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Everything was so loud.
They could hear anguished screams around them as the soldiers stood and lost their ground. Their light dimmed, and blood spilled onto the battlefield as with each hit, the dark dragons roared
The ground trembled and the fire cracked.
Yet the child couldn’t hear anything.
The blood was rushing through the face, and at the same time, it roared in their ears. It was enough to silence anything now.
Anything except their rasping breathing echoing in their ears with their heartbeat. Maybe it was the lack of air or light or whatever the conclusion was the same, it was a struggle to just take a breath.
Or maybe it was drowning tears dripping under their mask joining the burning puddles of black goo that pounded from the sky.
If they were aware it would have hurt more than it ever had to their frail body with newly formed bruises from being restrained not even half an hour ago.
Their white hair itches from all the grime currently sliding down their nape, for the relief their arm rose from their listless position from their sides only to fail halfway there.
Long ago it was long enough that it was so easy for other kids to grab it. Especially back when they went to school. Their parent before even preparing supplies for the new toys always made their hair first.
It was super embarrassing looking back, hair full of hundreds of cheap rainbow ribbons woven with either pigtails or twin braids.
When that got old what followed was an even more embarrassing haircut. Thankfully their teachers didn’t mind, they were too busy keeping the school from sinking than care they signed them absent on accident.
That school was made into a rubble by the midpoint of their fourth year there.
But before then child could distantly remember one weird history lesson. Of how immune they were as a species.
Their light shone so bright that their blood was so strong against the weather and rain that they conquered the Valley of Triumph without any coats.
They lost that somehow, or maybe it was like when grannies telling the kids stories like the flock of mantas so bit that it drown out the light of their sun.
Only light creatures had this blood, their light.
Or they were supposed to as the child walked further more light creature corpses lay before them.
A cage with two previously white birds lying at the bottom feet up.
Most were either lone or herds of manatees always dark with no light in either their eyes or chests.
All cold to the touch.
The dear Manatee, Tea the child called it, was barely warm when they held it under the broken rubble.
It tried to move closer trying to keep the child warm as it did every time both of them curled up for sleep. All these years it was as if it knew it was always the warmest out of both of them
At that moment under rubble it was the opposite. The child was the one holding it close, so very close with hopes any warmth they had could compensate.
It was a sick reflection of when they were younger with… Their parent except the child is listening to the labored breathing belonging to their manatee now.
Innnnnnn and ouuuuutttt..
Innnnnnn and outtttt..
Iinnnnn and hic—- the child held it harder. —- ouuuuttt…
Innnn and ouuttttt—- the Tea lets out a sad and scared coo.
Innn and out —- the child quakingly hums back as they best could.
Innn and out Inn and out —— Tea leans onto them for the last time.
Inn and out…
Inn and out…
In and—-
Nothing
It looks as if it is asleep now, its light dimming and going cold by the second.
Compulsively the child reaches for a blanket, like their parent had done with them except there was nothing but rubble around them.
They looked back at Tea and held them for a little while, like their parent had done when they struggled to sleep.
Hundreds of memories spilling to the surface. The times when the older brushed the child's hair while experimenting with new hairstyles.
The times where both of them listened to musicians play their songs from epic ballads to silly nonsense.
The times where the child was taught to create toys of all shapes and sizes.
The child..
They missed them so much.
Ever since they passed the child had this giant hole in their chest and a boulder in their throat.
Those had been there for a while forgotten, and now back in full force with the memory of the final days.
With those being constantly filled with running frequently for tea, holding each other close as the child’s parents grew colder and colder, the darkness on their arms climbing.
Their parents were always nauseous, their heads pounding and even when they tried to stand they could only shuffle forward.
When they tried to hold the bags by themself they crashed onto the dirty dusty ground with a shout of agony.
All the while the child could do nothing but watch in the comfortable safety of their shared tent. In the end, the child was the one to bring them to the gates.
They were the one standing there as if they were the empty shell.
Hours spent there.
The closest stars started burning out into the darknest when finally old firm hands coaxed them gently out of there. Their vision was so blurry that they could only make out a bunch of the blues of tents passing by then.
