"When you have come to the edge Of all light that you know And are about to drop off into the darkness Of the unknown, Faith is knowing One of two things will happen: There will be something solid to stand on or You will be taught to fly"- Patrick Overton

Late Summer 1942,

Stalingrad.

Vladimir was listening conscientiously to the radio broadcast anticipating a possible German attack on the city when his only sister Anna interrupted him for the breakfast.

Vladimir and Anna had lost their parents in their early childhood and since then,had lived and survived together,and were the pillars of support in each other's lives.

- Anna, will this bloody mayhem ever end? For how long people like us will keep foraging in our own lands, desperately seeking for a whiff of peace, a morsel of humanity?

Anna sat along her brother and held his hands.

- Have you heard a requiem for the fallen stars? Tell me Vladimir, for how many dying seconds has the time ever stopped and mourned? For how many lives has the life chosen to bend its natural penchant of going on eternally? Have faith my brother, every sacrifice bears the fruit of future harmony.

- Anna after all this,you still talk of faith? Life has always robbed us of whatever precious we had in our miserable little lives. Tell me oh Anna, Why should I have faith in anything whatsoever?

Anna was constantly gazing at the river Volga through the window of her one room apartment as she spoke.

-Rivers and lives have only one major thing in common. Both of them yearns to surrender themselves to the most superior, to the most pious, to the one who could bear them as a whole. Rivers know the ocean and lives fake the oceans for the scare of depths.

In the next few days an intensive Luftwaffe attack reduced much of the city to the ruins.Majority of the workers of the factory joined the fighting. Vladimir's factory continued production despite the war but deep inside he knew that sooner or later he will be forced to join the war.

Anna chose to offer her services through building trench works and fortifications for the Soviet forces against the Nazi Germany.

23rd August 1942,

Stalingrad.

The elite Nazi Germany's Luftwaffe pounded the city, causing a firestorm killing thousands and turning the city into a parched panorama, comprising mainly of burnt ruins and debris.

The Soviets reported killing of 955 people and 181 wounded.

Vladimir continued to work diligently in his T-134 manufacturing factory,which had always been the most sought after target of the German Luftwaffe.

Meanwhile, Anna, on the basis of her exhibiting impeccable valor and diligence towards her nation, was immediately recruited in the 1077th Anti-Aircraft regiment, a unit comprising mainly of the female volunteers who had not received any training and were without support.

The Soviet Air force, the Voeno-Vozdushnye Sily(VVS) suffered severely by the German air raids.

It was literally swept aside by the Luftwaffe.From 23rd to 31st Aug, the VVS lost 201 aircraft and it was left with just 192 serviceable aircraft, only 57 of which were fighters.

The herculean task of initial defense of the city fell upon the shoulders of AA regiment, in which Anna had chosen voluntarily to serve. They had to stay at their posts and face the advancing German Panzers.

05th Sep,1942

Stalingrad

To counter the perpetual German onslaught, the Soviet 24th and 66th Armies propelled an offensive attack against the German XIV Panzerkorps. On the merit of his knowledge in the artillery, Vladimir was called upon to be in this war by the Soviet commander.

The German retaliation proved too arduous for the Soviet Armies. The Luftwaffe fired hell from the skies, pounding heavily upon the Soviet artillery and defensive lines. In this gruesome battle, the Soviets lost 30 tanks of their 120 tanks to the air attacks and were forced to withdraw in the midday.

Vladimir had never witnessed the war from so close. He was feeling himself like an insect crawling on the beds of hell, fearing to be trampled under the feet of the bewilder souls running amok.

Restless in his chamber, he was called upon the commander.

With a gleam of patriotism and sincerity upon his face, he went to meet the commander.

- At ease Vladimir, its been a severe day for all of us.

- Yes sir, it has been.

-Vladimir I called you to announce a very bad news.

The AA regiment confirmed the death of your sister, Anna.She fought with exceptional bravery and they are planning to confer her with gallantry award.

Of her possessions, we received this letter addressed for you. I want you to have it and we have decided to relieve you of further sufferings. You need not to be in this war anymore, Vladimir.

With trembling hands and frozen mind, Vladimir took the letter and went back limping to his chamber like a pain inflicted hiatus of the agonizing day.

Finally, he mustered the courage to open and read the letter.

Dear Vladimir,

War has finally knocked on the doors of our lives with her brutal hands. No surprise, it has ripped apart every possible fabric of humanity, every notion of compassion from the already arid souls and minds of the faith deprived us.

Do you remember Vladimir when I had told you about the major synonymy of human lives and the river of abandoning to the something pious, something complete.

