Ishari - chapter 3: Endgame - part 3 of 4
#3 of Ishari
Her name was Belle. She was a tall, regal woman who favored long black gowns. She kept her hair cut short and always carried herself with a confident poise. She felt these qualities were important, and had spent a lifetime cultivating them.
She was, after all, Matriarch of the Ishari. She hadn't earned the title through any mechanism of politics or tradition. The Ishari simply followed her. And she took the responsibility seriously.
She stood on a balcony overlooking the bridge of the Ishari flag ship. This balcony and the cabins behind it were for her and her family only. No one else was allowed up here. This rule wasn't written down any where, no edict had ever been given. But no Ishari outside her family would even consider entering this space.
From here she could watch all the activity going on down below in the spacious and open bridge of the flag ship. Everyone was on task and performing their duties as expected. But there was an excitement in the air so thick you could almost feel it.
The source of their excitement was the planet currently filling the main view screen: Wren. Every bit as beautiful as she remembered. She looked at the planet and felt a sense of awe she would never allow to show on her face. Forty years of hardship and sacrifice had gotten them here. And now their journey was nearly over.
Belle noticed something on the view screen. Hovering above the planet were three confederate ships. So, she thought to herself, someone in the Confederacy has a brain.
She wondered what sort of trouble that wayward commander would be facing for breaking ranks and following his instincts. What ever it was, she respected him instantly. Beyond that she paid the ships no mind. Those three little ships were no threat to them.
She looked above the view screen to the large painting that hung there. She often looked at it when she was anxious. It brought her comfort. It was a portrait of a noble looking man in his thirties wearing a military uniform. His most noticeable feature, however, was the scar running vertically across his left eye. Even after all this time, that scar brought up conflicting emotions.
She was only fourteen when it happened, but she remembered it clearly. She had run to him to tend to his wounds, but he had refused her. He had simply stood there before the clan elders, his face covered in blood. He threw his dagger into the dirt and spoke to the most powerful men from the largest clans of the Ishari. His speech had such passion, such fire. And she knew - they all knew - that that was the moment the Ishari had become one people.
She closed her eyes and let out a sigh.
"I wish you could be here to see this, my love," she whispered to herself.
A door opened behind her, and someone walked onto the balcony. She knew before turning that it would be her grandson. The boy who was walking toward her was, in almost every detail, a younger version of the man in the painting.
He walked up and stood beside her with his hands clasped behind him. He just stood there in comfortable silence staring out over the bridge at the view screen in front of them.
"Is that Wren?" He eventually asked.
"Yes," she said, continuing to look forward.
Another moment of silence, then;
"Do you think she's still there?"
Belle looked down at her grandson for a moment.
"Of course she is," she said, "She has to be. Otherwise what is all of this for?"
She saw his eyes wonder up to the painting, and he looked at it for a moment.
"It's sad that grandfather couldn't be here for this."
On hearing this she looked back up at the painting. She laid her hand gently on his shoulder.
"He would be very proud of you," She said to him.
She looked down at him, then allowed herself a smile. He was trying his hardest to mask the pride he felt from her statement.
For the first time since walking onto the balcony, her grandson looked up at her, a question burning in his eyes.
"Grandmother," he said, "Will you tell the story?"
She was suddenly the focus of the entire bridge. Every Ishari knew the story, but they never tired of hearing it. Especially from her. Of the twenty seven people present that day, she was the only one left alive.
She looked at her grandson. Then at the hopeful eyes of the bridge. Then to the planet on the view screen. And then, slowly, her eyes moved to the painting. Having decided, she looked back down to the bridge.
"It will take a few hours to reach the planet," she said, "Begin moving the fleet forward, and I will tell the story."
Everyone jumped to their duties, eager to be under way, and eager to hear the story again. As for Belle, she stared intently at the planet.
"After all this time," she said quietly to herself, "I finally get to meet you, Helen Sterling."