"It is the morning of March 20th in this year of 309 AC,
where I am greeted with the capable volunteer and daresay friend
who offers their arcane-wielding hand to be my voice and my pen.
I owe a good explanation to those above, with, and below me; to justify the
disasters, or the 'wilting' as my cousin, the good Duke, often refers to it. So we shall
write this personal account together."
* * * * *
There are things about fighting that are less discussed than its glories.
No books told me about how the armor never quite fits you as it's meant to if it wasn't commissioned for your stature. I never read anything about how the straps and ties come loose very often if you move too much or incorrectly.
Boarding the ships to the southern fields felt much like a very dry, extensive castaway dream. No matter how much I closed my eyes and opened them again, we never seemed to budge for long on those decks, and I found myself wishing to awaken with a vigor I scarcely feel in these years of my life.
Just as it felt to be crammed so many bodies in the lines we formed. It was hot, uncomfortable, full of perspiring beyond comparison. But I tell you, it was what I envisioned: That dream was real and sitting at my fingertips.
I don't remember when the fighting began. Everything moved about so quickly; like the fluttering white of the spinning dancers in the Imperial Hall. Flashing, moving, blurring before one's blinks could register it all. Witnessing glimpses of one face met with another. Was I dreaming then?
It was quite strange, one such passing glance earned me. One of the soldiers I stood beside in the formation--he seemed to almost recognize me, though we had never met before. What do you think it meant? ... A mystery of battle, or so we can believe.
How am I meant to describe it? Suddenly, we were charging and standing together, and suddenly we were not. My mind felt so vacant yet overflowing simultaneously: I could both think and not manage a single coherent thought, and it was in this episode of confusion that the retreat was imminent, but I was not moving with them.
I wanted to. My legs were trying to head in that very same direction. But something hit me and it wouldn't let go, no matter how much I swung and tried to pry it away.
My armor felt so hot and unforgiving then, too, just like it had when we stood in the lines, shoulder to shoulder. It felt as hot as when one stands in the sun much too long in the later months of summer, and then beyond that--and all I could do was hope someone heard me over everyone else.
I screamed, but I did not know who to scream for first. I didn't know who would come to find me. I couldn't see. At some point, I stopped running and I was still, and I surely thought someone had taken me up then, but something hammered on my leg and my shoulder, and it was the sorest I'd been. Sorer than hours in the fencing hall.
I don't really remember what happened past that. It hurt too terribly, so I thought to think about other things. I think I slept for a moment, too. But even in my sleep, I couldn't forget how contagiously hot the armor felt and how it seemed to reach my bones.
When I woke up, I realized I was screaming still, and I was swinging in the arms of someone much stronger than I. He saved me, I'm sure of it. Someone who even managed to free me from that smoldering armor piece by piece. I hope Markus can forgive the damages; I don't think the armor can be salvaged.
It wasn't just for a dream, you know. It was the dream that carried me there, so far away, but the dream didn't die out on those fields like so many passed and lost their lives. I know what people will likely tell me. I know that Markus told me this is the cost of my childish ambition, but can I not still dream? Even if my efforts paint me a faceless stowaway forever, this life will not be faceless to me. If I am faceless to the rest, what does it matter if it is my reflection that reminds me of the dream I didn't relent on?
It is all I have in this crowded room. When I am left to my own independence, catered only by the pin-drop silence and the weighted, wordless trepidation by the many medics and healers that see to me otherwise; and I am left to only gaze upon myself and what parts of me are left; and I wonder if I should like to cradle those quilts even tighter.
You see it too, don't you? How populated they leave this room with their things and their tools and leave me with scarcely anything else for my own leisure. See how they've deformed my bedside with stacks of pillows and folded white cloths, how the curtains stay drawn much longer even when the sun is high in the sky, and how the lanterns are kept dim. They haven't misplaced mine, have they? The lantern with the painted panels? Good.
I wish there were more to say, but what more can I contribute? The rest is up to the trials and the walks left ahead of me. I am ready now.
* * * * *
"It is by my wishes to tell these things and more, but what ink
fails to tell my voice will say aplenty--so much that the stars
could be counted in comparison.
This I promise you."