During the war, when I was digging the trenches as a fortification for the soviet Army, I used to listen to the river Volga. In her, I felt that her yearning to redeem herself in the ocean was never altered by the ongoing war. I felt in here the same solace as I used to feel when we used to come here in our childhood days.

She never bothered to mend her course off the ocean despite fire upon her chest and hell from the skies. She knew her truth, her purpose. Everything else for her is a bend in her path or a prelude before the redemption.

So Vladimir, why can't we, in our miserable little lives adhere to our purpose, our redemption and our truth?

Faith, my brother, is like a fortress, that demands sacrifices to ablaze the deviation from the just.

This war and the many wars to come are nothing but a chance to reinforce this fortress.

To die or to live was never in our hands, although, we can always choose to be the last man standing in this war and many other wars to come in this life, not only to defend the fortress but to see it grow and beyond.

Yours forever

Anna.

Vladimir was standing on the bank of the river Volga. He could hear the distant fusillade in the dim background of the stars and melancholic flow of the river. He wiped the tears off with the running water and drifted the letter in the water saying, "May you too be with your ocean forever..".

Vladimir never left this war and millions of other to come…

___________________End___________________

It had been a cold, dreary autumn evening in Queens, New York. Standing at the shop counter Laurence looked into space in a vain attempt to divert his mind from shelves of vulgarity surrounding him. He had initially taken his job at Explosive Tingles as a part-time stint during his freshman year at college but, now that he had dropped out, it had become his prison. He grunted lightly.

“I’ll take this and I want half an hour of the show.”

A slightly embarrassed looking old man placed a large container of lubricant and a collection of magazines onto the counter. Laurence’s eyes scanned the merchandise, mentally calculating the total owed as well as cannily scrutinizing some of the content.

“Sir, we actually have an offer on lube at the moment; you may purchase two large bottles and get twenty per cent off the second one. Would you be interested?” Laurence was not being a conscientious employee of Explosive Tingles out of pure altruism, the twenty per cent deal was in fact was one of his many scams.

The man considered the question. He resembled a demented wisp with his thin emaciated face graced with frizzy white hair, which appeared to pop out of his head in all directions. The crowning glory of this risible wonder was a fedora and long trench coat. “Public masturbator trench coat,” thought Laurence, suppressing a smirk. Judging by the look of the man, Laurence was certain he would go for the deal.

“Thanks, I appreciate you mentioning it—I’ll definitely do the deal.”

“Here you go Sir, that’s twelve dollars ninety-five.”

The man handed him a fifty-dollar note. Laurence swore in his head, he hated it when customers failed to consider his delicate change inventory.

“Sir, you wouldn’t happen to have anything smaller than that?”

The man fumbled around in his wallet.

“Sorry, looks like I’m out.”

Laurence smiled at the man and said, “No problem Sir.” Whilst cursing the man-pixie inwardly. Another happy customer thought Laurence, grinning as he removed his “winnings” from the till.

He looked around the store for other customers, no one had since come in. Peering up at the sex themed clock on the wall, Laurence could see that the small dildo was pointed at one and the big dildo at six; it was 01:30. He had one hour left before his shift ended. Drawing in breath he started reading his self-help book, entitled somewhat unoriginally “How to get rich.” Ever since Laurence had dropped out of college he had been trying frenetically to come up with some new ways of making money. He had an intense, undying desire to become wealthy¬ and was determined to do anything to escape the malaise that hung over his life. Having spent countless hours religiously reading the life stories of well-known rich people, self-help guides and business manuals and making pain staking efforts to absorb any relevant wisdom—he was still very much not rich. As the days went by Laurence was getting increasingly desperate for a way out of his ***-stained confinement.

The silence of the shop was broken by voices emanating from behind him. On turning around he noticed that customers were beginning to pour out of the doorway leading to the booths at the back of the store. The show might be over, but Laurence’s work was just getting started. Sullenly he trudged over to grab a mop and bucket from behind the counter.

“Fuck my life,” he muttered.

The clean-up was a slow painful affair; a war of attrition. To Laurence his mop was the heavy artillery and the sterilising agents were air support. He soldiered on, sweeping the booths for signs of bodily fluids before neutralizing them with an assortment of cleaning materials. After what seemed like an eternity of purgatory his task was complete. He said good night to the girls before shutting up shop and beginning his long walk home, relishing the temporary reprieve from his duties.

Each step Laurence took away from his accursed workplace was that much lighter, each thought that much brighter. Just as his th oughts were beginning to drift away from his daily drudgery he was brought back to sober reality by a sharp pang of pain coursing through his body. He had just walked straight into an impressively shiny chrome motorbike, which had been parked oddly across the sidewalk.

