Hello, hello. As my birthday gift to you all, I present to you a fic based off of a song called, Haresugita Sora no Shita de (Underneath the Too Sunny Sky) by Akiko Shikata. I have a couple of things planned for this song, so you can consider this "Part I: Side A." That will make more sense when I publish the rest. Enjoy~!
The earth is cracked beneath me, the soil and pebbles red beneath my dry, cracking feet. They dig into the skin that has long-since forgotten what moisture feels like, but it does not matter; I had stopped feeling them cut into my skin long ago.
Above me, the blue sky is beautiful, almost to an ill-suited extent. It reminds me of the spring that had once been plentiful, quenching our thirst year after year. And yet, it dried long ago. Everything that had given us water has dried long ago.
I sing a song in a loud voice, wrenching my parched throat as I call out day after day for rain. It is my job after all. I am a priestess, whose job is to ask the gods for blessings, for that which will allow us to keep living. And yet they do not seem to hear me.
But I continue to sing and wait for the arrival of rain.
The well has dried up, those same red pebbles the only thing remaining inside. The palm tree that had been planted on the day I was born is withering, just like me. We are both a shell of our former selves, but unlike the palm, I can try to change the fate of my people. And thus, I sing.
I have checked over the fields, which now resemble a desert more than the grassy plains they had once been. It seems the flowers that once grew beneath the sunlight will die very soon as well. I cannot give them water, because there is no water left to give. What little we have goes to the people of the village. Sadly, my tears are insufficient as water.
I sing out once again, O sun, O light of Apollo, disappear before the twilight. O winds and clouds, bring the rain, and pour down onto this body!
And yet there is nothing.
No matter how much I sing, no matter how much I pray, still nothing comes to relieve us of this drought. But there is nothing else I can do, and thus I continue to sing and pray. It has worked in the past, so why have the gods not heard my prayers? Has my power withered away with my body? Perhaps, but I must keep trying.
It is my duty as the priestess of this village.
It is all I have, and all I can do for the people.
For my daughters.
When I think of them, I am able to muster the strength and will to continue. I must keep trying, if nothing else so they may live on. Even if I die in the process, it will be worth it if they can live on.
The days have dragged on, each one blending into the next while the sun continues its merciless assault. Night is only a brief respite before the sun rises again, as it does day after day, and I could almost swear that I see Apollo glaring down upon us. What could we have done to wrong him thusly? Surely my prayers should please him? So why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Why are we made to suffer? If not the adults, then why must the children suffer thusly? Surely they have done nothing wrong; they are merely children after all. Yet they suffer worse than the adults. Their bodies are frail and weak, susceptible to every ailment, so they suffer the most.
And so I continue to sing and pray.
I have gathered the people to help me, to consolidate our power and to hopefully please the gods with more prayers. Our dried lips taste of sand, and we have gotten used to the scorching pain in our throats. We sang many times, we prayed many times, even though we were tormented by despair many times. I imagine that Hell is much like this; a barren, sandy, sun-scorched wasteland, and no amount of water can ease the fire in your throat. The taste of despair firmly resting upon your tongue, a sandy, bitter taste.
Sometimes, when I quietly return home, I pass by the tavern, and I can hear the men laughing.
"That spring had already dried up long ago," one said, gulping his drink greedily.
"But we still have more than enough wine," another laughed.
The men in the bar have muddied eyes; they remind me of the reddened earth beneath our feet. I want to scold them, to tell them that their complacency will anger the gods and doom us, but I know that they would not listen, far more interested in the bottom of their mugs than anything a failure of a priestess like myself would ever have to say. And there, as I walk away, beneath the Milky Way they dance with Bacchus.
It seems the people's hearts will be withering soon.
Is my song alone not powerful enough?
