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[ 7 - futility ]

Chel filed behind the others only because not doing so would make her look suspicious. In truth she wanted to run, to scream, to do something other than fall in line and kiss the boots of more knights but Lancelot had spoken of memories and like a spell she was ensnared.

She took her silvery branch, running her fingers over the veins of each leaf, the grooves in each secondary shoot. Her eyes were glassy and she felt pulled to the water.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she was supposed to be drowning and yet she let the water take her anyways. Maybe it was the kind of release she had wanted. Maybe she knew in her heart it wouldn't kill her. Maybe she was just play entranced.

"Are you not tired? Do you not reserve to finally rest? Perhaps when all this is over you can finally join all those you have lost."

Chel thought that an odd thing to say. She had Chris here with her; there was nothing she had left to lose. The thought occurred to her that maybe her memories held something more-

They're idiots. They're such idiots. They've been wandering in the woods for days with no food or water (they ate all they'd prepared on the first day- children were not good planners). Chel needs to be carried on Chris' back but she refuses to do anything except continue to walk stubbornly. Chris has a cut on his lip and it looks bad. Yet despite the childrens' status, they keep saying, "at least we're free." Unspoken words add and together.

The thunder of hooves almost comes as a relief. Almost. Chel can't remember anything past the screaming, the adrenaline flight response to run, run, run.

They're back home. Large empty halls filled with nothing because they've sold much of it. Chris' lip still hasn't been tended to. Chel sees her betrothed, a small boy of maybe 9 or 10 looking back at her with curiosity, pity, relief; many emotions she can't seem to read. It's odd, because she's usually pretty good with emotions. He's a blank canvas, and paint seems to fill it momentarily, then disappear. It's irritating.

She sneers at him.

Later she's tied down. Normally it's a slap on the wrist, a tutting. No food for this long. No going outside of the castle for this long. No more horseback lessons.

Today it's her back. She's crying, because despite her resistance, there's no helping it. She's only 9 or 10 herself, and she hasn't yet learned how to make them stop. No punishment has been this severe because no crime she's committed has been so severe. Trying to run away- what was the daft girl thinking? There's nowhere to go for miles, ser Craft owns-

She tries to argue it will make her unsuitable. They argue that a dress will cover it.

[ Ridon : 2: Sadness ]

It was very ceremonial, how Ridon approached the lake. He took the branch, holding it in both hands like he would a candle, and followed the path down to the waters edge. He'd sent his pony off, he'd shed his last tears over his fate. He was Camelot's embodiment of hope. He'd see that to the end.

The water was cool around his legs. There was a flash of light and he was pulled under by a mischievous lady. The water was warmer than he'd anticipated, and it relaxed him as he floated within its depths. Ridon let himself let got, letting the water support his body, his breath coming in slow, even motions. He frowned a little, surprised he could breath. He'd figured he couldn't drown down here (that would be a way to go, wouldn't it? Oh hey we'd save Camelot but this woman in white drowned all of our knights), but the ability to breath was a nice touch.

A thousand orbs of light floated up to him and he seemed to hover in the middle. They were familiar, though he couldn't place where. As he reached for one, the woman spoke and asked him if he was tired. Oh, how he was tired. Among the warmth of the pool, and the familiarity of the light orbs, he felt himself wanting to drift off to sleep.

"I will... jo-join them so-soon enough..." he murmured quietly, coaxing one of the wisps to him. He cradled it in his arms, a barrier of water around the wisp and curled around it. He would be with these little orbs, these little memories again. That was inevitable. He was destined to die to protect Camelot. Soon, he'd simply be one of these little wisps, a memory lost to time and duty. Ridon brought his head down, and gently touched the wisp with his forehead.

They were burying his father today. In the smaller villages, disease was common, especially during the hot summer months where food and water often went rancid as you were consuming it. Many had died that summer, more so than usual. The healers whispered about a plague sweeping the country side. His family had been lucky; Primrose's had buried four different extended family members this year. It didn't lessen the blow any.

His father came down with fever, and the healers had given him a bill of recovery. Yet when he grew worse, and worse, the healers realized he'd been hiding something much worse. An untreated gash on his thigh from farm work had turned infected, and in turn his blood was full of it. He stood no chance, even with all the healers were doing.

Ridon, his mother, Primrose, and his father's younger sister who was heavy with child stood in the pathetic shade of a tree while the healer read the rites of passing. They were quiet as the wooden box was dropped into the ground and covered with dirt. Slowly, his mother and aunt left, ready to mourn in the comfort of home with a cup of tea. Only once it was him and Prim did he let the tears fall. He stayed until the sun hung low in the sky, his face crusted with dirt and salt.

