Peace of Mind

Prologue: 1 of 2

TW: slight gore

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A new day steadily approaches as the sun wakes. The plums on the mighty trees of the forest are still green with youth, a sure sign of the oncoming spring weather that had already begun to wake the earth from its slumber. Old blossoms await to be replaced by what would soon be the fruits of their tree's labour.

The only threat to the tranquil silence of the clearing is the babbling bubbles of a nearby brook, its water racing down and into the wilderness. The sky grows lighter with the dawn of a new day, not a single cloud in the sky can prevent the beams of light that trickle through and past the leaves of the tall trees.

The morning breeze shakes their branches, a few smaller leaves coming loose before being lost to the wind. They twist and spin, twirling and weaving by one another in their slow descent to the ground. The leaves finally float to a dirt path, a path leading to a small village hidden amongst the trees and flora.

A small village engulfed in ash and blood.

Clouds of dust gather amongst one another in the air like a dry fog, a hot mist that carries the lingering memory of fire. Flames that once ran rampant throughout the village have long since died. The houses and buildings that once stood tall amongst the people who built them laid down, reduced to ashes and soot atop the charred remains of those same corpses.

To the bodhisattva and prince who stand amidst it all, the idea of this place hosting life, the thought of families and children living here happily together is near-impossible. This place was once so vibrant, when was the last time they visited? Two, three days ago? Only mere nights ago, children ran up and down the streets in play. There was joy here, their hearts filled with wonder. What filled their hearts last night?

Moksa shakes his head at the horrid thought. "We were too late." He looks down at the young child only metres away from his feet, most likely no older than six. The rancid scent of burnt flesh and the sight of blistering burns do not distract from the gaping slice through their shoulder blade.

The bodhisattva takes a moment to respond, her gaze never leaving the remains of a house now reduced to cinders and rubble. "Not all was lost, Moksa."

The disciple looks up to his master when he hears her words, turning to follow her line of sight back to the destroyed home. His eyes start to widen, understanding sweeping over him. Before another word can be spoken, he rushes towards the debris in a fit of renewed energy.

Careful to avoid the lifeless vessels that once held the people of this village, Moksa reaches the crumpled mess of a house. As he nears, the faint sniffle his master has no doubt already heard reaches his ears. A survivor.

Removing the charred wooden frames that once held up the home and tossing aside blackened planks, a small presence reveals itself amidst the rubble. A child whimpers, her eyes shut tight at the exposure to light after however many hours she's spent trapped under the remains of this home. The girl is curled up, her head tucked into her lap with one of her arms wrapped tight around herself. She's covered in soot, dried blood stick strands of hair together and stains her ripped clothes. It's a pitiful sight, she doesn't look much older than eight.

The girl hugs her legs close to her chest with her left arm, her right is twisted back too far to do the same. Silent tears stream down her cheeks, her face contorting in pain from the sudden exposure of fresh air– or at least, fresher air– coming into contact with the open gash on her leg. How long has she spent like this? There are cuts and scrapes all over from what Moksa can see, dark bruises are blotched over her form. To think this child has been buried under here for who knows how long...