Celestial Descendant

Chapter 2: The Awakening of Hope

The dusky veil hung heavily upon the battlefield, heavy with the acrid scent of smoke and remnants of anguish. It still seemed as if the clash of steel rang, a haunting reminder of what once was unleashed. Amongst the carnage, one flower stood-white and delicate against the backdrop of death, untouched by the horrors surrounding it. It was then that one golden tear fell—a tear from the heavens, bright as a sunbeam, now and then glancing through the murk that enveloped the whole.

And as the tear finally fell delicately onto the fragile petals, it slid down, its golden colour shimmering in the dying light. It fell from the flower, caressing the earth before being absorbed by the soil. Then, all of a sudden, it was still. The world was still, so blissfully unaware that the real change had only just begun.

Days melted into the horizon, and the flower stood still, almost untouched by the miracle that had just unravelled. Time stretched endlessly, with every second a gentle reminder of the desolation that surrounded it. Yet deep within the roots of the flower, a gentle transformation started to stir.

The roots, firmly fastened in the soil, stirred with their revitalized energy as they gradually furled in response to the essence of the golden tear coursing through the earth.

Beneath the surface, an inaudible symphony was calling them to the lifeless body of a boy, upon whom still the weak resonance of life trembled. The moon sank low, casting cold silvery light on the scene-incongruous with life, as some pale flower set against the bonds of utter desolation.

As the roots brushed against his cold skin, their contact told of the beginning of a very strange transformation-one that brought to question the entire principle of life and death. In that brief instant, the spirit of the flower instinctively wrapped itself into the boy, feeling the residual bits of heat left in him.

The roots began their insidious permeation into his body, merging its vitality with the remnants of his in a silent exchange, igniting a profound process that would alter both their fates.

The roots burrowing deeper by the second wrapped around his heart and stirred an electric force humming in the silence. It pulsed within him—a heartbeat that grew with each held breath. The world seemed to shift. Time was standing still, almost as if to watch in awe this amazing stunt to take back what had never been truly its own.

On this quiet battlefield of bodies claimed by death, the flower's struggle lit a spark of hope-a gentle rebirth in defiance of life's cruellest blow. The roots continued with their purpose, their lives dancing in an eternal waltz as old as life itself. A bond born not out of choice but out of instinct, which allows testing of the very limits between life and death.

In that sanctified moment of death and rebirth, the field of war changed. The choking atmosphere lifted, and in the thick darkness, a spark shone.

When morning finally began to break on the horizon, the dead body of the boy stirred; he sat up, holding the head of his brother in his arms, his eyes closed as if within some sort of fragile balance between life and death. The sun's early rays fell across the landscape, showing the aftermath of the battlefield, casting a gentle warmth over him.

The focus returned to the face of the boy, shrouded in soft, warm dawn light. His eyes, previously clouded with lifelessness, began to spark with scraps of consciousness. The golden tear that had melded with him vibrated inside him; with each heartbeat, a surge of clarity flowed through his body and dissipated the heavy fog of death. The sun rose and painted the sky with bright orange and gold hues, stirring a new life-one that had hitherto been burdened by a sad, grey past but now was dimly lit with the promise of a better future.

The battlefield had fallen into an unholy silence. At first light, the boy awakened with limbs that stirred uncertainly, as if he were waking into an unfamiliar body.