He was not grieving. Grieving had been at Prim's fourth funeral in a week. Grieving had been watching his father die. He'd grieved long before this moment. No, now he was just... sad. Sad he lost the one man who understood his plight. Sad his rock was now nothing but dust. Sad he couldn't have done more.

Sadness was hollow. Sadness had no purpose, no direction. Sadness stuck with you for an eternity. You could move on from grief, anger, hatred. But sadness stuck with you. It showed up in small ways, at the sight of a favorite flower, or old journal. It never went away, and it never faded. It was neither a strong emotion, nor a weak one. It just was. It was almost worst, this way. Ridon stared blank eyed at the grave, and only moved as Prim guided him home to bed. Sadness was all that Ridon was now.

The wisp moved from his grasp and Ridon blinked. He looked up to the surface and swam, resigning himself to the inevitable again. Time to go do his duty.

revenge

He didn't know what to expect when Lancelot called out names: maybe some part of him had hoped against hope that his own desperate grasp for meaning would get denied, force him to find a purpose in something that might not necessarily end in death; maybe some part of him wished to join Chel in her belief that they had a choice. But he had felt the ominous weight on his shoulders when he declared to her that they were fated to die, and perhaps that in and of itself had been the sign that he would be chosen--because he was willing to accept that destiny.

Jack was numb either way when he heard his name. His mind could focus easily on the facts: seven brigades, heal those in need, prepare the medicine. Eternally serve. Easy. He had plenty of practice just trying to heal knights during the siege. But in spite of his long-since acceptance of the facts, he couldn't help but feel a little surprised at his own lack of emotion. The calmness was...almost eerie. But the facts remained, and now he had to step up. In the face of death, the most basic data was both easy to digest and simultaneously made the entire process itself easier.

(There are others whose names he knows, and it is strange to think of them as leading other brigades with him. That they have truly come this far, knights and new Great Knights alike. That their ending won't be idyllic and that the greatest thing he can leave behind is his memory.)

He bowed again, murmured his grateful words, took a silver branch, and stepped into the lake without looking at any of them. The wisp that appeared before him was entrancing even before he reached out to it.

One letter, three-hundred and ninety-six words, seven spent on the end (WITH OUR GREATEST CONDOLENCES, ILLEGIBLE FIRST NAME LAST NAME DOCTOR SIGNATURE). He counts the words, the lines, cuts the paragraphs in half and dissects them just because he can, not because it helps, as if the invisible lines each sentence is written upon are instructions on where to slice. It is only paper, but it still reeks of death like a corpse on Mother's cots.

She's gone. Just like Chel. No, not gone, he forces himself to think. Dead. Murdered. Slain. Killed. Not some peaceful giving of the ghost, but the victim of another raid by horsemen and riders. Father shakes his head and calls her the second one down. Mother calls her Little Lina and mournfully cradles her son. Jack doesn't know how to feel for a long few years, not until the froth of it finally reaches the top of his tall, tall head, claws past the academics and fixes its fangs into his thoughts.

He realizes his anger, long-toothed and subtle, has been building ever since that day. His outbursts disturb the servants and his family. His urges to lash out at something are illogical yet unstoppable. He begs his mother to let him have sword practice at the very least: if he is of no use as someone's husband, let him be a warrior instead. Let him be able to protect something for once in his life.

Better yet, let him be able to get his revenge. Let him be able to take and take and take--

- - - - -

inevitability

The memory left him faster than it came, but it left an itch in his soul that hadn't been there previously. It didn't disturb his inner peace, though, strangely enough--Jack had accepted his death was coming even before Lancelot had declared open spots. No, the itch wasn't an itch, now that he thought about it: more like another facet to that resolution he had already decided on, another color that melded with the rest.

He may have bowed his head to fate, but he wouldn't do so in battle. If his death was destined, then so were his enemies'. Jack would fight with every ounce of strength left in him, not simply because it was his duty but because deep down, there was still that kernel of hope that it would truly be worth the heavy price, that their legacy would mean the safety of the kingdom and its inhabitants were secured.

(And that this time maybe he wouldn't be forgotten.)

Protection - Robert

The sound of that much laughter at once was intoxicating, and infectious. He couldn't remember what they'd started laughing about, or why they were all laughing now, because every single one of those beautiful little faces was red and teary with laughter, rolling on the floor over something that had them incapacitated in their mirth. He stood there, bellowing out the loudest booming laughter of them all, and every one of the children around him broke out into fresh laughter over the sound of his. It kept cycling, over and over, with no real signs of stopping. The only thing that stopped them was the hard rap on the door. He swiveled first, and some of the older children scattered out of shyness, but he was still surrounded by at least three of his younger siblings as he stormed towards the door with his hand on his sword. He waited, listening carefully for a moment, and then barked out in a harsh, intimidating voice.

