Better Angels

He’d almost worn it smooth. The once-fine embossment had ground away in his sandpaper grasp, but none of the luster. Of all the things to make a mirror. Wrapping the fine chain twice around his soot black hand, he palmed the heart into its’ familiar groove. He found it hardly even bothered him as he worked these days. So much work, so many days.

The destruction had been absolute, swift and without prejudice. Gutters ran with blood and the sky took on the surreal miasmic orange-grey of conflict gone too far. Fields burned (hadn’t hunger been the root of this?) and sprawling cities became their own gravestones. Sepulchral monuments to hot tempers. Surely, no one ever wanted this. Had compromise truly failed?

Of course, the arguments had dragged for years. Politics had been a powder keg as long as he could remember, hadn’t it always been? Shouting down the opposition was a time-honored tradition, a ritual even, in great halls of government, in the changing of money, at parties, at the kitchen table. His lip twitched, practically a grin, as he thought of May lecturing him over a fine meal. She’d been so headstrong, so sharp, so sure she was right. She had been. He was so proud of her.

The fires blazed, they always did. There had been a time the skin of his face would smart at the radiating heat but he soon learned a person could get used to just about anything. The oily sheen of sweat and ash turned his gaunt features into a death mask, his thinning hair into a sodden veil. Fire played in distorted reflection in his eyes and on greasy whorls on his face. He knew it did, he saw it when he looked at the heart in his hand. He saw it in the faces of fellow survivors. Survivors. He hadn’t found anyone in days, yet he shoveled and searched. Dug and rooted. Shouted and implored. His voice had gone days ago and he doubted there was enough water in the world to calm his burning throat. Maybe there was no one. It was certainly a possibility, no matter how many had called the giant tenement home just a couple weeks ago. Weeks? What was he even looking for? Corpses needed no succor. No reprisal. No food or shelter, no punishment or celebration. He caught motion to his right, ragged figures scurrying over twisted metal and jagged concrete glazed with what had once been windows.

A mother and a daughter. A young mother and daughter. Of course they were. They made him think of Lin and May as soon as he’d found them. They were younger. May was nearly a woman when the talking had stopped, and Lin had begun to gray long before. He saw their faces on the survivors. Superimposed by his mind’s eye. He never opened the locket anymore, he was afraid of what the acrid smog would do to its’ cargo. He didn’t need to. He knew every line and freckle, remembered every expression. As they trudged to the others he gazed at his visage in the palm of his hand. He didn’t remember it.

As they neared the outpost, he lamented that he would just be turning around. No rest for the weary, people were still out there. He would take a splash of water and set right back out. To another slag heap, another reminder of folly he could never control or even impact. Not truly anyway. The pride and detachment of the chattering leaders taken final form. True form. Nevertheless, work to be done. Survivors and victims to be pulled from the wreckage.

At intake he had been briefly heartened, buoyed even. Many had been found, progress had been made. He set out to his next search vector, encouraged and strong. Bolstered. Maybe he could look just this time. It was a special occasion, felt like one. Two shots rang out behind him. Unmistakable. Crisp. His lip twitched. They had had to go, after all. Lazy mouths, idle hands. If they had been right, they would have won. He opened his palm, his own smile greeted him. He opened the locket. His angels smiled back at him.

They had had to go, all of them.