I thought of you in a dream.
Rather, my waking thoughts are like dreams--
A place to stay, to find a warmth
Now long past.
Rather, my waking thoughts are like dreams--
A place to stay, to find a warmth
Now long past.
The fragments, the memories, are held together by a figuratively thin piece of string. At times, it's hard for them to grasp that these things playing in their mind are only from a year ago. They are all pictures in a story that has reached its end. It's beautiful when one puts it that way. Come to think of it, they hadn't necessarily deemed much in their life 'beautiful' the way a fond memory feels. The nostalgia of their childhood holds a warmth like this story does, although a candle couldn't be held to the former. Who romanticizes a mercenary's experiences, and why do they specifically romanticize these parts?
Stalking the Lothar to those apartments, only to be pulled into fighting. To meet Josif and his rusted, dark blade that he never struck them outright. The reminder of how it felt to hit the pavement from his tripping foot brings a chuckle out of their mouth. And the sound of that amusement dies into contemplative, peaceful silence when the memory shifts to the image of him offering his hand to help them to their feet.
Weeks later, they had argued and fought, but never really fought like the job demanded. He'd fight anybody the job required him to. Vexed just the same. But Josif... He'd fight anyone he wanted to, facing the rush in the middle of the bloodshed and losing. He'd do it all to get back on his feet and repeat the process. That was his life. Time and time again, this was a lesson Vexes learned about him and refused to accept. It was stubborn of them, and it took them nine long months to fully understand why they clung to a false hope in the situation that was truly an abrupt interlinking of paths with Josif, with the Lothar, and the people they call companions even now.
"'I'll get you out of this,'" he said, gripping them by the shoulders. He had lucid sense in his eyes, then. He was human, not a mercenary driven to the fighting pits. "'Just tell me. Let me help you leave this all behind. This life isn't for you, Vexes.'"
"But it was," they whispered, pushing their hair away from their moving lips. The breeze was always stronger the higher up you ventured. Standing on an Amontaar tower, gazing at the vastness of the sea beyond the docks, they relished the feeling of being small. Embracing the reality of being a single person in a single part of the world was easy when the beauty ahead of them shone so brightly. "It's exactly what I'm meant to do. If you had stayed around, maybe we could have been friends, after all." The mercenary closed their eyes. In the distance, the cries of gulls intermingled with the whistle of winds. They could immerse themselves in the depths of their memories at the drop of a pin, so when the next ones returned as they once frequently did, Vexes held on to the tower more firmly and recalled the rest.
Finding Josif in the forest was a daily routine for them. They spent every waking hour managing the Keep and, in the quiet moments, searching for the one who had escaped. Had he gotten hurt? Killed? They could never be sure until they saw him, unmistakably clear, no longer the same - almost identical, but not quite.
"You're a bother to me, Vexes." The denial ripped at their skin like a beast, like the Demon that tore at their strength and willpower. The desperation to keep Josif alive and healthy practically burned their insides. It was weak for a mercenary to cry. "'Surefire way to die,'" said their uncle many years ago. He would never let them hear the end of it if he knew what any of this situation was. If he was here to witness his biological niece give in. But the dirt kept sliding beneath their knees no matter how hard they tried to hold the swordsman down. They couldn't find their composure. They couldn't look him in the eye. "You always have been!" They can't remember if they had screamed then or only imagined it.
Months ago, the memory pained Vexes and their tucked-away, hidden heartstrings. Just before they opened their eyes again, strangely, the image of that new sword they and Henry had put their money together for resurfaced. It was a dangerous weapon: all dark steel with a bone-like handle that screamed like its victims when the blade was swung. It was also a sign, Vexes and Henry both had hoped, to compel the swordsman to put aside his old way of living. It was a means to purchase his trust - to bribe the comfort of his nostalgic presence back into being. In reality, they both knew what good it would do. Lives would be lost to it. Lives more than likely have been.
And Josif's was likely gone too, or as good as gone.
He had reached his end, Vexes was sure of it. Either the damned blade was planted in the ground beside him or taken by wandering thieves. The grave they had prepared for him last winter would remain unlabeled. It would be closer to home whenever they should return from Amontaar. That lonesome, empty place would be where Vexes and Henry could go if they wanted to say anything to the dead.
When they opened their eyes, they were struck by the feeling they had grown accustomed to after the death of their old life. It was a numb acceptance, one that no longer caused them as much pain as it used to. Time spent away from everything solidified this feeling. Soon, they would return to the Mercenary Keep, which they called home, but they wouldn't be alone. The smiling faces of Henry, Fenric, Jean, Argo, Isa, and Meresankh came to mind. Vexes touched the friendship pendant they wore and then looked at the mesmerizing ripple of water moving towards the docks far below their feet. The tide was low. Vexes liked to imagine the possibility of capturing these moments in a memory bank and tossing it down to uncharted depths.
After briefly wrestling with their pride, they finally turned around to face the city directly. "Not this time," they muttered. "Maybe not ever." They were determined not to succumb to that temptation. Now, they have other interests. The allure of the ocean, which they can enjoy from various high vantage points, is one of them. The faded memory of what used to be is no longer worth the trouble.
Somewhere, you have passed away, Just like my dream of what I thought my life could be.
That's fine.
You can die, and I will keep on living.
Last edited:
