i’ve been training like a soldier; i’ve been burning through this sorrow
Once, he had been a soldier.
Renowned. Revered. Trusted amongst the people of his kingdom.
He had been stalwart in his duties. In his responsibilities. He had been steadfast in his conviction and the direction of his home. Where they led, he followed. Where they asked him to kill, he did so without reservation. He stained his hands again and again with the blood of their enemies. He did not question why they had such a war or what would come of it. Did not wonder at the generations of loss.
He simply picked up the sword and slashed—again, and again, and again.
But this time, it is different.
This time, when the worlds collided and his home found Beqanna. When the storm ripped through the land and brought Stratos down. When he could feel the rumbling of war on the tide, he did not feel his pulse surge forward. He did not charge toward his General. Could not fumble his way toward the sword.
There was something in him that halted his hand. Something that weighed him down. Was it doubt? Was it fear? To him, it felt like exhaustion—like confusion. It was heavy and thick, and he woke with a pounding head each day. He retreated, knowing it was akin to treason to not report every day. He slipped into the water until he expanded along it, until all of his liquid bones melted into nothing.
Until he was just cells rushing along the current.
And when darkness fell, he slipped to the surface—to that old battleground where he had fought and killed and felt his own body rip apart. He reformed himself until his feet felt solid and he trudged forward, dripping slowly onto this cursed land. There is a sigh, or perhaps just an exhale, as he comes to the edge of the ruins. A quiet clicking as he acquaints himself to the area and those who inhabit it before he comes to a stop, his hip brushing against a large rock—and then, only then, does he drop his head slowly.
nyktos