I often find myself wandering these beaten paths aimlessly. For years, it has felt as if something were missing, as if I had lost something precious to me. Yet, every time I struggle to discern what I am lacking, my memories betray me. Everything is darkness, silence and ignorance before I opened my eyes on the shore of Sairou. Before I returned to my parents and discovered my amnesia. Your name is Kaika, they told me with tears glistening in their eyes, Our son. Our beloved song, long-lost. Finally returning to us from the life-giving waters, Byakko be praised.
I should really stop wandering like this; my parents are so tolerant of this restlessness that possesses me ever so often, moreso nowadays. They let me walk my paths without comment, and I feel guilty for seeking for the memories I have lost. The present is wonderful, yet - yet, there is still that feeling that I can't explain.
I remember fire. Sitting by these gentle waters, I can remember fire, cries, and a warm hand, but that is all. Vague images huddled together in my mind, randomly placed, with seemingly no purpose or common thread. I can remember pain; there are scars down my arm that I can't recall receiving, and my parents can only say that when I returned, I was badly injured. When I returned. When I returned from the time before the darkness. Before the flames? I can't say. Perhaps. The darkness and the flames are mingled in my thoughts, overlapping at times.
Overlapping with the poignant sadness I felt a week ago, the sudden sharp stabbing sensation in my chest, as if my heart had been ripped from my body and slowly crushed by a taloned fist. That sadness nearly consumed me. Perhaps it still is, for I'm wandering more these days, retreating into my thoughts, avoiding the people of the village more and more. I can see the unspoken concern in my parents' eyes when we sit down to eat our meals, but this sadness clings to me like a sash, as if it belonged to me. As if it were a part of me.
Sometimes, when I sit beneath the trees just beyond the village and let the wind carry the melodies of my flute, everything feels so right. Everyone has always been amazed at my skill with the flute. Who taught you? Did it take long to learn? Could you teach me to play? The village girls are always asking me questions about my skill that I cannot answer, but the melodies always soothe their disappointment at my negative replies. Who taught me? Someone beyond the darkness, I suppose.
I want to know what lies beyond the darkness. I'm certain my parents know something that they cannot or will not tell me. It is unbearable, not knowing. I have heard my parents speak of a legend when they believe me to be asleep or otherwise occupied. A legend, no, four legends. One for each country. A legend of a girl who brings peace and prosperity with the gathering of seven warriors and the summoning of a country's beast-god.
The story seems so familiar, as if I had heard it hundreds of times as a child. But there is no true memory of the tale, no sudden recognition. Just a glimmer. A faint glimmer that, perhaps, could be memory.