The Secondary Saga

[Gildarts]

Ghosts of the Past

Lit blue eyes sparked open as she broke from her dream.

Christa had fallen asleep, in the hell-worthy Swamp of Sadness –a place that could kill her– but the most tantalizing part of it all, was that she had awoken waist-deep in murderous liquid muck. The miasmic atmosphere was imbued the the taste of dread and emphasized that within the sluggish swamp, any struggle was in vain.

Yet, even with her frenzied disgust, the lethargic goop only tided higher as Chrisra was helplessly suctioned lower. Rolling with speeds of black quicksand, a toxic hourglass, whatever semblance the murky waters could be, they certainly threatened to consume her entire being.

Her eyelashes fluttered faster now, against whatever force chose to swallow her as the thick depths grew only heavier with her own, suddenly aware, consciousness. Every time she thought 'I must get out' the goo's level rose on her body; sinking without any control, she noticed the brambles and deadened trees were getting taller.

The deathly black mud coated her porcelain skin, both her arms and hands were sopping wet as she splashed and thrashed to reduce the oncoming tide. All to no avail. Time drained in the sinkhole of her thoughts, while her now-weary eyes teared with fearful desperation.

The taste of sorrow now choked in her mouth. It grew past her ears until the line of water engulfed her nose and she was forced to inhale the earthy sludge that clogged her airways. Another breath of thick pollution gusted down her throat and delivered the drecky slime with a perturbed gulp, into her unwilling stomach before her eyes slammed to a hard close.

No.. her consciousness fought pathetically. It wasn't supposed to be this way... I was supposed to... I have to see her again.

Another "breath" was stolen with an urge she couldn't hold back anymore. This time, her lungs had sucked in an extra serving of sloppy sorrow. Christa convulsed below the tepid water, but felt no ice delivered to her by the reaper of death.

Numb. Dead. That couldn't be right, for there was still seizing fear beating with Christa's ever-skittering heartbeat.

Her lips had opened out of inherent instinct, thirsting for a single trickle of air, though she has forbidden it. This was worse than suffocation, the swamp was strangling her from the inside out. Truly the epitome of sorrow and sadness alike.

Somber trees, faltering memories, flat smiles all flashed beneath her eyelids. Everything she fought to forget.

So this was what it was like to die. To never live or love again. To have every memory stolen from her far-away body. Christa shook off the relief and battled against the drenched weight of her failing body all while straining for the surface of it all.

More distance between her memories grew, more hope was lost for the nonexistent future. Meanwhile, through it all. Through every day, in every memory, within every face or glimmering smile, Christa saw her sister.

Katia's favorite color was pink. Like the soft apples that weighed on the dipping branches of a once-blossomed tree. Home. Christa caught a glimpse, yet soon the cozy warmth was forgotten with the rest.

Her sister's favorite hobby was drawing. The expansive scape of the daunting mountain she had climbed. Everest. Christa's ultimate achievement. It hung there, as a triumph without a canvas before fragmenting into crayon lines and erasing with the spin of existence's cruel eraser.

There was more –so much more– and then, so much less, as the disintegrating world grew more integrated in the things that make her remember the faltering pain it was to love. Her purpose was wiped away, as her reason and memories became one thing: Forgotten.

And now, the swamp asked her to be hollow. It emptied every freshly numbed emotion and drained away her joy. Slowly the darkness grew, and within her, it haunted without the taste of fear coiling in her gut. The last of her memories faded. She had fallen, and there was nothing left to sacrifice.


All was lost.

...


But then, there was light.

An unsung promise of hope called Christa back from the depths of the grave and resurrected her to the world of the living. On a whim, with the last of her energy, Christa reached for the direction she knew the sky to be and clawed at the now broken surface of the murky pool. The airlessness of her caved-in lungs, crumbled to bits and withered like raisins, began to suck in a heaving, agonized breath. Of air.

At first what the female thought was daylight, soon turned out to be her own skin. It glowed gold and she now nearly floated over the surface of all the slop that threatened to drown her. Most of the mud coating her skin now had dribbled away at the touch of the shimmering light, and spattered back into the dark pools that hadn't been able to claim her life.

The immediate pain of her surging memories was immense. It sweltered down her sides like she had been prodded with hot iron but the same liquified fortune now cooled her lamenting nerve-endings and released her, filling her hollow, soggy soul with the faith to fight, the strength to survive, and the hope to live on.


[spoiler]

Used Item: Goddess's Fortune

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