Work Text:
He floats.
He feels the memory of a soft breeze caress his cheek.
It reminds him of her.
He tries to remember how to open his eyes. It seems a monumental task. When he struggles, it hurts; it is a pain more severe than he can ever remember feeling.
He opens his sightless eyes and beholds limbo. Suspended in a universe of white light, hanging in infinity. He has no sense of up or down, and he thinks he feels himself tumble head over heels. He cannot stop. He does not know if he’s moving forward or backward. He does not know where he is. He does not know if time is passing.
Perhaps, he thinks to himself, this is what hell is.
His mouth opens in a sound that would’ve been a scream, but instead comes out as a silent choke. He does not remember how to speak. His body has forgotten.
He remembers her touch.
In a singular instant, a jolt of feeling carries up his arm, as if the moment of realization was strong enough to electrify him. He moves his eyes and beholds, for the first time, a hand staring back at him. His eyes widen in childlike shock at the sight of it. He struggles to remember if it’s his own. He asks himself why he would doubt.
He feels the grass under his feet.
He tumbles again, over and over and then a few more times for good measure. He is aware of his body moving through space, through limbo, though he does not control it. He is buffeted by some external force, some wind, some god’s hand shifting him and puppeteering him, squeezing him through their fingers like clay.
He remembers the scratchy fabric of her dress.
He is standing in the middle of a grassy field, the afternoon sun beating down on him and the light breeze ruffling his golden hair. He marvels at the snow on the peaks at the edge of the horizon, glinting and glittering in the sunlight. He smells roasting meat.
He sinks through the dirt and the soil, and he is in the white again. The cruel withdrawal is nearly enough to make the first tear fall.
He wraps his fingers around the hilt, feeling the sunbaked leather warm his palm.
He tries the only thing he knows how to do. He calls into the void, begging for help, begging to understand the flashes of recollection. He wants to know so desperately. There is no reply.
He hears the flapping of wings.
He wonders if this is punishment.
Someone is speaking to him. By the time he hears the voice, it has already gone quiet. He waits for the voice to come again.
She reminds him of how many times he’s done this.
He feels the waves buffet the small scarlet boat from side to side. He feels the spray of water and salt pepper his hair and drip down onto his forehead and cheeks. He hears the cries of the seagulls pierce through the din of the ocean below.
Before his eyes, he is capsized. He should’ve seen the wave coming. He is swept overboard, trying and failing to grasp the rope tying the raft together. He catches his hand in a notch between two of the logs. He doesn’t think he feels the pain. If he does, it’s inconsequential to the sudden shock of hitting the water. He struggles to remain afloat. He flaps his arms up and down in a vain attempt to reach the surface. He is pulled down.
He is in the white again. He takes a deep, panicked breath, eager to refill his lungs. He reaches up to feel his hair, feel the seawater. He feels nothing.
He hears the sound of horses, tearing up the ground and sod underhoof and clattering against the wooden planks of the drawbridge. He feels the rain stream its way down his face. He looks upwards and he sees him. Around his head is wreathed a halo of fire, bubbling with black and orange flame, spitting embers and thick billows of smoke into the sky above.
He must not answer him.
He draws his blade and braces his wooden shield against his forearm. He prays this is enough.
He calls out to the white again. His voice is not as strong as it was before. He prays that whomever is in the white with him will answer.
The word is spoken with a voice that rocks him to his very core, for it is a voice he has heard before. It is a voice he has heard a million times before, and yet every time is like the first.
He obeys its instruction. He dives.
His hands scrabble in the dirt and silt of the moat bottom. He does not know what he’s looking for, but he will find it. His fingers close around the stone. He sees her inside the temple.
When he sinks through the mud and finds himself in the white again, he does not scream. He lets himself tumble, head over heels countless times. He finds the strength to close his eyes.
He closes his hand and feels the grip under his fingers. The blade is strong and well balanced. He looks at the man who gave it to him, and he looks at the man whom he took it from. The man had disappeared, and the man is slumped against the dungeon wall, lifeless and still. He turns the blade over in his hands.
He feels the exhaustion hit him before anything else. He wishes more than anything to drop the sword, to hear it clatter against the stone tiles and to turn away from what remains ahead.
He steels himself. He feels his legs move on their own, carrying him forward into the darkness.
She needs his help.
Her. He remembers her.
At once, he feels a tug, a pull, a need, a sensation so overwhelming that he wonders if he can stay steady. He opens his eyes again, and does not flinch.
He always thought her hair looked so beautiful in the setting sun.
She is laying on a marble plinth, hands crossed over her chest. He reaches for her, and the arrowhead digs a few millimeters deeper into his shoulder.
She is standing in the middle of a grassy field, the afternoon sun beating down on her and the light breeze ruffling her golden hair. She closes her eyes and twirls in place, arms outstretched and hair fanning out in a brilliant arc, catching the light as she moves.