"WHO IS IT?"

Jezebel burst into giggles again, and her older sister stuffed a pillow over her face.

No one answered the door, and the tension from that silence forced all the children into somber moods. Robert pulled his sword out from behind his back, held it pointed at the door, and asked one more time.

"I SAY, WHO IS IT."

The sound of someone spitting something out of their mouth had him jumping in surprise, but the voice that spoke directly after soothed that tension.

"For heaven's sake, Robert, I've got twelve baskets and one of them is between my teeth. Open up."

The resounding cheer of "MAMAAAAA" filled the air as the children swarmed the door, ready to greet their busy, worn down mother from her shopping trip. Robert sheathed his sword in relief, and opened the door to gather up all of the baskets from her. Mother was home.

(embarrassment)

The branch he took flared to life, a light to guide him on his path towards the lake. He did not know what to expect when he got there, or how, exactly, his impurities were to be washed away, but still he went, putting his faith in the last remaining great knight, however foolish that might be.

Upon reaching the lake he looked down, and at first saw only his own reflection staring back at him. But no, further, beyond that, a woman, one in white. He frowned, perplexed, and stepped into the water, a hand reaching as if to help her.

She grabbed for his legs. She pulled him down, down, downdowndown....

He couldn't breathe. Or at least, at first, he struggled not to. And then, it was beyond hopeless, and he needed to. He drew in a gasp, expecting water to fill his lungs, but it did not. Instead, he found, he could actually breathe. Not only that, but the further down into the water he went, the calmer he felt. The water really was washing away what was there, the pain, the confusion, and leaving him feeling clean, bare, something fresh and new.

There were orbs of light, and he touched one in wonder.

------

He was young, so young that he could barely remember it. He held an axe in his hands, and nearby, his dad stood, watching him, leaning on a much larger axe of his own.

"You said you wanted to grow to be as big and strong as me, well, this is how you begin." The man explained. "Every day, I want you to come out here, and chop wood. I want you to chop, and chop, and you will not stop, not until it feels as if your arms might fall off or your back is to burst into flames from the pain."

Wrath, young, determined, nodded. His axe was small, perhaps too small for the task ahead of him, but he was not going to back down from the challenge that was set out before him. He did want to be big and strong, like his dad He would do this, or anything else that it would take.

He had watched his dad do this a million times before, at least. He hefted the axe up, swinging it over head, he slid his hand, back to the one nearest the end of the handle, and swung down.

The axe thunked into the wood, a solid blow, but not nearly strong enough to break it. It took him some time to work the axe free, before he tried again.

And again.

And again.

He must have struck at that accursed log thirty times or more, and all he managed was for a few small chips to break away here and there when his swings became more desperate, less precise, hitting at the logs edges. His face was reddening, and he could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, stinging, threatening to spill over.

"Why won't it break?" His words came out a choked sob. "Why can't I cut through it?"

When he looked up at his dad, the man was smiling, and that only confused and flustered Wrath more.

----------

The memory ebbed away, and though it was but a snippet, the now full grown man beneath the water could only guess how it ended. Being that he knew he who he was, and who he had become, he knew that he would not have given up, that he would have continued with raw determination, and that once that log had been split, he would have, stubbornly and with great pride, selected another.

------

(inevitability)

On the heels of a memory filled with mortification, came something much different, something that Wrath could relate to much more, given his newly promoted status. Inevitability. It was time. This was his time. He had traveled far, had shed his memories, had made his choices, whether for good or ill. He had stood up, had plead his case, and, somehow, had been chosen.

There was a battle coming, and it soon approached. He could not escape this destiny.

Johan's hand trembled as he reached for a branch from the tree. As he grasped a branch, it almost seemed the tree let go of it, surrendering the limb to him. He wanted to hesitate when the path of light appeared, but his body moved on its own.

As he stepped into the lake, and was then dragged under it, Johan panicked for a moment, completely sure Lancelot was a Sidhe in disguise, and this was some elaborate trick to kill them all now. He struggled to hold his breath, but was finally forced to exhale. He expected cold lake water to surge into his lungs, but found, instead that he could still breath. As he struggled to bring his racing heart under control, he swore he could hear an amused giggle around him. He watched a floating orbs of light surrounded him, and a voice spoke to him.

"Are you not tired? Do you not reserve to finally rest? Perhaps when all this is over you can finally join all those you have lost."

