Kindling

May 19, 2008

Silver Nightingale


The will of the people should be their own; that was her mantra. Spontaneity was the spice of life; it was what made life worth living. To choose a path to walk on, to bask in light's success, to trudge on despite woe's shadow, and emerge from it, albeit scathed, abler to make another choice at the next fork where the process was repeated, unending until one's final breath. And to have the knowledge that a person's actions, that a person's choices, that a person's life was, though it be with guidance, lived by that person himself--is that not the only way for him to achieve real happiness by living his life with no regrets?

If only he knew, would he have regretted his life just as she had regretted hers? To know the truths that had slapped themselves so sharply at her face that until now produced so painful a throb she knew it had irreparably scarred her soul so, would he still have felt the glow of glory she knew had struck him as he laid dying in the growing pool of his own blood? For him to have thought that his death would have been for the advancement of his faction's cause but in reality had only been a futile attempt (could it even be called as such?) that was never meant to have carried out any semblance of purport whatsoever; she knew the very idea was frigidly harsh but in reality's own twisted way, she was glad that he had died in blissful ignorance of false satisfaction. Her lone solace murmured words of--"at the very least, in death he was spared."

Of course, her rash and naive self had attempted to carry out vengeance. But now, when she really just thought back on her assault, she could gather nothing more than the forgotten remnants of wordless cries and curses. The battle that she had swore would live with her throughout her existence have melted to a blur. At first it had frightened her, how such a significant part of her life was all but erased. And perhaps the thought still haunted her until now; only that she had eventually learned to pay it lesser and lesser heed as time travelled on. After all, if she were to fall prey to the small thought that the event had carried with itself... no. The point was insignificant.

She recalled how her blood froze, how it sent shards of anguish to her heart upon the terrible and incredulous revelation. She had clutched her head as hot tears etched down her once-youthful face. She wanted nothing more than to scream until her voice ran dry as the sting of betrayal mercilessly lashed her to the core. Alas, within that single second of realization, the emotional beating had already taken its toll and she could manage only the most muted of sobs. She remembered that her mind had turned blank but as to just how long, she never had managed to know.

It was most peculiar, how pristine her senses had functioned once she awoke from the hellish unconscious. She always termed that instance in her life as her resurrection. It was the oddest twist of fate, how her target had turned out to be the eventual salve that would raise her heart from the pit of despair. And for the first time in her life, the candles of unanswered questions lit up with stark understanding; but with it came the true image of a mad world.

"Major," a voice called to her from her momentary lapse of focus. "Do you think the planet's memory needs to be erased, too?"

And so, a decision was made.

"Of course," came her ready answer. "What good is free will if the future is decided by the planet's memory?"

Pity she didn't have the liberty to call even that decision her own.

"I refuse to accept that my emotions are controlled by the planet's memory," her eyes burned with fierce resolution.

And the even sadder truth was she realized that notion exactly.

"The will of the people should be their own," her spirit cried in vain resignation. And at that very moment, she then understood the unsung fragment of her memory--only through her death shall her brother have a chance of retribution.