Rise Of Pandora: XLVII. The Pending Days

                                    

                                          
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XX. Stoic
                          
Like a pride of lions leaping to console their own, Maddard's body was swiftly surrounded by all constituents in the room, all besides Atlas and Baccus. Baccus stood up and looked at the crowd, but Atlas remained in his seat, glaring brazenly with two vigilant eyes. Noticing Atlas was still seated, Baccus stole a glance and witnessed a stern face that was undertoned by a hint of distress. He could clearly perceive two large veins rested upon his burning-red forehead like two islands enclosed by a red sea. He could not gauge why Atlas did not stand and console Maddard along with the others. Knowing Atlas, he would have been precipitate to help those ailing right before him, yet he did not do this. His father was in a state he had never peered upon before. There was something internally holding him back, but Baccus could not figure out what.
                          
Baccus looked to his feet mentally drained with his limbs overrun by sharp tingles and shivers. Weak to the feeling of wanting to vomit, he placed his right arm behind to gently lower himself back in the seat. His throat tightened and his mind became warped and cold. He was feeling it again. That black pit of melancholia. That whirling sea that was buffeted by the crushing winds of hopelessness. 
                          
Menacing thoughts ran amok inside of him. He was no longer himself. What was swirling within was anxiety and internal panic in the worst manner. He writhed in ardent trepidation. He could not rid himself of these thoughts. Countless times that man from the forest returned to haunt him.
                          
Baccus remembered how awful it was just trying to get near him just to fight, how the arrows tore through him like a spear whizzing through air. And staring into his hell-forged eyes during combat left a vacuous hole in the pit of his mind. It was as if no words could possibly put into understanding how scarring the whole ordeal was. There were times where he wanted to faint but he pressed on. There were times he felt he was going to be pierced by an arrow for good, but he did not falter. 
                          
He endured the physical trauma, but mentally he was beaten. The thought of having let go such a menacing brute back into the free world was killing him inside. But more so he felt his enemies were powerful beyond measure; beings of dark malevolence so black not even the holiest of rays could bring them to the light of justice. He did believe wholeheartedly in the Rare Men; however, he knew the pending days would not be so affable within Shyonnississ.
                          
He covered his face with the curve of his palm and sighed angrily. He could hear the commotion in the room and no one sounded too panicked about Maddard so he let himself be at ease. 
                          
Baccus narrowed his focus back to his thoughts, slowly preparing what he had to say for when it was his turn to speak. He had much to share; however, the weight of his words, he feared, might be too crushing for the rest to bear. On the surface, he knew he was himself, yet underneath there was this overwhelming sense of change, a negative response brought on by a darkness unearthed. He did not want to admit that such a horrid individual could speak words that struck so true to him and the reason these were words were so true was because he had always believed them his entire life. 
                          
Deep down, he never once valued human life to any extent, or any life for that matter, as something sacred nor had he ever considered himself a righteous man in the act of protecting others. He was a man who lived by few philosophies, feeling mostly like another passerby who went along on the journey that led seemingly nowhere, never once questioning the destination; only just living his life waiting to see what tomorrow will bring.
                          
Atlas' voice broke through the clutter of sounds. He placed the attention on the three noblemen, asking them to share their input. There was not very much that they told that was of any news to the Rare Men or the Sundarians for that matter. Other than family and their political affairs, they did not have much to tell that was new for the others in the room.