Child of the Winds: Sobrepena

She heard music calling her back to a place she could not go. Lifting, tilting, weaving through the air, melodies of places long past, places gone. She could not suppress the longing for a place she had once hated, to feel the grasses underneath bare feet, to climb the hill and stare into nothing but a vast empty plain. It was a feeling greater than any ecstasy ever felt. It would bring about her ruin, her end, if she should act upon it.

“They’re just memories,” he would whisper then, and every time he said it she despised him more. It was his fault, after all, that she was in this predicament, his fault that she could never return. It was his entire fault; everything was always his fault. Even then, he was not to blame, he had no control, it was his destiny, and he was not human that he could go around it, write his own destiny, walk his own path. He was created, called forth from the void, given life, albeit life dependent on another and there was nothing he could do to escape it, nor her. They were more alike than they realized.

“You wouldn’t know, how could you?” she would retaliate. Indeed how could he? He was not human, he was like a dream, a spirit, a Seirei, and he had been called forth from the nothing, called by Natashi to bring balance to a turbulent world. All of the Seirei, they were nothing more than pieces of Natashi’s  broken heart; her blood, spilled that run through all the corners of the earth. The Heartbeat of the Earth had cried, and the Seirei were the result of her last dying breath, her desperate attempt at saving herself, and the world she had created.

It was like a deja-vu, but not quite. It was the sort of thing you knew had happened, but while you were dreaming. Not dreaming, no, better yet: during that state of confusion between a dream and reality, when you’re awake but your soul still clings to a dream world, when you want to wake, but you can’t, you just can’t. It was a vision, seen then, swirling spirals, communicators and pencils. Yes, pencils. She clearly remembered the pencils. It made her uneasy, these thoughts. Despite them, she could not recall why she was thinking of them.

She was restless. The longing was there, stronger than ever before; she had to cry, to scream, to speak… to someone, to anyone. She could not speak to him, no, not him. Her lover was her enemy; he that she despised, he that she desired. The one person she could run to was the cause of her distress. What was she supposed to do? What was anyone supposed to do? There was no one. He would come and go as he pleased, it killed her. He didn’t seem to realize, he who could read her thoughts and knew her better than she knew herself, he didn’t know, it never dawned on him how much he could hurt her. But she was a sponge, soaking it all in, keeping it in, turning away any that tried to wring her.

Not that anyone tried… or… they must have, she was too caught up in her pain, self doubt and fear to notice.


* * *

“You long for him still. In the darkness your soul cries out for him, it emanates from your heart. The wind shrieks around you, you seek the calm. I tell you now; you will never reach it, as long as you yearn for his touch, his bitter cold to warm your own life, he will never come. He is not tied to this earth, like you and I. His binding to you may be too strong to bear, and it will break your life.”
The words of her mentor swirled around her, filling her sight, taking form as she saw images skip and prance around her, filling the empty hall. He stood in a corner; back turned to her, from the shadows a girl ran, calling his name. He turned ever so slightly, only a brief glance. The girl stumbled and fell, her hands outstretched to grab his robes, but the darkness swallowed her up.  Still he stood, unmoving.
“No!” she screamed, “do you not care?” He turned at the sound of her voice, his eyes empty and hollow, the only movement in the room a soft breeze that fluttered through his robes and lifted his hair, and they were the only things in constant motion now. “Anan,” she whispered; no sooner had the words left her mouth that his eyes closed and the breeze in the room picked up, blowing papers and scattering materials to the floor. She found herself blocked from him by an invisible barrier, her life flashing before her eyes.

She saw a girl on a hilltop dotted with standing stones, the wind unleashing its fury around her, her cries drunken by the wind. She saw the girl running through a forest, and then falling into darkness. She saw the memories that had been her life until that point: her training, her rebellion, loosing control and falling from the sky, things once forgotten, very clear now. In an instant everything changed, there was fortress-city on open grasslands, winged beast circling above it, many roads leading to it. At the very top stood the citadel, majestic and imposing, the light of the sun reflecting off it’s crimson walls, turning them to blood dripping with gold. Water flowed through the citadel, through its mazes and gardens, waterfalls tumbling from the rooftops, falling to the streets bellow, through terraces and many leveled floors, turning windows into caves. Through one such window she saw a woman lying in her deathbed, cloaked figures surrounding her, as if praying. She could hear the call of death as the bells rang throughout the city and the mighty beasts spread their wings and carried the call to the four corners of the land. Like fire extinguished the darkness came, clinging to everything, everyone. Now alone in the room, the woman slept her eternal slumber as the world aged. The breeze pushed the water covering the window aside and played with the curtains that hid the bed, passing on to stroke the woman’s face, stirring her hair. It moved throughout the room, lifting away the cobwebs, gathering the dust to it, took the shape of a winged figure and lowering it’s face down to that of the deceased, breathed: “Wake”. Her eyes opened and broke through the darkness, piercing, steel and cold.

Tirana Ki screamed as the visions shattered, pieces flinging to the corners of the room, breaking the illusions. Pain ripped through her belly and dragged her down, one hand on her stomach, the other gripping her sword. Her eyesight faltered, white spots dancing around her, through them she could see his face, still there, unmoving. Gasping, she gripped her sword and flung it at him with whatever strength she could muster. It missed and clattered to the floor. The tempest waking inside of him, he moved like a phantom, grabbed the sword, and pushed aside An-lien and the maids that tended to his lover. He hovered over her, contemplating her for a second, then with a fury he ripped from her what she so dearly guarded inside, its cries filling the hall.

“Tal vez volveras,” he whispered, “entre el tiempo y el espacio, nuestra vida dolera, sobrepena.” Then he was gone. She could not cry, she could not speak, her life seeped away from her, her blood staining the wooden floor.