The End of the Black Swan

This is a translation of the last few paragraphs from the best piece I 've ever written, back when I was a biker guy, in the time before I was yet burned out and the time before I got such a block that I have never been able to finish anything since (well, almost... I finished something and then I lost it). Yes, before that I completed my stories.

Those were innocent times. For me, at least. I knew I had something that nobody else had and I was determined to stick with it and keep it growing, no matter what people might think. That was the time when people thought I listened to Black Metal bands because I wanted to impress. When people listened to Diamanda Galas and told each other "wow, she's great, isn't it, fascinating" and then turned the volume down for fear of the neighbours complaining.
Back then I wasn't ashamed to be pompous and epic, and I hadn't yet grasped the concept of being delighted with something you consider to be below your level of intellectual accomplishment. I liked my stories flashy and colorful, as much so as possible and if I became cheesy and tacky in places, well, so much for good taste. Who needs it.

I was deeply in a love affair with words when I wrote "The End of the Black Swan" and, yes, Chaikovsky's piece had everything to do with it. I timed the end of the story so that it followed the rythm of the famous refrain (come on, you know the one, don't make me sing it...). My friends who thought I was trying to impress them with my Black Metal would never have thought it.

The original is in Greek of course. It's a shame that my English can't hold a candle to my Greek. Of course, you 'll have to take my word for it.

(...)

But how can I write about the fires and the explosions? I write of the destructive screams of the Loudguns that raped the desert air when Spiritu and his Black Army turned to take the sunrise. And I know that only those who heard them singing, like no other human weapon did, will know and shiver like I do. I remember the roar of the machines and the flashes of light that kept the night from hiding the angels guiding the souls of the dead through the golden gates of heaven. The deluge of missiles, and the blood that were enough to spark life into the barren sand and make flowers of steel and crystal grass sprout on the dunes. Fields of moans were sawn with dying soldiers and the few civilians, mad with horror walked crying between them, defying danger, to deprive them mercifully from pain. The wrecks of the machines and the ruins of the buildings fell incessantly like murderous rain and filled the gaping craters.

The Black Army, was it winning or losing? I still don't know. And it's still too early to say, four years later what will finally happen and what will become of it's world empire. It was therefore impossible to say at the time, when Spiritu met Hassan in the field of battle.

Death presented himself to Spiritu in the form of a respectable enemy. It couldn't have been done in any other way. Neither would Spiritu accept it, nor Death allow. For the Nightmare Warlord, the Eater of All dressed up. He adorned his cold authority with the body of a legendary warrior. He took the form of an ancient leader of men, an old of days warlord, Hassan, before whom everybody trembled, even on that day, which belonged to an age when everybody had forgotten him. But he was still alive. Hidden from the eyes of history, lost in the whispers of legends. Yet, Destiny called him to reveal himself. And who was even he, Hassan of Sabbah, to disobey?

He met Spiritu galloping on the back of a horse of Arabia, of blood pure as stardust. That, was Death. Such was the runner whom Spiritu had outrun. When the dust from the horse's hooves settled, Hassan dismounted, threw away his cloak and unsheathed his yatagan. "Your opponent is inside me, Spirit Black" he said and that meant he was such a man, that he had recognised the power which moved his body and didn't even for a moment think to hide it behind the fragile mask of his self-importance. Then, "He will fight you, with my hand. Good luck to you." And, undoing his headband, he let his white hair down, signaling the submission of even his own personnal faith to the power of Death.

Spiritu had stopped fighting for some time. He had been watching the cloud of dust raised by Hassan's gallop and tasting drop by drop the feeling flowing from his heart. "He comes", I saw him whispering. And in the time he had left until he reached him, he gave the belt with his blunt weapons to one of his companions along with the keys of his Nightmare Machine and spoke the words he was keeping inside him, last ones, so as not to let his time put any more in his mouth:
- I am free and F O R E V E R I dream! Glory!

And so, when Hassan, his eyes burning with awe and pride for the honor he was being done, raised his blade, Spiritu accepted the challenge with just his war cry: the manic ullulation that had roused the black waves who had fought and conquered the world.

In the temple of the god of war, amid the broken bodies of his few followers and the many enchanted by his dangerous charm, all of whose hearts his deadly ecstasy had touched, they danced their infinite dance. Only warriors like them could have danced it as perfectly. For it is really infinite. And in that, impossible for anyone to dance, or know it, all. Their thrusts and maneuvers, their attacks and parries, those were it's steps, which are never repeated. It's rythm, the art in the use of weapons of the two men, of whom either looked to be winning at times. They were dancing to the tune of their ecstatic mania and Death watched them, seized by the beauty and magnificence. They turned, they whirled, they thrust and parried.

Until Hassan took Spiritu's head. The blood that sprang was made of light and to all was revealed that which hides in the darkness. His body, headless, spread and raised his hands in worship, Worship, WORSHIP and fell on the sand and became a shadow. His shadow in the light that welled from inside him. His shadow spread and became a lake and his severed head, screaming a cry of lightning and golden fire, fell and sank inside it. And his face was lost and only the white like star light of his eyes and his forehead remained. It had the shape of a wide smile and it looked like a half moon. Amid the banners planted in the sand and the flags black, it turned into light and it turned into lightning. And it turned into a column of white light that pierced the sky and shot into space. The black lake of his shadow siphoned away and disappeared as if it was sucked inside the column of the light from his eyes. The column itself disappeared from the eyes of the world. Spiritu became the hand that held the bow that strung the string that shot the arrow. Spiritu became the arrow. "Ohpan Velo". He had said. That he wanted the Oh! the Everything! for Ever!, like an arrow it's target. Spiritu died. Spiritu found his target. Spiritu touched, Spiritu held, Spiritu embraced, Spiritu lighted, Spiritu became Everything for Ever.

Spiritu Died, for Ever.