blood. Come, we can stop this. We can end the blood and violence, healing the Schism once and for all. Bartholomew, come with me.” With this Patrick extended his hand to Bartholomew, reaching to pull him up, to begin the rescue of Tiesa. To truly begin the age of Light.

Bartholomew shook his head, as tears rolled down his face. As he spoke, his speech was broken up by sobs, rendering parts of it almost inaudible.

“Patrick, I can’t. I have fallen too far. My hand has shed too much blood across Tiesa. There is no hope for me.” Bartholomew reached for his staff, pointing the crystal towards his chest, his arm shaking as he raised the staff. “I’m sorry, Patrick.”

Patrick looked in horror and tried to protest, “Bartholomew, no. Don’t do this. You can change, together we can heal Tiesa, without you…I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Bartholomew simply shook his head and before Patrick could push the staff out of the way or block the shaft of Light from hitting Bartholomew, it was over. His lifeless body flopped onto the floor. The Keepers and Light Police that had been standing watch ran into the room, a state of confusion ensued. Some simply sobbed, collapsing onto the ground, others ran to the body, hoping that there would be something that they could do to change his definitive deadness. A few ran to The Glare, aiming to kill him, but he dropped his cane and crystal and surrendered to them, so they took him into custody. The few that were not overwhelmed with grief, led a march of The Glare through the tower, which led to the surrender of the agents that had been working for the Glare. With The Glare gone, who would they follow? What was there to fight for?

The Keepers and Light Police cheered as they saw the Glare captured and surrender, but the somber mood of those leading him, caused them to cut their celebration short. Something wasn’t right. There should have been shouts up and down the tower staircase, spreading throughout all of Tiesa, but instead there was moody, melancholy silence. They looked for Bartholomew hoping that their fearless leader would clue them in to the cause of the sadness. As they looked in the crowd, they couldn’t see him. Nervous whispers spread amongst those that weren’t stationed at the top of the stairs to witness the tragedy that unfolded. Some said that he must be hard at work leading the charge to rebuild, while others thought he was just buried in the crowd and they had missed him. A few spread that maybe he was dead, but others refused to believe it, since The Glare had been captured, it seemed impossible that Bartholomew would have been killed and they would have captured him. Perhaps it was an epic battle and The Glare had been wounded severely, although he didn’t appear to have sustained any serious wounds. As the rumors worsened and the despair deepened, the Keepers and Light Police that had not come down with The Glare, descended the stairs, in two lines, holding the bodies of Bartholomew and Roxanne between them, tears running down the faces of many. The worst fears and rumors were confirmed. What had moments before been a tremendous victory was made incredibly bittersweet, by the sight of Bartholomew. Roxanne’s body added depth, but she didn’t carry the same weight that Bartholomew did. Many were confused as to why she was there, since she had been executed by Bartholomew, but their questions were largely swallowed by grief and mourning. They didn’t know what awaited them any longer. They had been so sure, that all would end, either with their dramatic demise or with the victorious triumph of Bartholomew over The Glare. This middling victory singed with tragedy had never crossed their minds as a possibility. They had no one else to turn to. Bartholomew had been the leader, the one that would bring them peace.

Where would they turn? Who would bring them together and help them re-establish the Lighthouse? As the procession went outside, the square was filled with people, forming a circle around the Keepers that stood guard over The Glare and the lifeless bodies of Bartholomew and Roxanne. The crowd waited, the stillness of the dusk air punctured by sobs and the occasional sniffling. The sounds of grief casting a somber air over the entire proceedings. One of the Keepers that had witnessed the death of Roxanne and Bartholomew stepped forward to inform everyone, what had happened.

“Attention. I am sorry that I must speak, what will be spoken. As you have seen and heard, Bartholomew was killed during the attack. The young woman that lies next to him is Roxanne, the daughter of Fairfax, sentenced to execution, but somehow escaped. Her story dies with her. She gave her life for The Glare and her death led to sorrow and grief by Bartholomew and The Glare.”

“Please, call me Patrick,” The Glare said as he lifted his hands to pull off the patch that covered his blind eye.

There were scattered gasps among the crowd as some of the older Keepers recognized Patrick as the same Patrick that had been like a son to Fairfax and had supposedly been killed by an accident in the Radiant Tower, around the time of the Resolution. The Keeper that had been speaking, turned to him.

“Patrick, is it really you?”

“Yes, I had been gone, consumed by The Glare, but I have found my way back, thanks to the kindness and sacrifice of Roxanne.” Patrick could hardly speak the words without the tears beginning to flow and choking his words out through sobs.

“How could this have happened? You should be dead.”

“Yes, but my tale is long and twisted, shrouded in shadow, until love called me back.”

“Friends- We have lost greatly today, but that loss is coupled with a resurrection. Patrick, who had been dead, has returned.”

Reluctant cheers spread throughout the crowd, still consumed by grief and by confusion over Patrick and whether they should be grateful or upset that he remained alive. He seemed to be the cause of their pain and sorrow, but was being praised. Could they forget what he had done?

The Keeper recognized the internal struggle facing the crowd and addressed them again.

“Come now, Patrick is one of us. He strayed, but the work of the Lighthouse drove him away. He wanted to save the Light and desired all to partake of it. He may have been misguided and blinded, but there has been a change of heart. We must welcome him with open arms. No longer can we separate ourselves by petty differences. All that love the Light should live together. The Glare and the Keepers with the League. We all wanted what was best for Tiesa and what was best for the Light. As long as we continue to exclude those that challenge our beliefs and assumptions, we are doomed to failure. That much has been made clear. The Schism cannot be bridged by further alienation. Only by Love and reconciliation. Come, no one is bound. We have seen enough of Justice. The time has come for mercy.” As the Keeper spoke he turned to Patrick, bound hand and foot, and shattered the bonds with his crystal. He reached out and took Patrick by the hand, raising his arm with Patrick’s.

“Together the Light can conquer shadow. Together, we can truly have the Age of Light.”

The crowd embraced each other, Glare mingling with Keeper and Light Police. Something stirred within them that had been missing. They felt the power of compassion, the loss of fear. They looked past the differences that had brought them into conflict, many realizing that their friends and neighbors could have perished at their hands. Tears of grief mixed with tears of joy as the people of Tiesa realized that they could disagree yet all serve the Light.

As the crowd began to spread, communities were built. The crystals were shared and entrusted to Light posts stationed in high towers above different communities. All learned to care for the Light, becoming mini Keepers themselves. The Lighthouse was left in rubble, while the Light spread, covering more and more of Tiesa.