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This body of mine. It’s fragile. I’m fragile. I am but an unholy amalgamation of flesh and steel.
It hurts— my entire body hurts. By whatever gods may be in this world, I was allowed to live again, but the consequences of it all are yet to be eclipsed. The metal of my cowling rubs against my remaining skin, chafing so severely that I bleed the ether that has been mixed with the blood that used to run freely through my veins. I leak ether daily through the seams of my cowling. It runs down my arms and torso as if it is blood seeping from a weeping wound. For this body is fragile.
The pain in somewhat indescribable, as it is unlike any pain I had had before. Perhaps it is akin to arthritic pain? That ache in your fingers and knees before the skies cry upon the Bionis. It’s not just that, unfortunately, as my muscles constantly cramp. Parts of my body that cannot feel, feel. Phantom pains— random itches. How can something that is not skin itch? My head, dear goodness, my head. Migraines plague me. Migraines so bad that my eyes water, and I salivate down the front of my cowling. The headaches worsen after battle, often to the point that I have to ask if we can stop so that I may rest for even just an hour. They always say yes, and it doesn’t seem to bother them, though I cannot help but think that I am impeding upon their journey. His journey. Shulk’s journey. Shulk… He lets me rest on his lap, and sometimes in his arms. I worry he can feel the tears wet his clothes as the pain grows unbearably intense. The tears that trickle from the corners of my eyes when I think of what I am: a burden. I don’t want him to worry about me, but I can feel his tears land softly upon my face once he believes I’ve fallen into the blissful oblivion that is sleep; I know I can feel his shaking breaths as he holds back the sobs that threaten to rip through his vocal folds and carry their way to my ears… Maybe they’re ears. I don’t necessarily know at this point. All I know is that I am dying.
My bouts of pain and fatigue have worsened. It’s chronic at this point. I know that I cry and moan in my sleep. I know that I become feverish at night as my body tries it’s hardest to cool itself off. My psyche is worsening. I feel trapped inside myself. This body is failing, and perhaps it is because it is not my body. I, quite frankly, am unsure of what is and isn’t my organic tissue anymore. Sharla knows my time left is limited, as does Linada, and so does Dunban. I can’t tell Shulk— not yet at least. Not until I know he will be okay. Not until I know he will be able to forgive himself for something that is not his fault… My sweet, gentle Shulk. I used to dream of a future with you; I still do. Those dreams have become so horribly bittersweet. My dream to see all the places he went while I was gone. My dream to wear my mother’s wedding gown. My dream to move into a cottage with him; to make it our home; to wake every morning to the sight of him peacefully sleeping, or to the sight of him working away in his latest project in the lab. To be wrapped in his arms as we do what lovers often do, and to maybe, one day, tell him he is to be a father— a wonderful father of a little baby that would have his deep blue eyes, and gentle smile. We would be wholly and deeply devoted to each other, and our family. But I cannot even give myself to him physically. I don’t have any possible way to. Those organs are just… gone… somewhere rotting with the rest of my flesh, or perhaps turned to ash and disposed of on the mechonis.
When I am dead, there is no point in burying me. Not on the Bionis at least. The most beautiful part of death is the way your body gives back to the ground from which you came. That is my belief at least. My body cannot rot. It cannot feed the blooming flowers and plush grass; cannot nourish the roots of the trees, and in turn, the mycorrhiza of the fungi. What comes from the Bionis is returned to the Bionis— for that is the way of the homs. But I am no longer homs. Though my mind and soul are born of the Bionis, this current body is not. For life born of the Mechonis cannot breathe life into the Bionis. This is not my body. Metal and machinery cannot give life. It can reshape it, perhaps, and it can most definitely take it, but it cannot create life anew. I am hopeless. Please just let me die in his arms.
Maybe Linada will find a way to restore my organs. Maybe not. Perhaps I should loose my attachment to hopes of the future, and accept that there is nothing to be done in the end. Perhaps I should let my optimism fade a little every time I have a phantom pain, or a splitting headache, or a fever. Every time this body fails me. I cannot worry them when I am dead, can I? No matter…
That being said, I do not hate this body. It’s given me more time with Shulk, after all, and I pray it will last just a little longer so that we can end this war together. So that I can lay in his arms as I take my last breath. It’s given me the chance to see my dear brother once again, laugh at Reyn, meet our brave Heropon, Sharla, and Melia. I should be more grateful, after all, for that.
Perhaps it’s selfish to cry over it all— very few get a second chance like this— but maybe— just this one time— I can be selfish. Maybe I should be able to throw myself a pity party before I sleep once in awhile. As long as the others don’t witness it, who is it truly hurting? I think, for now, I will be content with what I have been given. Giving up will only make me more of a deadweight. So yes… Yes, I shall cry; yes, I shall wake again in the morning, and battle through the pain this body causes, and savor the time it has given me with the ones I love.
For this body is not mine, but it has given me some closure, and that is all that matters in the end.