In “Blood Merid­i­an,” after five days of grim trav­el, the group con­tin­ues through cast-off rem­nants of the dead and harsh land­scapes. Rid­ing on the dead man’s horse, they nav­i­gate through Cas­tro­ville, cross­ing rivers and enter­ing a bar­ren wilder­ness. The expe­di­tion con­sists of sol­diers, scouts, and a cap­tain who sur­vey the stark, des­o­late envi­ron­ment filled with dust and emp­ty ter­rain. Their days are char­ac­ter­ized by silence, the oppres­sive heat, and the con­stant thud of hooves, as game becomes scarce and food obtained from hunt­ing wild ass­es.

The sergeant, well-armed with a spe­cial­ized rifle, skill­ful­ly shoots ante­lope and shares the spoils with the men, who enjoy exu­ber­ant cama­raderie around evening fires. How­ev­er, the jour­ney is fraught with sick­ness and loss, as two men suc­cumb to ill­ness and are buried hasti­ly with crude tools, mark­ing the harsh­ness of their real­i­ty. The des­o­la­tion height­ens as the sun ris­es omi­nous­ly, cast­ing elon­gat­ed shad­ows on the dusty ground, sym­bol­iz­ing their dis­con­nec­tion from life.

As they ride, wolves stalk them, scav­eng­ing for scraps, while their wag­ons dete­ri­o­rate from relent­less trav­el. After ten days, they come upon skele­tons and rem­nants of pri­or trav­el­ers, a stark reminder of their mor­tal­i­ty. The harsh land­scape drains their ener­gy; they find them­selves rid­ing by night, nav­i­gat­ing under an illu­mi­nat­ed sky, with the wind dri­ving fine dust into their faces.

They pause in a des­o­late area to rest and regroup, expe­ri­enc­ing an oth­er­world­ly storm with elec­tric lights and an unset­tling atmos­phere. A prayer for rain marks a moment of vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty before they receive a brief respite with drops of water, pro­vid­ing some solace. But the jour­ney con­tin­ues through suf­fo­cat­ing heat and over bar­ren ground, lead­ing them to a soli­tary, life­less hut marked by despair.

Upon find­ing a dust-cov­ered old man hid­ing there, the captain’s inter­ro­ga­tion reveals noth­ing but fear and con­fu­sion. As they set­tle down to rest, they pre­pare for the next leg of their haz­ardous trek across unfor­giv­ing ter­rain, haunt­ed by their sur­round­ings and the specter of what may yet come .

Days turned to many before we could again cross paths with Lib­er­ty 5–3000, whom we’ve secret­ly named the Gold­en One. It was a pecu­liar day when the sky resem­bled a vast spread of flames, mak­ing the fields appear breath­less under its eerie glow. On such an after­noon, as the women slug­gish­ly tend­ed to their chores, dis­tanced from the road, we encoun­tered the Gold­en One, soli­tary by the hedge as if await­ing us. Their gaze, ordi­nar­i­ly harsh and reluc­tant to yield to the world, soft­ened upon meet­ing ours, reveal­ing an unspo­ken readi­ness to heed any word from us.

With a new­found bold­ness, we con­fessed, “We have giv­en you a name in our thoughts, Lib­er­ty 5–3000. You are the Gold­en One to us.” Curi­ous, they inquired about the name we’ve attrib­uted to them and upon learn­ing it, they dis­closed they had­n’t thought of us as Equal­i­ty 7–2521 either but as “The Uncon­quered.” This exchange left us momen­tar­i­ly speech­less, for it was a for­bid­den plea­sure to indulge in such per­son­al thoughts.

Acknowl­edg­ing the dan­ger yet unable to refrain, we admit­ted to our for­bid­den mus­ings and implored, “Our dear­est one, do not obey us.” This sen­ti­ment, so rare and taboo, stunned the Gold­en One, prompt­ing them to request we repeat those words. Our dec­la­ra­tion, “Our dear­est one,” sym­bol­ized an unprece­dent­ed breach of norms, nev­er before had men addressed women in such a man­ner.

The Gold­en One’s reac­tion was a solemn sub­mis­sion; they stood before us, tran­quil and col­lect­ed, their body lan­guage a tes­ta­ment to their accep­tance and per­haps, a silent pledge of rec­i­p­ro­ca­tion. This moment marked a piv­otal and per­son­al rev­o­lu­tion in our tale, as two beings dared to con­nect beyond the con­fines of their dic­tat­ed exis­tences.