Wading

Waves crash against the shore in a gentle lullaby, the water enveloping the lone knight's feet. Even just this much holds the power to cool her mind and calm her senses. And she deserves this comfort, doesn't she? Had not she fought until she no longer had the strength to grip her blade? Was the whole of her being dedicated to her Goddess' cause? Surely, she had fallen alongside her comrade, not?

Of course, it was so. Noble Marjukka's love for the Blessed Lady and her people was without question; there was nothing she would not have done had her Lady only commanded her so.

So, why not enjoy this reprieve? Her feet move on their own. The rhythm of the waves guides them forward and deeper into the waters. Soon, their cool embrace is up to her chest, and it feels as if her spirit has been freed from the weight of her flesh.

But the sea is a fickle thing. It has been so since She was lost.

The lullaby is distorted into something chaotic and terrible, swelling angrily. It tosses the knight back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until it spits her back onto the beach. It rejects her. Yes, although her Lady has fallen silent, the seas must surely still carry her will. How could it accept one who had failed so gravely into its embrace? How could she be permitted to rest when this mind of hers still lingered? When her Lady's killer remained unpunished for his sins?

And so she stands on the beach, bewildered. The tears that fall threaten to drown her, but they do not join the sea. They are a river that has diverged and become their own inland sea. None can deny that they are their mother's child, yet they are so tenuously connected. How might they be once more made whole?

A different song kisses her ears and snakes its way inside of her head. It coils itself around her mind and drags her away from the shore. Embedded in the ground, her sword stands unblemished. No, that isn't true. Her tears have tainted it, and so it carries the wrath she does not have the will to muster. Take Me Up; Cast Me Away. There is no choice to be made. To remain in this place, so close and yet so far, would be a worse fate than a thousand deaths.

When she takes hold of the blade, it pulls her away. Away from this tainted dream and into something worse. Air rushes to fill her lungs as she emerges from the depths and suffocates her. A great king of albatrosses hangs from her neck, heavy with life. What a cruel thing it is to drag her back to this world. What a cruel thing it was for her to die. Her hand grips her blade in a death grip. Acceptance. Acknowledgment. There is only one reason for her being.

Out of the grave, she rises. An azure standing defiantly against the red sun. Faded as she is, this is a severe insult. The Demon Lord had one, had he not? How could these Champions dare to rise against him after death? It's hardly fair. They should be cowed, groveling wastes if they're to live at all. To march forward without hesitation and cut down the demons and beasts that come — how terrible, how terrible.

Oh, but to see such a solemn march is still worse for them, for the star has still lost its luster.

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Pub: 04 May 2025 06:19 UTC

Edit: 04 May 2025 15:45 UTC

Views: 171