Where there is silence dwells a form that awaits a return and serves innovation to the most abundant shades of desire.
But is serenity truly a permanent fixture or a fictitious ideal?
Whatever it may be, it opens a gateway to the much-sacred depths of the earth, bringing clarity to mind.
Though its whispering rest is the painting beneath the surface, actions driven by power in streaks of red, where the slightest touch of agony banes the voice of reason like burning grief, both warm and familiar.
And no matter how the tree of life transitions, the burden of history lingers like an everlasting glow—the outrageous belief of simulating anything when trying to infuse the past and suppress the guilt-like madness.
A noted maiden whispers about her surroundings as she lays back, allowing in the starry night she came to love.
Its absence of none and the ethereal impression of ambition made it more esoteric and meaningful to behold—a discrepancy to the prison holding her captive. Because beyond the creaks of haven arose a violet garden with the power to make one believe they could fly in the most glorious creation, within raw energy, like a whispering nightingale, for eyes and ears that couldn't whisper, unlike those of a predator.
Bearing in mind the unconditional appeal, the younger recalls the unusual things she's gathered over the years with similar distinctions. And the impact they held in the sanctuary that solely kept her alive. Even suggesting which piece of solitude encompasses a sign of treason was like implicating the callow of a person with guilt hovering over their shoulders.
Mainly when every aspect of those mechanisms portrayed an asset of residence that surged throughout life at one point.
Still, out of all those factors, the most intricate item in her possession exploited the most beautiful sound one could ever imagine. It's beyond knowledge how empathy could have constructed such delicate and powerful melodies, given their outcome.
Nevertheless, the mysterious raven felt in debt because of them.
Crazy enough, existing wasn't as demeaning as she dared believe, nor those vital to her, at least.
Hoping to drown all emotion, she sets the volume below the bird song. Something about the pulses of the chorus and the bursts of the wind felt so heavenly as if it were liquid energy seeping through her skin—an equilibrium to the scenery above.
A complete one-eighty to what she referred to as 'home,' where everything is ancient—trees vast and ripe, with jagged roots consciously piercing the sky like keepers. A domain overpopulated by entities that no longer bear their former glory.
Nowadays, its canopy occurs denser, entitling you to witness the occasional streak of light that barely touches the ground with vines and moss slowly taking away the rests of a temple positioned at the heart's core—obscuring sections amongst hedges that crave leisure.
But even then, between the scraps of metal, a coldness broadens the lungs, the brain, and the wilderness spirit—a sense of kinship with the flora of an ancient soul, spanning to everything that exists.
Therefore it is here under the nascent beams of the moon that she finds herself alive, unlike before, when such particles of the region were considered docile and prudent.
In reality, the entire earth's ground deemed itself capable of life.
Every progression was overseen by humanity, each with its former convictions of speech and principles. A utopia with seventy percent of its estate existing of water, primarily of oceans, lakes, and rivers, comprising the microsphere while its polar regions subsisted in ice, and the rest stood their ground.
The way of life, as many used to say, is the source of strength.
More than a fraction of that integrity has withered into nothing. Presently there is more mist than its exterior, with no origin. When autocracy heightened its ruling under Alchemy law, everything gradually worsened. Thousands of practices voiced their last song amongst the currents of fear wilting historically in stories amongst the remaining. Who proceeded along with Alchemy's forces behind their walls and restrictions.
Those who managed to escape became one, with nature cultivating troops of the realm's most vigorous creatures. And just like Alchemist's increasing, said individuals revolutionized their existence to survive.
The first few years were impulsive and receptive; the disoriented realized weapons weren't their only enemy, but nature itself had become lethal and unforgiving. A matter of trial and error, but they managed to adjust and exist despite the danger.
Their ancestors had accomplished it before, so why couldn't they?
Thus a devoted alliance was established with the natives of the territory, soliciting amnesty in exchange for sanctuary — adopting a spiritual alignment in return.
A progression that allowed the essence of a soul to converse with another.
Accordingly, at the pinnacle of solidarity, you'd reawakened and feel the cores of nature soaring through the depths of your spinal cord, relatively deep, conveying energy and helping you feel grounded as part of a connection to the land.
With such a godsend, the free-spirited vowed to preserve nature and never harm it again. Mother, in return, bestowed them the essence of her creations, those that equalized their mind and spirit.
Elders deemed those worthy of possessing the most exceptional integrities of a beast —allowing them wisdom over their actions.
Such bounty empowered the vessel to move rapidly and gracefully, capable of earshot where devotion summoned them. Unexpectedly it became effortless to adapt and navigate the good and the bad resuscitating a warrior's heart with their fundamental principle.
With it, the Chimera line was born, a coalition of survivors ready to triumph over the enemy whenever the inevitable chose to arise.