Retrospectively it might have been Recluse, his eyes were always sharp, too sharp, noticing them needing help multiple times even when he was most needed he was all a little too late. Might have been an empathetic neighbor too.
Doesn’t matter who honestly they ended up the same shuffling back, an understanding coated them like a sludge with each step.
For the agonized screams that sometimes rang from the fellow street vendors and street urchins when the realization of their friend, parent, or even lover was gone behind the same gates. Always ending in the same way with choking whimpers leading to hoarse sobs.
Nobody's lungs were made for being this loud.
Even so, the child wanted to do the same once the gentle hands ruffled their hair in sympathy before guiding them to their no side then resting a threadbare blanket over them.
They lay there still. They could have screamed, let all the agony erupt from their throat, like everybody else had done it, no one would mind it
Yet they couldn’t.
Why?
They couldn’t help but distantly wonder as in reality they kept walking, avoiding a bleeding unconscious body of a soldier hiding behind the rubble.
Maybe it was the mauling guilt or some fitful delusion that they would wake up and they would have their parents back.
Instead, they woke up alone clutching that little wooden butterfly with the base carved by the child and painted by the parent. The replaying memory of tall grass and bright butterflies flying above them as they ran back home where the parent held them to sleep.
The child clutched it harder as they weakly stood up, and faced life one day at a time. By the time Tea came into their life, they felt better, they could even smile a little bit again.
And with Tea in their life, living felt like a new normal.
If They … They…
A bigger lump caught in the child's throat but they kept walking.
If… they left the butterfly in that stampede, just taking Tea’s reins and ran far FAR away would it still be here?
Their attachment to the carving was something childish, especially coming from someone who has been trained to be the next toy maker in the market for years.
Plus the child sold their toys once they outgrew them before. It hurt, but they could handle it.
But can they handle abandoning this one?
Abandoning the only parent they ever had?
And…. Tea loved it as well.
That's how they met after all.
The child crunches their eyes, breathing in deeply at the memory.
No, going after it wasn’t the mistake that killed Tea.
They should have left the moment those little white birds were released from their jar, or hidden somewhere else when the Shepherd’s manatees were slaughtered. It would have bought them enough time to find somewhere if their previous hide out didn't work.
They would have been together, scared out of their minds but safe and sound. Hiding together not knowing if the room is going to cave in is much better than this:
Just walking, rewinding the panic in their head, the scared calls for them from Tea, to help it, to do something anything OVER AND OVER—
All the while the wooden butterfly is by their heart clutched hard in an iron grip. So they kept walking.
And walking.
Until the battle calms.
Until the screams and cries pass.
Until the bodies fall and never get up again.
Until the dragons disperse.
The child keeps walking until something clinks underfoot.
They open their eyes and it’s ….
The child breath hitches underneath their mask.
It…
It was damaged, severely so, the golden shell that covered the chilling murder mechanism was broken and splayed with dirt and other even darker stuff.
The crackling flames reflect off the deactivated blue thing inside.
It’s the same thing that is set up in the towers, isn’t it?
That is why they shine this bright, much stronger than the normal lanterns sold at the market. Technology so above means it’s done by someone important.
And there are very few people who are known for these kinds of discoveries and of these types of technologies while having the power.
The King.
The child looks up with a glare they only showed to the ones they wish would choke on their own spit.
Vault of Knowledge and the Eden were pristine as always unlike the grime that surrounded the child ever since they were born. It innocently glowed there in a bright blue light, as if it didn’t house the most horible being in existence.
“The all great leader” their teachers tried to teach them, the one who made the civilizations above the clouds. He gave power and as many tokens for the Vault Elder for the most in-depth research there was or ever will be.
So by extension he was the one to make this.
He is also the one who has the most control over the elders, able to seize their military in a pinch, even faster if the other elders help.
The soldiers wouldn't have done this if he hasn't commanded this himself.
Thus he was the one to kill Tea and every other light creature who body is splayed carelessly on the battlefield. Meanwhile sitting comfortably above it all.
The child clenched his arms, the empty shell making a great furnace for firing into a burning up all the emptiness with blood boiling rage.
He is going to pay.
The child has no idea how, but you know what?
They don’t care.
All that matters is the why.
And that they are going to do it.
And they are going to let out this festering scream while doing so.