Fiora again. Sort of a reprise on a poem I did once, long ago.
I worked quite hard, harder than usual, on this. And in truth, it was more emotionally draining than most of the other stuff I normally write. So I really hope you enjoy it. Spiritual and reflective (pun not intended), over everything else.
Rivers of Moolight
Time wasn't an entity to do one's bidding, to reverse and move as one willed. It was an endless, merciless river of ice, a deep river of sorrow tangled into one current, carrying leaves and petals, instances of joy. This was a rule of the world; this was a fact that no being, not even the eight legends themselves, could deny. Not even the greatest forces of evil, or the ancient mountains that stood on eternal guard in old Ilia.
Time drew everything on, without exception, without mercy. It was a dark entity, something that the archaic stars and vast skies had learnt to understand.
And yet what was this regret? Why was it that tears welled in her eyes when she stood here and thought of Time, and wondered if there was a way to turn it around?
What if she could turn back, what if she could return to that moment of sudden stupidity? Then, perhaps, she could make things right again. Maybe, she could finally grant her friends the future that they all deserved.
But all this unfulfilled longing did nothing. It only hurt, deeper and deeper, the world drifting on around her while she remained stagnant in a sorrow she should never feel.
Time was merciless, she thought again, as her wishes scattered, silver stardust tossed away by the wind of truth. Painful, painful truth. Time never gave a second chance. In war, there wasn't any chance to rehearse—because of Time's singular direction. Onward and onward, leaving no space for mistakes.
That was the beautiful side of the art of war. That was also its ugliest side.
She remembered now with deep anger. She had forgotten this. She had allowed a mistake to happen. The lives of hundred had been in the gamble, and she had made a mistake—
Time had taken control after that. Time had set it in stone. Time had given her no chance to correct herself, before she lost them all, forever.
And in their exhaustion, outmatched twenty to one, they had descended into the mirror of the waters, falling blossoms full of moonlight, into a lake of glass. Now her skill had been a curse—for it had kept her alive through it all, alive to watch them die, watch them vanish from the world like dying candles.
She could still see them. As she looked out over the same lake, she could see them as they had been, five years ago—crying out for mercy, screaming as they whirled erratically in a deathly dance, the water finally coming to extinguish them, a splash breaking the night.
They had been ambitious, so full of hope. They had all had their dreams, dreamt of winning numerous victories, dreamt of reaching the highest ranks.
All destroyed by a silly mistake. Everything had been cast into a shadow. Every flame had been destroyed.
She wanted to scream again. She wanted to scream as she had when she had fled, the enemy departing victorious, leaving nothing—nothing, except for a rippling lake in the midnight. She wanted to tear her soul from her body, feel their pain and join them at the bottom of the deep waters, give herself what she had deserved so long ago.
But guilt was there for a reason, wasn't it? Guilt withstood time. It defied time. It was there to push her on to greater things, to retribution, or correction. It was a continuous pain that would always serve as a weapon, when she needed. It was a reminder to what she now fought for, what she would keep with herself forever.
The ones I lost to Time.
Fiora knelt down and touched the water. It rippled, drew circles that swept away from her fingers—so much like the way she was swept away by Time's endless tides. She took her spear, the very spear that had kept her breathing to feel this guilt, and right this wrong. It was a spear of silver, bright like moonlight, bright like the pegasus wings that had fallen into shimmering water, half a decade ago.
And she let the spear fall into the water, silver greeting silver, taking it into its deep embrace to rejoin the ones who had been her faithful companions.
If things hadn't happened the way they had, every one of them would be here with her. This lake would be a reminder of victory, not defeat—and they would all be heroes. But now it was only a reminder of Time's mercilessness, of a dark day, of a mistake that could never be erased and corrected.
But the moonlight was bright. The lake was amazing, beautiful. So close to heaven, she felt she could brush it with her fingers.
Yet again, merciless as Time was, Time allowed for change. Time allowed one to heal, to reform and grow into something new. It was what made the flowers bloom at spring, what made an old cut vanish from the trunk of a tree.
So, for what she was worth, she would change. She would change as a person; reach the heights that her friends had longed for. They had been dreamers, just as she was. It was something she could never forget.
And when she did, they would be proud of her. They would smile down at her from heaven, calling, "You have done us proud, Fiora!", their eyes as bright as the stars.