“How rude!”

Laurence thought whilst still reeling from the self inflicted blow. He made to begin walking again before noticing the keys were still in the ignition. A guilty thought flashed through his mind and Laurence stopped in his tracks. He looked around furtively as if the very act of thinking about stealing the bike was, in itself, a crime.

Laurence considered his options. He could steal the bike and have an exhilarating evening of daring-do before being thrown in jail. Or, he could simply walk on by and continue with his dreary legitimate life. With little hesitation and with even less self-awareness Laurence vaulted onto the vehicle as a frenzied Mongol warrior would mount his warhorse. This was going to be a night to remember. He revved up the engine with deliberate intent as if to allow anyone within earshot to partake in his moment of cathartic self-discovery.

“Knight of the road. Knight of the road!” He bawled at the top of his voice. Terrence Laurence’s crusade had begun.

__________________END_________________

Gwendolyne looked down the long table to where her new husband sat and tried not to think about him. With a little luck he would be gone soon. Gone to the war that was brewing on the freezing Wessex March, Perceval’s new kingdom. Gone by the morning, so went the rumour.

Good. She already hated him thoroughly.

Perceval though, the last of Arthur’s original Round Table, was delighted. She watched him now as he delivered his speech at their wedding, swaying as he spoke, goblet in hand about his happiness in uniting his family with the only daughter of the late King and Guinevere.

Gwendolyne stared at the floor.

Is it there?

The voice whispered in her head again, insistent, cold…

Morgan the Witch. Morgan, her aunt. There was no escaping her, the Wise One who had continued her training after Guinevere’s death.

Yes. It’s here…. She replied. She had found it days ago.

Don’t worry about Perceval. The voice continued. He’s a holy fool…. He has no idea…. No idea what the Grail can really do.

Gwendolyne knew this already. The Grail had immense powers. And not just over death….

I’ll get it tonight. I hate this place. And when we have it you can raise my father and we will restore Camelot and then….

Yes, my little one. Bring it to me…..and we will go to Avalon together….to rule again….

Something touched her mind though, soft as a bat’s squeak against the edges of Gwendolyne’s highly trained consciousness. Her eyes flew open, searching the room.

She saw her at once, standing at the back. The strange woman in the white mask. They had told her the story when she had come there, how she had been found half dead in the forest, how Percival himself had saved her from the wolves, but not before she had been horribly disfigured. Now she wore a white mask carved from deer antler that made her look like one of the Dead.

The girl disappeared from the room and Gwendolyn made her excuses and hurriedly followed her, her senses overwhelmed with a uncanny feeling of dread.

And there she was. At the end of the long corridor of the royal suites, she was waiting for her. They proceeded directly into Gwendolyne’s own chambers.

‘Who are you?’ Gwendolyne demanded once they had gained the room.

The woman turned to face her, her white mask cold and expressionless.

‘Gwennyt, my lady’.

A familiar name. She’d heard it before.

‘Gwennyt…. who named you?’

‘I do not know my lady. They said they found a locket with this name where my lord Perceval found me….’

Get away from her!

Morgan. Morgan was screaming in her head. Gwendolyne tried to shut her out.

Don’t touch her. Get away, get out! Now!

Why shouldn’t I touch her? Gwendolyne wondered. Then she realized. Morgan knew something. Something she wanted kept secret.

‘Give me your hand Gwennyt’ she commanded

NO! Don’t touch her!

The white face stared down expressionlessly at the outstretched hand, and Gwendolyne noticed that the long hair that flowed around the mask was the same flame red as hers.

Their fingers touched.

Gwendolyne recoiled like she’d been bitten.

‘Take off that mask. Take it off at once!’ she commanded.

But she already knew. Knew before she saw the remains of that twisted face, with the cheekbone jutting out and the twisted lips. What the wolf had left.

It was a familiar face.

For it was her own face.

‘Sister….’ Gwendolyne whispered.

The face did not move, but the hand did.

The point of the knife found Gwendolyn’s throat and drove in to the hilt. And as she staggered back across the room, the last thing that she ever saw was her sister calmly replacing the white bone mask as if ending their relationship before it had even begun.

Gwennyt stood over the body of her sister and smiled to herself. Never again would Arthur draw breath through the magic of the Grail. The witchcraft of Morgan would not prevail here. And Perceval, who had given up so much to gain his prize, would not be a pawn of a reborn Camelot again.

To the man who had saved her from the wolves as a starving child, she owed this much.

__________________END_________________