He looked more closely at the orbs, and realized he could see something in each of them. Just glimpses, but he could swear he saw himself. Johan reached out...

The door burst open, and Johan looked up from his chores, surprised by the noise before he realized it was his Father. The, at that time, towering man strode across the floor, and picked Johan up with a grin, face glowing with happiness. Johan laughed as his Father swung him around in the air, a rare treat now that Johan was getting bigger.

"W-why are you home so early, Pa?" he asked, breathless.

"Because, my boy, you are an Apprentice!" he replied, setting Johan down on a chair, and taking the seat opposite. "I have talked to Goodman Yoshizawa, and he has agreed to teach you his trade!"

Johan's eyes widened.

"Really?" he asked, wondering if his Father was playing tricks on him.

"Yes, truly!" his Father assured him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You'll learn to read and write! You'll be well educated, and serve in a very important position once you've gained your majority. Johan, this is the first step on your road to manhood."

To Johan's surprise, and unease, he could see tears in his Father's eyes.

"Don't cry, Pa!"

"Oh, these. There just because I'm happy, Johan. People cry when they're happy, too. I know you'll do me proud, you're a good lad, always diligent in your chores. Do me and your Mother proud, alright?"

"Yes, sir, Pa!" Johan assured him, feeling like his chest would burst from happiness. He quickly found that his Father hadn't been lying about the happy tears.

[Rei enters!]
As he plucked one branch from the birch tree, suddenly his mind lost control of his body. He can only 'see' what transpires when a path suddenly lit by numerous sprites before him. He also can't stop his steps when he walked into the lake, the pleasantly warm water seemingly welcomes him---or was it even water? He can't see his own reflection on it.

Suddenly he felt something grabbed his feet. Rei wants to scream but he can't. Using peripheral vision, he saw what appears like the same Lady dressed in white who gave Lancelot the birch tree. She dragged him downwards, into the warm water---once his head was beneath the surface he regains control and struggled to swim upwards; yet the frail-looking arm won't budge even if he flailed and kicked. He lost count of how long he has been down there, breath escaping his lungs. Will he die here...huh?

He can...breathe normally? As Rei was perplexed with how that happened, bubbles-no, orbs of light came floating from under his feet, from the lake's bottom. The view is not only beautiful, but somewhat hypnotizing.

If only he can remain here forever---but sadly no. He...THEY have a war to be fought.

The lady whispered again...something about fatigue and resting. About joining all that he had lost.

As he sunk deeper and deeper down the lake, he is blanketed with countless orbs of light, each seems to glitter with scenery and events. He can see peoples he knew...no, he didn't know them, but felt somewhat familiar. Is this---

Rei reached to one of the nearest orb and touched it. The bubble popped.

----------

PAIN.
Immense pain.
His left face felt like someone dumped a pot full of boiling oil on it. This happened after 'that' touches him. Rei can only scream shrilly while rolling on the charred ground, trying to ease the pain. He doesn't even bothered with still-lit embers burning his skin or sharp, hot nails from burnt-down houses pierces his body---the pain on his left eye is still greater than all those combined.

The being in front of him, made of pure darkness, riding a skeletal horse. It doesn't neigh, but made a sickening rattle instead.

[So you won't join us? Fine.] the shadow pulled back his hand, which has touched his left eye earlier. [I've left my mark on you. As long as you live, I will know where are you at. Sooner or later, I'll come again to claim my prize.], said the shadowy figure before retreating---no, advancing deeper into the Kingdom's territory, spreading Taint and death as they went.

After few hours, the pain subsided. Rei, while crying, looked at what's left from his village: nothing.

Not even one stone still stacked nor body left to indicate that's anything has lived here before. All what left is just a charred earth devoid of shapes, figures and life.

He looked at the thing embedded in the ground; a bronze sickle blade, without the wooden hilt. Seeing that, Rei ran and grabbed it without thinking.

Looking at the direction the shadows travels to, he ran. Inside his mind was nothing else than the word KILL.

It was two days later the patrolling Knight finds they boy, near dead from infected injuries, hunger and exhaustion while still muttering 'kill the Horseman' weakly.

------------

"PHAAAAH!" He finds himself gasping for air, reaching the Lake's surface. What was that? Another memory?

Rei was tempted to dive down and relive parts of his own memory---again-but when he did, the magic seems has faded.

What still lingers in his mind was the ANGER. The seething rage, wanting to be vented somewhere.

He clenched his fist in silence, water dripping from his hair. No, this is not the time nor place to explode in rage.

There's other suitable place and objects to vent to. Until then...

-let's just hope nobody rubs him the wrong way.