She is holding him. She lets him rest.
He still fights. He wrestles against her grip, struggles to maintain consciousness as darkness creeps into the corners of his vision.
That memory is one that will likely remain sealed, the voice says over his shoulder.
It is unfortunate, the voice says. It took you much longer to remember her properly this time, the voice says.
He looks into the white, not sure of what he intends to see. He whips around, looking behind him. He sees nothing. He is lost in the white, floating in oblivion, desperately searching for any sort of solid ground. He reaches out for her.
He asks what she wants.
I want you to remember.
She sits on the edge of a wooden pier, dangling her feet off the edge. She wishes she could reach out and touch the clouds drifting lazily underneath her. It would be easy, she thinks. They’re so close anyway.
She is standing before an enormous statue. She looks upwards and sees herself. The face of the statue reflects her own, flickering back and forth between stone and flesh.
He grabs his head. The pain is unbearable.
He strides forward, his cloak billowing around his figure like smoke, laughing in a tone that shakes the very walls. She hangs in the air, radiating a blindingly brilliant pink light.
You have to stop him.
There we are, the voice echoes. It echoes from countless miles away and it is so close to your ear that it makes your hair stand on end.
You feel the sword begin to vibrate in your hand. It knows he’s close.
You beg the voice to stop torturing you.
You are looking into his eyes again. They are alight with purple flame.
This burden is yours, the voice says. Take it up and it will end, the voice says.
You retch. The hog shrieks in pain as you drive the blade into its skull.
Take it up and it will end, the voice says.
She holds up her hand and drowns the world in yellow.
Before you, the world falls quiet. Wind rustles through the forest trees, and cicadas hum in the warm, thick summer air. A bird calls from its perch. The sun shines brightly, dappled on the grass by the shadows of the leaves above.
The grip of the sword feels comfortable. As you begin to lift, you feel electricity course through your arms. You contemplate dropping it. You know you would never drop it.
The blade slides free of the pedestal and you swing it upward. You see your eyes reflected in the silver. You hold it tenderly, as if you’re holding her hand. You do the only thing you know to do, and you hold the blade high above your head, the polished metal glinting in the sunlight.
You turn your gaze inward.
The sunlight on your skin soaks through every pore, flooding your insides with a brilliant yellow glow; and suddenly you are a million people, a reflection of a million lives shining through this body like light through a prism. You are stunned by the grandeur of the illusion, and you are humbled by the magnitude of the discovery, and you are distraught by the futility of the reflection.
You are so many people, and you have died so many times.
What will you do, after this revelation? The voice hums through the wind, reaching your ears and sounding like music.
I will take it up, you respond.
What do you hope to accomplish? The voice resonates through the ground itself, whispering up to you through the blades of grass underfoot.
I will protect her, you say.
Why will you protect her? The voice comes from the figure standing directly behind you, so close that the fabric of her dress brushes against your back.
Because that’s the way it’s always been, you say.
The sun falls from the sky.
You are plunged into darkness, complete and total darkness. You are without sight, without sound, without balance. You are floating.
You see the remnants of the sun on the horizon. It burns your eyes to look at it. You cannot look away.
Open your eyes.
The sun grows brighter. Or, perhaps, you tell yourself, it grows closer.
Open your eyes.
You are floating. You are in the white again.
Open your eyes.
The voice is closer than ever before.
You open your eyes.
You are in a dark room.
You are floating.
Your eyes strain to adjust themselves. You don’t remember it hurting so much the last time. As your vision clears, you see that above you glimmers an array of blue lights. The stars, you tell yourself, before you realize, no, not stars. You struggle for a second to imagine an explanation, but fall short. Dust motes hover in the air, casting tiny foggy spots in your vision of the ceiling.
You feel the water lap at your body as it recedes. You feel it draining away from you, revealing more and more of your supine body to the warm still air of the chamber, until it drains completely.
You look to the left and you see her. You see her for a split second, an ephemeral enough vision to shock your brain into realizing the fact that she was never really there to begin with. Already, you know you cannot trust your eyes.
You sit up. The material underneath you is cool and slippery to the touch, gleaming the same bright azure blue as the lights above you. Water vapor rises from its surface as you swing your legs over the side and make contact with the floor.
You stand under your own power. You stand and you gaze out at the room around you. It is unfamiliar to you, but you know you have been here before. You don’t know how you know it, but you know it.
You take your first steps and you wade through the darkness. You walk with a singular purpose.
Though you don’t know where she is, you will do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
You have thrown yourself into danger countless times over countless lives, and you have an uncomfortable feeling that, unfortunately, this one will be no different.
And yet you still stride forward.
As you take your first steps, a single phrase echoes in your mind. You can’t remember ever hearing it, and you’ve heard it every day you can remember being alive.
May the goddess smile upon you.