Beyond The Fallen

Boy of gold

In the chaos of their clash, no posturing or choreographed flourishes were tolerated. A phantom of death, the spirit fought like a cornered animal, its instinct for survival shrouded in raw desperation. Aresa was no foe to trifle with, that much was clear even to the most cursory observer. Her left hand released her rapier, the sword intended for thrusts rather than overhand strikes-a tactical weakness in such close quarter combat.

A creeping awareness tugged at her thoughts, urging her to use her rapier as a dagger, forcing her to surge forward and upward, her elbow jabbing the spirit's ribs, a feeble retort to the blow it had just dealt.

But parrying was no defense against an opponent only seeking to kill. Her blade, snagged in the spirit's mass, failed to retract as she jolted, losing ground.

A sacrificial lamb against an unyielding beast, the spirit smashed her head against the tree, the branches snapping, a concession to the assault. A pointless return gift for the wound Aresa had granted. Her vision summed the scene well, the last thing on her mind, a catalogue of black sedan chairs.

Her battered mind was but a fortress under siege, borderless and blind. The spirit's fist punched into her stomach, Aresa saw not the light nor the darkness, only her father's lips curved into an disappointed frown, her form shivering on the precipice.

The ground, unmerciful, would have her no sooner, the rough surface chipping and snapping her bones in turn, a twisted waltz without finesse or grace. Each impact resounded in her deafened ears, somber overtures of a symphony played by ghosts.

And crumpled against the boulder, her body a tragic ensemble of raw wounds and gore, Aresa's breathing shallowed; her chest a teacup clinking beneath a waterfall. The spirit leered, its gloves unfurling petals of mist, veins of energy seeking out her broken body. Her chest was too weak, her spirit too small to weld the fissures that the spirit seemed determined to open.

Was this the end? It seemed not merely possible but imminent. Would the ghosts of her ancestors salute her in her time of desperate solace, or was she destined to ascend to their ranks in the twilight of this cold, unforgiving dawn?

As her world thrummed on the precipice of darkness, a spark of hope flickered, a nebulous beacon nudging her fading will to life. Her addled mind, drunk with the fugue of the wounded, beheld an unusual sight: a boy, caught in a dance with gravity, the sun-kissed tendrils of hair granting him some semblance of flight, his descent a masquerade of the blade that clung to his fist, steadfast and aimed at the spirit.

Her eyes, wide with wonder or the disbelief, seemed to fuse as the scene unfolded at the edge of consciousness. Was this a trick of mortality leaving her, the wind furrowing her dreams? Or was the boy, this mystery, a savior of the gods themselves?

His vision, it seemed, struck a chord deep within the venomous spirit, a cryptic song of defiance knotted in his blade. A ghost that strained against an unseen lasso, its shadow-draped muscles quivered and rippled. The sight jolted Aresa, jolting her to a consciousness that clung to the warmth of hope.

From where the boy had come, how he had birthed such a stratagem so swiftly, she could apprehend neither, her thoughts muddled and dim.