Chapter Text
A clearing in the middle of the forest.
You stand there where the path divides.
Where the subsequent ways turn their heads
and converge at your white-clad figure.
Who would have thought in the end all the roads led back to you?
You could choose any of them, walk the dust, run away.
Yet you cannot leave yourself behind.
You cannot rip your heart off your chest and let it fester on the ground.
So you carry it with you, wrapped around your body like a tight embrace.
It clings to your back as you walk the road.
You wake up, bathe in the sun, drown yourself
in mountains of food and wine,
your heart keeps beating.
You walk the road, listen to bird songs.
The forest is deep and dark.
You lie down and rest your head on a pillow of moss.
You enjoy the breeze at dusk, you go to sleep. Then repeat.
Your heart keeps beating.
It’s sweet.
It feels like being alive. You carry on.
You drag yourself to a peaceful death.
You fill your wasted years with patient bliss.
Your heart is calm. Your soul is content.
Everything converges at the end.
The truth of this reassures your heart.
You are aware of the path and the destination.
You don’t force it.
You carry on.
Stand there where the path divides.
Right there where the roads converge.
Now see.
A boy with a broken heart claws his way out of a darkened track.
You’ve met him before.
Pale and beautiful and dressed in black.
Delicate features painted in the colors of grief.
Exhausted limbs drenched in despair.
You approach him.
He stops in his tracks, rigid as ice.
He stares at you, gaze unfocused.
Frozen terror lurking in the depths of his eyes.
He opens his mouth and blurts out snow.
He closes his eyes and flakes made of frost
break through the corners of his eyes.
He falls on his knees and vomits
a white inferno.
You try to help him.
You try to get an answer out of him.
Where do you come from?
What happened to you?
He just trembles and mutters,
“Where”, “The armory”, and “He’s dead”
like a mantra.
You fill in the gaps, you grab his arms
and pull him to his feet.
“Where are you headed now?”, you ask.
“Nowhere”, he answers.
“Then follow me”.
Then follow me.
You say those words without thinking.
You take him by surprise.
And yourself.
What else is there to do anyways?
You take a path at random.
The kid doesn’t follow.
You can feel him staring at your back in wonder.
“What are you up to?”, he seems to be thinking.
A few beats later you hear
the rustle of his steps right behind you,
then right by your side.
He swallows his grief, it burst again.
It expands like a flood,
cold foam spilling off the corners of his lips.
Dripping quietly.
The kid remains silent.
He walks the road. He waits for death.
You walk the road together.
You wait for death.
Death is a slow gift for those
not willing to indulge in the caress
of a sharp blade.