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You raised your hand, and the world burned.
You are one of my oldest memories. I remember how you towered, how you echoed, how I hid within my parent’s robes, trembling at the giant before me. That is, until you spoke. I don’t remember what you said, but your voice was warm, like a hearth, and as I stepped out into the open you lowered yourself, so I did not have to strain to meet your eyes. I remember you smiled (do you still smile behind that mask?) and offered me a hand. I must’ve looked so fragile, holding your finger with my tiny hands. My ren told me you thought I was brave. I hope you were right.
I always admired your tenacity, your willingness to keep going through it all. But lately I’ve realized you just don’t know how to stop.
I don’t remember when you first hid your face. You’ve been wearing that mask for most of my life, but I’ve heard stories of who you used to be, before your spear was forged, before corruption limped across the land. You were a guardian, sturdy and unyielding, gentle yet unwavering. When darkness came for us, you were there to halt it, like a rocky shoreline standing against the sea. You were like a mountain, and we thought the wind could never move you. But little by little, erosion took its toll.
The next time we met, I asked to join you, to help beat back the darkness. I said I was strong enough. You said I’d grown. Your eyes were tired, but I saw them smile. I was young and angry, and I hated the darkness for what it had taken, for how we suffered in the pockets it left untouched. I wanted to save our roots from this rot. I wanted to see the sky again. I pledged myself to you and the Light, and you fed my soul with flame. With your burning blessing, I could face the darkness. I could keep them all warm through this frigid night.
After that, I saw you so many times. Rushing through the corridors, standing on the battlements, thundering across the sand with spear in hand. You were fire, and you burned away the darkness, setting the grass alight to cleanse the corrupted and to destroy the husks they left behind. Then there was no more grass, and your flames ran along the sand's surface. I never knew you were the grass, the sand, the rivers. I only knew you smelled like ash.
Something was wrong. The war weighed on us all, but you were so weary, leaning so heavily against your spear. You limped everywhere you went. I took to the shadows, hoping to catch you alone. I loved you, my elder. I wanted to help.
We were in a narrow hallway, away from the busier parts of the temple. I heard your uneven gait behind me and slipped out of sight, waiting. I saw you stop and fall to your knees, there in that corridor you thought was empty, your labored breathing filling the space. I couldn’t bring myself to look away as you clung to your side, the same side you'd bled from the week before, where a blade had nearly claimed you. You told us it had healed, but I could see the starlight on your fingers. You were a fortress, and there were holes in your walls that no one could see. That you never let us see. And I started fearing that this would be the death of you.
I was there the day you fell. The day you could no longer hurt in secret. You crumpled to the floor with a groan, right there in the hall, and no matter how we screamed you would not open your eyes. The healers peeled off your dented armor and with quiet horror ran their fingers over your scarred flesh, trying to cleanse the rot in your side. But stars, how did you stand for so long? We never thought our fortress could have so many cracks. You were burned and bruised, cut and charred, scars on top of scars. You were bleeding in the dark and we lost sight of your eyes. The second time I saw your face, and you were fading.
You look tired.