Back when I was whole, back when I was truly alive, I remember hearing tales that the village elders had told. Many were heroic epics of a man traveling great distances for a woman he loved. As I sat and listened to these stories, I never could have imagined what this "love" felt like. It was a time of war and conquest; of life and death. There was no time for trivial feelings. No time for love. As I rose in the ranks among my fellow soldiers, I had many interested in me. I was a well respected, honorable fighter, exactly what their fathers had wanted for their daughters. Yet, I showed little interest in them or their so called 'love'. Even a person as blind to love as I could see their intentions were false.
The war had continued to rage on; tendrils of fire and death ravaged the already torn and barren landscape. My people died in droves; wives became widows, and children became orphans. As my family perished from starvation, the only refuge I found was myself, and in my dreams. In my culture, dreams were sacred and seen to be brief glimpses of the future, to fulfill them was inevitable. Little had I known a simple dream would intertwine my fate with another, and change my life. From the time I had met her, to the time she had perished, we both were inseparable. Born without a name or family, she had lived among the forest with other exiles from the villages. She was called Kumar among the exiles, but I had given her a name of my own; Ronderu, meaning 'the wild flower' described her perfectly.
On the battle front, she was skilled in the use of swords. Her twin blades flowed about her body in flashes of ivory light. I was in awe of her talents with these weapons, and in return for her teachings, I showed her how to handle a rifle. All the while my love for her grew. It was then I could see why the hero would travel great distances and confront numerous dangers just for love. It was what compelled me to fight on.
However, there had been whispers about us; many villagers had called her 'impure', for she had lived among the sick and the exiles all of her life. Priests had warned me to keep a distance from her or she would ruin my honor. Born into exile, she had never before made a pilgrimage to Absemi, so they had considered her 'unholy'. Our bond was stronger than their lies, and I continued to love her greatly. As long as we were together, we were more powerful than the pantheon of gods combined. Our victories would be forever told by the village elders for generations. I only saw great things.
Her sudden and violent death left me dumb-struck and devastated. The Huk had destroyed everything that I had loved, and left me empty and hollow. I would wake from nightmares grasping air and screaming; for many years her ghost had haunted me. Overwhelming guilt led me to think if I was to blame for her death. If I had not left her to fight alone, then perhaps she would have survived. I tried to compensate for the hole that was once my heart by accumulating wives and children, thinking that perhaps they would replace her. Some of them tried to comfort me, grasping my shoulder and telling me it was not my fault.
The war had left me stripped of emotion, and I knew I was not the same person that I once was. They had seen changes in me: my hunched form and hollow gaze, my utter disregard for life. After the crash, little carried over. That feeling that I had once experienced is alien to me now; I can remember it, yes, but never feel it.
Never again.