I enter my hut for the night, intent to sleep and regain just a bit of strength to resume tomorrow, when I see my two daughters, hands linked and bodies curled tight upon my bedroll. I want to cry, seeing them so at peace in their sleep, free of the nightmare that is their waking world, it is enough to bring me near to tears. They deserve to be healthy and happy. They deserve to have enough water to quench their thirsts. They deserve better than this.
And it is that thought that continues to spur me. It gives me the strength of will to continue my attempts day after day. Perhaps the villagers mock me, perhaps they berate me for my failures, but I don't care. I will sing and pray until my very life withers away. I will do all that I can to save them all.
I press my cracked lips to my daughters' foreheads, as gentle of a kiss as I can muster so as not to wake them, before I lay down to sleep with them. Blonde locks stir ever so slightly before they settle, and red-tipped locks curl closer to me. They remain at peace as I lay awake in torment, but that is the way it should be. Is it not the burden of the parents to suffer so that their children may be happy? And thus, I must keep trying.
I must keep singing.
I must keep praying.
I must keep believing.
I must keep believing that my efforts will not be in vain; that I will one day end this drought.
From that night onward, I begin to pray both during the day, and at night. I beseech the gods to grant us even a moment of mercy, to grant us just enough rain to quench our thirst.
O starry night, O light of Deneb, your embraces are unnecessary. O thunder, together with the rain, downpour onto the palms of my hands.
O starry night, O light of Deneb, disappear before the dawn. O thunder, together with the rain, pour down onto this body.
And yet my prayers continue to go unanswered, no matter which god I pray to. Were I not so devout, I may have given up much like the people, but the alternative is to simply give up and accept that this village and its people are doomed, and I cannot abide by that.
Though the adults may not deserve salvation for their complacency, the children do, and the children are whom I continue for.
Over and over and over and over.
I pray.
I sing.
I believe.
But not once can I despair. If I allow myself to give in to the despair that the adults taste heavy upon their tongue, if I allow myself to believe that the situation is hopeless, then there truly will be nothing left. I will have single-handedly sealed the fate of this village.
Early on in the drought, the elders had whispered of moving the village, but the children, the elderly, and the sick would not make the long journey to the next village. As far as the scout had seen, there was nothing for us but more of the same red earth, no matter where we went, so they decided that we would simply remain and wait.
They entrusted me with everything; with saving the village, with ending the drought, with returning the life to everyone's eyes, and yet I cannot answer them. I have tried and tried and tried, and I have nothing to show for it.
Days blend into one another, weeks become months, and I can feel myself withering away, I can feel the power gone from my body. I am simply going through the motions, hoping that the shell of a ritual, the echo of a song, the whisper of a prayer will be enough to call down the rain.
"Summer. Summer, that's enough. You need to rest."
But I can't.
I can't rest.
I can't.
Because if I rest, Ruby and Yang will surely wither away.
Kind, wrinkled hands try to stop me, but I brush them away. I cannot accept their misplaced kindness. Don't they see that any break will be the end? Don't they see that the moment I stop, there will be no hope for the village? For my daughters?
Ah, I think of their bright smiles, so brilliant and true despite their suffering. They spur me to continue. I must continue.
"Mom? Can you come to bed? Ruby had a nightmare."
I cannot, my dear. For if I do, she will be tormented by that nightmare when dawn arrives. I cannot comfort you and your sister the way you deserve. I cannot hold you when you shiver and sniffle, and I cannot wipe away your tears when you cry. But everything I do is for you, even if it does not seem so. Even if you grow to hate me, I cannot stop. I must continue until the very last bit of my strength and vitality has left me, and even once my soul has departed, I will pray for you from the afterlife.
Yes, even if I die, I will continue to pray for your happiness.
I love you.
I love you and Ruby.
With all my heart I love you both.
Please, please understand that.
I love you.
Yes, even as my strength failed me and my life drained away, even in those very last moments, I loved you both.
I love you.
The ending is a bitter pill to swallow, but there is a part II on the way. I hope you were able to enjoy it. Until next time~!