@OkaDoka
where I am greeted with the capable volunteer and daresay friend
who offers their arcane-wielding hand to be my voice and my pen.
I owe a good explanation to those above, with, and below me; to justify the
disasters, or the 'wilting' as my cousin, the good Duke, often refers to it. So we shall
write this personal account together."
* * * * *
There are things about fighting that are less discussed than its glories.
No books told me about how the armor never quite fits you as it's meant to if it wasn't commissioned for your stature. I never read anything about how the straps and ties come loose very often if you move too much or incorrectly.
Boarding the ships to the southern fields felt much like a very dry, extensive castaway dream. No matter how much I closed my eyes and opened them again, we never seemed to budge for long on those decks, and I found myself wishing to awaken with a vigor I scarcely feel in these years of my life.
Just as it felt to be crammed so many bodies in the lines we formed. It was hot, uncomfortable, full of perspiring beyond comparison. But I tell you, it was what I envisioned: That dream was real and sitting at my fingertips.
I don't remember when the fighting began. Everything moved about so quickly; like the fluttering white of the spinning dancers in the Imperial Hall. Flashing, moving, blurring before one's blinks could register it all. Witnessing glimpses of one face met with another. Was I dreaming then?
It was quite strange, one such passing glance earned me. One of the soldiers I stood beside in the formation--he seemed to almost recognize me, though we had never met before. What do you think it meant? ... A mystery of battle, or so we can believe.
How am I meant to describe it? Suddenly, we were charging and standing together, and suddenly we were not. My mind felt so vacant yet overflowing simultaneously: I could both think and not manage a single coherent thought, and it was in this episode of confusion that the retreat was imminent, but I was not moving with them.
I wanted to. My legs were trying to head in that very same direction. But something hit me and it wouldn't let go, no matter how much I swung and tried to pry it away.
My armor felt so hot and unforgiving then, too, just like it had when we stood in the lines, shoulder to shoulder. It felt as hot as when one stands in the sun much too long in the later months of summer, and then beyond that--and all I could do was hope someone heard me over everyone else.
I screamed, but I did not know who to scream for first. I didn't know who would come to find me. I couldn't see. At some point, I stopped running and I was still, and I surely thought someone had taken me up then, but something hammered on my leg and my shoulder, and it was the sorest I'd been. Sorer than hours in the fencing hall.
I don't really remember what happened past that. It hurt too terribly, so I thought to think about other things. I think I slept for a moment, too. But even in my sleep, I couldn't forget how contagiously hot the armor felt and how it seemed to reach my bones.
When I woke up, I realized I was screaming still, and I was swinging in the arms of someone much stronger than I. He saved me, I'm sure of it. Someone who even managed to free me from that smoldering armor piece by piece. I hope Markus can forgive the damages; I don't think the armor can be salvaged.
It wasn't just for a dream, you know. It was the dream that carried me there, so far away, but the dream didn't die out on those fields like so many passed and lost their lives. I know what people will likely tell me. I know that Markus told me this is the cost of my childish ambition, but can I not still dream? Even if my efforts paint me a faceless stowaway forever, this life will not be faceless to me. If I am faceless to the rest, what does it matter if it is my reflection that reminds me of the dream I didn't relent on?
It is all I have in this crowded room. When I am left to my own independence, catered only by the pin-drop silence and the weighted, wordless trepidation by the many medics and healers that see to me otherwise; and I am left to only gaze upon myself and what parts of me are left; and I wonder if I should like to cradle those quilts even tighter.
You see it too, don't you? How populated they leave this room with their things and their tools and leave me with scarcely anything else for my own leisure. See how they've deformed my bedside with stacks of pillows and folded white cloths, how the curtains stay drawn much longer even when the sun is high in the sky, and how the lanterns are kept dim. They haven't misplaced mine, have they? The lantern with the painted panels? Good.
I wish there were more to say, but what more can I contribute? The rest is up to the trials and the walks left ahead of me. I am ready now.
* * * * *
"It is by my wishes to tell these things and more, but what ink
fails to tell my voice will say aplenty--so much that the stars
could be counted in comparison.
This I promise you."
@OkaDoka
