"Forget not. Unless you must."
- Reshiram Del Lavatos, the Sage Monarch
"Sometimes even in sadness, there is beauty."
- Stultum Cravid, during his early years with his mentor Gradias of the East.
"Even when mourning, the morning still comes."
- Unknown
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They marched by two's and three's. Silence was the noise accompanied by the low rumble of their step. Their arms and armor made no sound, let alone their steeds. No, for this army only steps were their marching drums, though how they produced the sound of steps with such incorporeal forms was unclear. Yes for this army was not of the living, but the dead. Their ghastly silhouettes flooded the path as they marched to their goal. An oath must be kept, and they shall demand it paid. They walked on and on, their goal known well to them. As they passed through villages doors and windows slammed in fright, hushed fear joining the chorus. They did not know what caused such wraiths to rise, these peasants simply hoped they earned no ire, and to see the new dawn.
Yes, for this night was consumed by the dead. Their march their soul. They sought and went, for nothing would stand in their path. To their lord, the Sage Monarch they march, and demand his command they shall. For an oath long ago was struck, and they will see that oath fulfilled, even if they must drag their lord it shall be so.
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He could feel it, the pull upon him. He could not see, nor was there anything to see. He wanted to shiver, but he could not. He wanted to scream, but he could not. He wanted to move, to run away from this situation, but he could not. The pull was slowly growing in its grip. He felt himself fading, dispersing almost like mist. Almost as if he could close his metaphorical eyes, he would die in his sleep. Though of course, how would one die twice? It was illogical, after all, even an undead doesn't 'die' it simply just stops 'unliving'.
He wanted to fade, to disperse. It was so tempting. It was a whisper so seductive he would melt like putty, yet so quiet he wasn't entirely sure it was there. Yet something prevented him. It was a chain binding him in some way, where the 'chain' came from is unknown, but he knew he would cease should it vanish. Part of him grew afraid of that notion. He wanted to live, yet he was already dead, thus where did that leave him?
However, slowly the whisper grew from seduction to a name, whose name? It was familiar, yet he could not remember for those thoughts were taken quicker than could be received. What was this name? He wasn't sure here either, for it too slipped from mind quick as a fish. How long it took before the name finally stuck in his mind, was unclear. But heard it eventually he did. That name was 'Stultum', and he remembered all he had lost as he felt himself fall.
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His eyes scanned the room as they had for the hundredth time, seeing some sort of invisible painting almost as his pupils digested every little detail. No one would interrupt his doings within this room, for what could a mere servant recommend to their master? Silence was the overture as guards as still as stone watched every nook and cranny. Thunder rolled outside the walls, the ceiling keeping them dry without holes for water to worm its way through.
The accompaniment joined in as steps approaching the figure upon the throne. More men in strange armor approached, one holding a blade in a sheath. Two of them stopped before the steps kneeling, while the third climbed and kneeled at the top, holding out the sword, his sword to him. The figure tore his gaze from the invisible painting to study the object presented. After several moments of solely the thunderous percussion did he rise, and approach the blade. He took it with one hand, sliding the other beneath the sheath and slowly drew out the sword. He held the hilt to his face as he glanced upon the carvings and ornamental design placed upon it, though slowly his eyes drifted upwards tracing the line of the blade and its own design. His other hand dropped the sheath, and he held the sword diagonally, his freed hand tracing its razor edge.
Finally, words were spoken, bringing the vocals to the mix. "It has been some time, old friend." The blade glowed slightly silver, in recognition of the voice. "Yes, I am glad to see you well too." Silence, save the thunderous percussion, fell on the room again. The figure bent down and picked up the sheath, returning the blade to its bed before laying next to his throne and sitting back down.
The figure looked at his servant for a moment, who then turned and walked back down the stairs understanding his command. It was time.
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The moon glazed the world with a soft light. Two elves sat upon the crest of the hill staring at the giant orb of their world, anxious. Their hands held as they sat in sorrowful silence. Tears fell like waterfalls from the left, while the other tried to keep a stoic complexion. They were scared, and rightfully so. For their world had been torn apart. Even now smoke rose like a signal behind them, for lost was their history, their lives. They wanted to scream and shout at the cruelty they faced and the horrors they witnessed. Yet they could only drown in their sorrows silently. Music slowly rose in the silence from some unknown place. It was soft and bittersweet, though they listened intently, their gaze was stuck upon the moon. It was a song of memories lost. Of chances taken. Of removed possibility. The wind blew, but neither their hair or clothes rippled, but the grass swayed plentiful for the both.
Birds joined in with the song. Their song sad and low, unlike the beautiful songs they normally sung. For too they mourned the horror laid on this night. The music rose in volume and power, and the left figure slowly drew her own voice, bright like the sun yet solemn and lonely. They connected slowly causing the world to catch its breath as the right figure joined in with a tune deep yet comforting like the moon they watched. The music played the memories lost. It played the tales they had spun. Of family and friends. Of mistake and success. It removed the horror they witnessed, even for a moment. The song grew and grew, as children grew up and lived. Of snow falls and the sunshine. Of bittersweet happiness.
They sang so none could forget. They sung to also forget. They sang and sang with the mysterious song, the birds, and the world. They sang just to sing. It was all they had left after all. The two figures sat upon their hilltop stage and performed like shooting stars. Bright, yet fleeting. For when the song ended, the two vanished, for the souls of the dead can only find respite in the comfort of the moon. The two's souls at peace. From a horror, they bore and burned with. And the armies of the old king marched on.
Very curious. Very curious indeed.