Breathe in. Never out. A fugue of blurred colors and malformed shapes replace the otherwise defined layout of reality; the frigid iron in her burning palm is the last remaining sensation for Rinea to latch onto as the rest of her perceptions blend into a grotesque sludge of nothing and everything.
Her comrades are injured. The enemies are injured. Where blows are traded, vibrant crimson reaches out skyward in arches. Where blows are traded, heads roll and cries spill onto stone that can offer no comfort. Death surrounds, death encroaches, death beckons and never quite touches her. Her comrades are injured. The enemies are injured. Upon returning the wyvern to its owner, Rinea splits off from the eye of the storm and traverses the rampart with the gait of an ancient ghost.
Coarse ash and thinned smoke enter her lungs after a while, carrying with them the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh from a rogue fire in the courtyard below — unmistakable. She knows its scent with the intimacy of one’s own skin, and that alone chains down her feet like dead weights. The open-wound shoulder throbs, and her left leg does too, an arrow claiming it as its new home. Ash. Blood. Smoke. Pain. Death.
Why did I come here? I want to go home. I am scared. I don't want to die. I don't want anyone to die. I want to go home. It hurts. It burns. It burns. I am scared. It burns. It burns. It burns. My lord. It burns. My lord. My lord. My lord, does it burn? It burns. For eternity. It burns. You asked for this. I didn't ask for this. I am scared. I don't want to die. It hurts.
“Watch out!” A guard throws his weight between Rinea and an incoming blow from a vagabond already out of her periphery. The world sharpens in definition and it all is real again — she is in a battle. No wandering remembrance pulled her in, no amount of dissociating would keep her safe forever. The man dies in her arms so she can live and Rinea is given no chance to apologize to him or prevent his clock from stopping.
She cradles the warm corpse in a tight embrace, so the soul that was once a man can witness a heart yet frenzies at the price of the one silenced. The body heat is but a brief anchor. The urgency of the situation is back at the forefront of all other mixing signals from her brain, and it rounds and shepherds them towards one precise destination.
The throne room; Hilda and Celica were shouting from there. Were the castle to fall before reinforcements came to their aid how much more blood would become a new landmark onto Thracia’s soil? The dirt would turn to clay, and the clay would demand to be made man again. If only pigeon overlords were real, if only frogs could bring about peace, if only all her useless stories and trivia and collections could change the tide of battle.
She is just one girl, barely a woman, with a dagger grip imprinted into her palm and a corpse shield dragged behind her by the other. A sorry is whispered for every abuse it takes for her. The stench of blood covers the smoky aroma of her worst nightmares, and she refuses to let go of her hole-ridden protection until the moment her foot first crosses the throne room’s threshold.
Celica is leaning seated against it, a monochrome painting of red and white in the dim candlelight. The high seat of the house lies unoccupied, velvet cushions no longer pristine. The perpetual agony of battle gets muffled by thick tapestries that adorn all of the surrounding walls; they depict pantomime not unlike the one Rinea has been cast in, in the role of fool.
Thoughts whirring, Rinea advances.
Guard the throne, barks her mind; it wears the veil of Skoll’s voice, a mysterious young man who Rinea has yet to converse with and who casts shadows of loyalty and pain.
Muscles straining, Rinea advances.
Guard the throne, pleads her mind; it wears the crown of Celica’s voice, warrior priestess who Rinea has exchanged brief platitudes with and whose kindness is equal parts profound and exalted.
Skin overheating, Rinea advances.
Guard the throne, okay? yawns her mind; it wears the wink of Hilda’s voice, an unreadable girl who Rinea has only mumbled to and who in truth she finds to be intimidatingly beautiful and fierce.
A new wound is added to her from the back — Rinea advances, so close to the throne, and if she is spewing curses and profanities they are all a pup’s yelps with no bite. Two of the ruffians rushed after her in here, vying for the same stronghold she is, and one has struck her with the torpor blade responsible for turning what should have been an easy defense into her early grave.
It's a miracle she still has blood to lose.
She falls into the cushions in one final act of defiance, and holds herself with the unearned dignity of a ruler. A different story warps from her imagination. She is not a powerless girl. She is an empress, waiting for her liege to return home, guarding the land they have built together. She is an empress not yet not anymore perched upon her throne, smug with the knowledge that her liege will avenge her ichor wasted onto cold floors.
From beyond the doors, her fading vision spots a banner donning new colors. The reinforcements. Wisps of her royal dream draw her deeper into the forced slumber. Yes, the reinforcements, her emperor, her army, who would deliver her from harm and wake her in a place where this entire night was naught but a nightmare.
A javelin’s tip is turned towards Rinea just as she is about to go under; it shakes, the vagabond’s arm uncertain when the dame on the throne opens her arms to welcome the steel into her chest, when she smiles at him the same his wife back home would.
It hurts no longer, and though the tear of flesh is certain her heart is narrowly missed. Salvation rushes in and with it so does deafening silence.
Death and sleep suffocate Rinea as one homogeneous singularity, and in the eternal umbra, there is finally peace.