Fields of empty Memories

Shoes shuffled lightly against the marble floor. The echoing filling the corners of the room until the sound faded to nothing.

A louder pair of footsteps followed the first. These ones clicking as hard heels struck against the stone.

A hill, covered in long waving grasses. Tall flowers colored like rainstorms and faded photos. Two children. A little girl, with braided hair and sparkling eyes. A little boy, whose hair wasn’t long enough to braid and eyes like sparks.

A wreath of flowers spilling out of scarred hands. Falling as they brushed against the floor. Long vines connected dangling foliage.

The flowers smelled like the ocean and summer. They smelled like the bright golden sun and free open plains. They were the children’s favorites.

Making them smile every time they saw them. The children so little, still found the world such a beautiful place.

They would gather fistfuls, shrieking in joy, as they raced to show their mothers. The little girl always won.

No matter how fast the boy with space/ink black hair ran. He always found himself reaching for her, her form slowly diminishing, even as her back vanished within the pale green of the hill grasses.

The hall was silent, save for the footsteps swallowing the room in despair. Row after row of people filled the long hall, their reflections in the clear marble staring back with grim resignation.

The rustling of cloaks and skirts was absent, no hushed whispers floated in low undertones, and even those gathered would swear that not a breath could be heard.

Two figures walked. One clothed in a sweeping, flowing garment of pure white, holding the rainstorm colored memories of childhood, the person’s battered fingers and scarred palms, holding them gently as they brushed against the floor with every movement.

The other draped in rippling black, billowing quietly a few steps behind the figure in white. Empty handed and lacking the excitement of the other.

The little boy’s hair was long now, he wore it proudly over one shoulder, the little girl had smiled as she clumsily braided the strands together. Beaming when he declared it her best one yet.

His mom showed him how to make flower crowns one day. The little girl hadn’t come to the hill yet, so he went to her house excitedly to show her. 

He had found her sharpening her older brother’s knife.

“What are you doing?” he’d asked.

“I’m just practicing, my Mommy said not to tell Daddy, you won’t tell on me, right?”

The little boy nodded, but he was confused. Why did she want him to lie to his parents?

She had closed the door, leaving him holding the lopsided flower crown he had made for her.

He saw her less after that, she always seemed to be busy. He would wait for her on the hill, but when she did come, it was with the knife he had seen, or another blade or weapon.

So, one day he took his Mommy’s kitchen knife, he found his friend and demanded she teach him. He didn’t really want to learn, blades scared him, the way they cut scared him.

He had seen his mom and the other women crack animal bones and separate skin from muscle. He had seen the men kill wild dogs and break down tall trees.

Yes, blades scared him, because even then, despite how young he was, he knew what a sharp edge could do.

He was terrified, but he missed his friend, and the only thing she had time for anymore were her daggers and swords.

She’d grinned when he asked her, the same way she’d grinned when she’d done his hair. 

So, he learned. Soon he could swing them from the edges of his fingers, letting them fly effortlessly as they slid through his hands perfectly, to find their mark. Now his palms seemed to mold around whatever weapon he was holding. Fitting comfortably to whatever he chose to use.

The little girl had learned too. Dancing like a dervish with her blades as they shone like cracked glass.

The figure in black stared at his companion in white, wondering how much longer it would be. They had lost track, they wondered how it had gone on for so long.

They could see the scars across the figure in white’s arms, weaving in a ghastly pattern as the candles revealed them in flickering swashes of light.

The far wall shone with catches of light emanating through massive windows that stretched floor to ceiling for over fifty feet.

At the base of the overwhelmingly large panes of glass, rested a chair. Carved out of the ground and older than any living thing, it was really a throne. It gleamed with a strange reflectiveness, like an empty bottle or a crystal carved for a prism.

The little girl no longer a child, yet not quite an adult, grinned at him with a smile the boy didn’t recognize.

He’d woven a flower crown absently; he could make them perfectly now, no more lopsided messes. His hands working the flowers as easily as hers did with her blades.

She had plucked it out of his grasp and crowned herself with it, declaring.

“One day, I’ll be a real queen.”

He believed her.

He had always followed her, always stayed by her side. Even now so many years later. Somewhere deep down, he had always hoped that maybe, if he waited long enough, his friend would come back. That he would see her again.

But he knew the truth. Had known since she started playing with things that little children aren’t allowed to touch. Had known when her proficiency and love for weapons came a little too easily, had known when she started disappearing for weeks, only to come back drenched in blood and bearing a demented grin.

He’d known when her eyes no longer sparkled and instead swallowed everything like an endless void.

He’d known when she took him with her for the first time, so she could show him how to kill. He watched as she slowly amassed a following, each individual with eyes as hollow and dull as hers.

He’d known as he watched her slowly tear the kingdom down, stone by stone. Watched as she left piles of bodies behind her. Burning with the fires she was slowly spreading to every corner of this once safe world.

But the realization had only truly come as he saw a few days ago, dripping in gore and crimson ichor, boots pounding harshly, and her dual swords in hand as she slit the High Queen’s throat with a deranged glee. Gently pulling the crown off the dead ruler’s head as carefully as if it were glass, rather than Iron that weighed down whoever wore it, with the weight of the kingdom.

Now he watched as she approached the throne. Self-bestowed crown atop her head and the flowers from the place he used to treasure, clutched in one hand. 

She placed a palm on the clear throne. Just a touch of her scarred flesh against the glass, instantly rose red seeped from the contact, swirling through the throne and enveloping it in the bloody maroon light. The stone hardened into a callous rough stone.

The bystanders gasped, finally making a sound.

The throne reflected its people, its land, and its ruler. It showed the very depths of its master’s heart to all who looked upon it.

The boy, now a man, grabbed her from behind before she could do anything else, before she could take the throne. His face against her neck, his arms pinning hers, he didn’t hesitate.

His own blade sliding easily between her ribs, as if it had always belonged there. She stretched a hand towards the throne, even now dreaming of power. Gasping as her lungs filled.

He held her softly for just a moment. Whishing tears would come, but knowing they never would.

He let her fall, wrenching the wreath of flowers from her grasp as she did.

He made sure she watched, as he dropped sparks from his flint on it, made sure she watched as the plants curled and blackened. Made sure she watched as he burned the last memory of his friend that had died long ago.

Her choking form stilled and her fingers fell limp.

He pried the crown off her head. Setting it on the seat of the throne before turning his back.

He never saw the gentle swath of light dancing in the glass. Swaying as the throne softened like delicate flower petals and rolling meadows.

Filling the long hall with the colors of rainstorms, and faded memories.