The Slab of Rock

She stood alone, looking down at the slab of rock that proclaimed the resting place of her. 

Her name was worn with time and rain, of many hands tracing the letters and of the whispers of thanks and false placations. The letters were both there and not. She could see a 'T' in the ruined mess of the name. She could make the "In Loving Memory," and she saw a wilted-down carving of some sort at the base of the stone. 

But she didn't need to see the letters or the name to know who lay at her feet. 

She knew her better than the world. She knew her better than in the hundreds who pilgrimaged to stone. Better than the hands that worn the letters, better than the few lovers that still lived with the memory of her. 

She was both a memory and a dream. A usurper to her life and the maid the helped in the shadows. Her hand's overlapped with those of her own. Walking alone at night was no longer alone. For she had a memory - a ghost - walking at her side, as unwanted and equally welcomed as it is. 

Standing in the rain was never something she wanted to do. Yet, here she stood, with rain coming down like the tears of the mother with a son at war. Her umbrella stood firm as the rain fell in curtains and the wind ceased to exist in this little garden. 

There was no ghost at her side. 

But it felt like it. 

It was odd in a way. 

She stood alone in a courtyard of the Emperor - an Emperor that She had put on the throne - with a guard at the archway that welcomed so mean visitors. She could feel the eyes of the Emperor and could feel the grief he wore like a shroud. She felt the grief that he cried in the flowers that surrounded her and the stone. 

They were pretty flowers, of gold and yellows, of reds and pinks, a few of white and even fewer of purple and grey - the flowers were born from his tears and nursed by them - a single black flower laid on the top of the stone. 

The stone was drenched in the rain, and yet the flower was untouched. 

It was said that the flower bloomed with her dying breath. It was told the flower held the last of her life - it was a false pipe-dream, of course. For she was alive, kicking, and being haunted by her. 

Her, it was always Her. 

When she was a child, she thought having a dream Mummy, and a dream Daddy was normal. When she was young, she thought it was normal to carry a butter knife around because she was too young to have a real one, and she cried when it was taken away from her. She thought it was normal to have nightmares in the middle of the night, nightmares of blood, of tears, of pain, of both winning and losing wars. She knew the taste of many ales, beers, and wines both she had even wrapped her lips around the cups and bottles that held them.

But reliving the memories of a ghost wasn't all bad. 

The wind in her hair as she raced on horseback with a brother she never had and will never meet. The laughter in the air at the party on the beach when she was celebrating a life lived and now taken all too soon. Of letting lanterns loose on a moon and starless night. Of slow dancing to a harmonica in a quiet moment of war.

Of knowing the way to play the harmonica before she could even write her own name.

Her life, at times, felt like it wasn't hers. 

Like she was a copy that was both a failure in the likeness and a failure in reactiveness. She had the memories, the refusal to accept defeat, the stubbornness of a mule. All things that one could say came from Her.  

But she didn't have the instincts of the sword, the quietness and comfort of a mother, and the charm of a leader when all hope is lost. 

The flower held no life, for her life was in her. 

The flower wasn't haunted by a dead woman; that was her. The flower was worshiped by the pilgrims, kings, and old friends to say their goodbyes.

She had the memories, the phantom pains of scars, and a sword placed in her hand before she could even say no. 

A flower, its only note of importance was being there when she fell in battle, was worshipped. 

And she, cursed with the memories of a dead woman and forced to walk in the path that she once walked and carved out with her own hands. 

But she will not walk that path. 

The rain slowly came to an end as she stood still, watching the slab of rock like it was going to do a trick. 

She put the umbrella down, pulled out the slightly beaten and scratched harmonica, and stared at it.

She was mad at a flower?

The flower did nothing to her, and yet-

She took a deep breath. 

The flower did nothing to her other than being here. 

She took in front the slab of rock and knelt down. She brushed her hand against the words and dug her nails into the carving. Time really had taken a toll on the rock and its words. 

She brushed her forehead against it, and a small smile crossed her lips. 

"I will not be you."

The wind brushed against her, and her hair danced and weaved in the air. The wind was like fingers threading through her hair. 

"How can I be? When I am me, and you are you?"

She placed the harmonica on the bass of the stone - next to the carving - and put her hand right next to the flower.

The ghost wasn't at her side, but she could feel it.

She could feel it sitting on the bench next to the stone. She could see an outline of a chin on a hand and legs crossed. She could see a smile and long hair pulled back. But as she turned to face the ghost that she was the mirror of - it was gone. 

Like a shooting star, the Warrioress was gone, and she was left alone. 

The smile never left her lips as she picked up her umbrella. She cast one last look at the rock that marked the Warrioress' final resting place and started down the path that the woman had never walked. 

She said her piece to the woman she was supposed to replace.