Prompt #1: Cross
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I run from the army. I run from my duty. I run for my life.
I’ll have to cross rivers and mountains and valleys and the sea.
But why do I run? I don’t love my life to the point to try and save it to the extreme. I hate it actually. All my beliefs and certainties have been thrown to the fire.
For whom did I fight so hard? A country? An ideal?
No, I fought for a lie. I fought because I learnt to love my country from my mother kindness, from my father’s passion, from my law-abiding trainers. From the sisters of my heart. I learnt it as I breathed, as I fought, as I cried, as I loved. And maybe I even loved it more than pure Garleans did, because I earned my place. A full citizen I might be, born and bred there, but still not of their precious race. For someone, it will always make a difference.
And now I know it was all a lie. Now I saw it with my own eyes that Garlemald’s reality in the world is horror and oppression, violence and terror. I was a part of it, despite myself.
What a bitter end.
And after all, why should I keep running? Why should I cross the next river, instead of just letting it take me and my accursed life? It would be a fitting end. Just like Doma was drowned in blood, so I would be drowned. A daughter of Garlemald deserves no less.
The water is cold. It’s fast. I touch it and let it drench my hand. It would take little to just let myself go. End it all. Be at peace.
I punch the soft ground and let out a scream of pure rage. Because I won’t. Yes, I did terrible things. Yes, I was blind. But I’m no more. I haven’t been since two years. And I fought back, even though I had to do it from the shadows. Kindness to a captive Viera. A spared rebel. An escaped kid. A returned sack of grain. A word in the right ear to prevent tragedy, battles, loss of lives. Over and over again.
Still the slate isn’t clean, the balance is not achieved. And I can’t close my eyes forever if my soul isn’t at peace. I can feel my mother’s hands on my cheeks and my father’s voice in the wind, telling me not to give up, never to give up, to fight on, to atone. I can hear Seppia, my sweet friend, asking me, ordering me in that determined voice, steel wrapped in tenderness, to pick myself up and keep running. To live. To survive.
And so I rise and I start running again. I’ll cross that river. And then I’ll cross one more and one another. And I won’t stop until the scales are balanced again.
If it will take my whole life? Then so be it.
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Misty 