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An endless war, or perhaps it was many wars strung so tightly together that they all blended into one. It mattered very little to him just as the passage of time or the memories that slipped like so many grains through his fingers. The truth was he fought and fought and fought until he was slaughtered outright on the battlefield or succumbed to his wounds. Collapsing when his body no longer could hold itself up. Sometimes the enemy would take pity and kill him outright, most of the time they left him where he fell and trudged on in their own endless battle.
He would die, once again, surrounded by blood and viscera and horrors untold. The only mercy was after so many deaths the previous ones seemed to dim somewhat. He no longer remembered who he was, or even if he had been someone in some past life. Perhaps he had been made a soldier and all he had ever known was death, gore, and the weapon in his hand.
The only comfort was maybe this would be the last time. Maybe his eyes would close this final time and he would see darkness and nothing else. But everytime he woke up in a room with others who had died. They would all push themselves up, taking the weapons that were by their bodies and trudge out one by one. There was no conversation, no glances at each other or touches of any kind. Why bother when they were all doomed from the moment their eyes opened.
It was one of those unlucky times where he was left where he had fallen. His spine had been severed and he kept coughing up blood. He stared up at a moonless blood sky. It was always in these final moments, the last breath or two that he had the glimmer of a memory. A world that wasn’t doused in blood and pain. Maybe it was less of a memory and more of a dream, except they weren’t allowed to sleep. The only rest they got was the moment between death and life.
He coughed up more blood, unable to turn his head so he wouldn’t choke on it. He marvelled at how much dying hurt, each and every time. He should have built up an immunity by now, he thinks without much humor. But dying hurts no matter how many times he’s gone through it before.
He performed his dying ritual of smiling, it was more of a bearing of bloody teeth up to the red sky above but for some reason it was important to him. A small act of rebellion though he wasn’t sure when or why it started or why he continued to do it. He wasn’t even sure who he was rebelling against but it felt right. The one thing he could do, the one thing he could control when everything else had slipped between his fingers.
“Interesting.” The voice was so surprising that he was sure if he had the ability to he would have snapped his attention towards it. He hadn’t heard anything besides pained moaning and death cries in any of the past lives he could remember. He was curious, a new emotion that made him try and hold onto this life but it was already too late. He knew his next breath would be his last.
He never really knew how long it was until he woke up, had centuries past or did he wake up in that same room from one breath to the next? It certainly felt like no time had passed, one moment he was dying on a battlefield and the next he was staring up a golden ceiling-
He took in a deep breath as he stared up at the golden ceiling, his eyes following the graceful curves to walls draped in flowing red fabric. There were vases on pedestals, black and gold vases with delicate artwork etched on the sides that he could not make out from where he was laying. The vases were overflowing with beautiful flowers.
Flowers , he was sure he had never seen any on the battlefields he had fought on but he knew their name. Each expertly paired with numerous colors and textures that made him want to reach out and touch. He hadn’t felt anything besides the hilt of his weapon and cold steel piercing his body repeatedly, not in any of his memories but these looked soft and he itched to feel something that wouldn’t cause him immediate pain.
“Are you sure this is the one you want?” A voice drawled. It was deep and resonated within the wide room they were located in. It was then that he realized he wasn’t alone in this room, someone stood beside his prone body and two deities lounged on the raised platform across the room. “He’s been punished for so long he doesn’t even remember his own name.” There was no inflection in the voice, no way to tell how they felt but he knew they were talking about him.
“He was loyal though, and that’s always good.” A higher pitched, more feminine voice answered. He felt as if he shouldn’t look at them directly but he couldn’t help his glances. They, like the room they all resided in, were beautiful though almost near opposites. The god, though he wasn’t sure how he knew that but just that it was fact in his mind, was dressed in a long black robe. His visage seemed to be made of more smoke than solid, shifting and changing the longer he looked at the god. The goddess was wearing a matching robe, though hers was a white that shimmered in the low lighting. Her black hair was long and braided through with more beautiful flowers.
Lastly was the one standing near him. He stood tall, his features hidden underneath a dark hood. He couldn’t see the strangers eyes but he was positive he was being looked up.
He wasn’t sure when he had moved to a standing position but he found himself in the same position as he always did after he died. Same armor, same weapon, his body healed of any wounds that had occurred before his death. But he wasn’t sure why he had woken up here.
Was this a dream?
Did he even remember what it was like to dream?
What if he blinked and woke up in the same droll room he always woke up in? That seemed a fate even crueler than he had before.
“You told me I needed a companion on this quest, did you not father ?” The being next to him asked. The deity upon the throne hummed before raising an arm, hand flicking gracefully at the wrist.
A golden chain appeared around his neck, the long delicate chain connecting down to his wrists and ankles. The end of the chain was wrapped around a pale hand of the being standing next to him. As beautiful as it seemed he knew what chains were, though he wasn’t sure when he had gained that knowledge.
“Be careful my son.” The goddess appeared before them, or more importantly, in front of the one holding the end of his leash. “It wasn’t a divine punishment for nothing.” Her eyes barely touched upon him before both god and goddess disappeared.
“Come along,” His capture said, grabbing his wrist before the world shifted around them. He braced himself for his bone to break, for the skin to bleed but there was no pain attributed to this touch. It felt as if an easy twist of his hand would dislodge the grip, though he knew better than to try.
He barely had time to glimpse a luxurious room around them before he was being pressed up against a wall. His instincts screamed at him to grab his weapon, to defend himself, but his chains began to glow and held him in an open and vulnerable position.
“Why did you smile?” Perhaps the godling had dropped the magic that held his face in shadows or he was simply close enough to make out his features but he saw that the man before him was a mixture of the two gods. The thick inky black hair and golden eyes he must have inherited from his mother, the pale skin and sharp toothed smirk from his father. “I have walked those fields more times than I can count and everytime you die, you smile.” A touch, light as a feather, grazed against the corner of his mouth. The young gods touch was cool though his eyes burned brightly with an inner flame.
He opened his mouth but no words came out. Did he even know how to speak? Did he remember how to form the words?
“Is it true you do not even remember your own name?” The being asked, eyes searching his features. At least he could nod an affirmative to that question, no speaking necessary. “Then you probably don’t even remember why you are being punished, or even that you were being punished in the first place.” He gave a hum that sounded like his fathers before stepping back. The chain was snapped off, it fell the ground and he stared at it in confusion before looking up at the young god once more.
Was the endless battle he had fought a punishment? Now that it was said it felt right, it felt like bitterness on the back of his tongue. The reason why he felt as if he never got anywhere was because he wasn’t meant to. He was meant to die, over and over again.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” The young god bowed, he didn’t know why but it felt like it was a mocking movement. “I am Tetsurou, son of the god of the underworld and the goddess of spring. I have been given a quest that if I do not complete within the next moon cycle, I will die. I am allowed one companion on this quest but you see, everyone can be bought off, everyone has their price. But your very soul belongs to my father, therefore to me. You’re going to help me in my quest.” Tetsurou came close to him once more, cupping his jaw in a cool grip that he knew could easily crush him if the godling so wished.
He didn’t have any choice otherwise, did he?
“If you help me, give me everything you’ve got then I will help you destroy the one who cursed you.” Tetsurou grinned, voice pitched low as he leaned even closer. “How does that sound, Daichi?”