For years, the clan lived in harmony; yet roved the enemy's underside and gathered intel from time to time. Any documentation of weapon or innovation was a task to simulate and lurked its liability.
Alchemy's forces may lack spirit but could obliterate anyone with the modest alteration —slaughtering anyone without motive before pulling the trigger.
The tribe was wise enough to recognize the enemy wasn't powerless—otherwise, an underestimated aggressor to overthrow.
'Thinking about it now, I reckon I'd perished years ago if a certain chimera hadn't demonstrated its kindness in a helpless moment.'
The woman slowly reminds herself as she picks up a decaying flower, comparing its fate to hers.
The sudden clash of swords and shields echoing beyond the cloud of darkness withdrawals her train of thought. Men and Women were never-ending, training themselves to exhaustion, an excursion that's sprung up since the start of time more frequently than you might believe.
An ambush will forever be inconsistent, and these people weren't the type to embark on a surprise.
Therefore, the development of trials elicited a form of glorifying a person's aptitude, such as patriotism, corporal, and incentive force. Physical units consisted of cardiovascular movement and strength training, while mental expansion regulated the acts of formation and the courage to think and push as one.
As for the rest, you'll have to see it to believe it. There are things words can't portray in terms of evidence.
Because as I mentioned before, the stunt of an attack is for the weak.
Yearning for a better view of the uproar, the mask of greed abandons headquarters and settles ground between the perimeters of the opposition, even if it knows it's forbidden.
With a superficial glance, she evaluates the situation and the familiar sight of the sixth faction without giving them much of an impression. Faces that bestowed the region of Ember its most promising victors gloated their potential across the horizon. Their combat was purposefully vicious, meant to weaken, affirm dominance, and annul the opponent. Their movements were so rashly they left behind a blurred trail of color.
The odds of someone winning against them were remote but unnatural—a matter of acceptance and overpowering the consequence of unsafe behavior.
The training site was dull and bright, with iron shrouding barriers, invariably grounding any activity to the woodland's opening.
"Even if I'm not there, it's intriguing as a bystander," she considered.
A variation of acts circulated the coliseum, hand on hand, shooting range, and bow and arrow—the more experienced master the weapon of hand, wielding the Okinawan sai, the katana, and any other historical edge.
Those who prioritized their physical attributes strategized parkour through inconveniences while those intellectually glided their minds and writings, exploiting systems a few acres away.
Glimpsing them in action rekindled the memory of a group of children on their preface of defense while mentors monitored their every movement behind tinted windows. And if she recalls correctly, those occurrences were the outset of her imprisonment.
Nowadays, she esteems those episodes as something of the past not worth a reaction.
Trust is something hard to give and receive.
All encounters she's dealt with before have been either a hit or a miss, and it hasn't been any different since she got here.
Given she was an outsider to the tribe, neither an ally nor a refugee to these people.
Thus she spent years manipulating her character, given she wasn't like everybody else, incapable of unnatural things that defied common sense. Even if sorcery hadn't materialized within her, unlike the others, she didn't require it.
There's a sense of familiarity between herself and her distinctive trance. It took an intermittent hardship to make her realize she could bend nature's punch to her will, not the other way around.
'Raw immense power abides inside me, after all waiting to escape.
But even then, I don't find it precise to taint it into the land just yet. I fear what would become of myself if I do, granting everybody the incentive to eradicate me to their liking.'
The sudden flash of light gravitates her attention above.
"It's remarkable how such a portrait can appear before its uproar. But even then, I'm the light behind the storm, whereas the darkness overturns my shadow.
Thunder appears as heaven's drum-roll, the invitation for heroes to take the stage and demonstrate what it takes to stay strong until the calm and gentle days return.
If only fairy tales were once a scripted measure in the minds of the innocent."
'Amelia!'
The sudden cry of the maiden's name pushes away her torment, bringing about the sudden gush of wind and the grind of bark coming her way.
'Did I mention I wasn't supposed to be here?
How did they even see me?
I must be about two hundred feet above the ground.
DAMN IT!
Well, until next time, dear friend.'
Amelia closes off her journal with the impression of never writing in it again. The screeching croak of ravens soaring in the open blue pushes her to gather everything she'd drawn so far and shove it in her bag. Given her luck, anything prejudice wouldn't play out relatively in anyone's favor, moreover hers.
And more notably, someone will have something to say undoubtedly, even if the disciplinary hell she lives by daily was more than enough.
The stress of the issue rang throughout, ceasing her escape and distorting everything to a standstill as her dreading fear ended. The sensation of being watched swirled from every direction swerving her emotions into a survival drive. Her senses widened while her skin tingled, making her breathe deeper—hearing merely increasing with greater intensity and a sharper focus.
'Who's out there, ʼ
To a particular belief, Amelia reigned in the dark; she could vanish into the night like nothing if she wanted to. Though only a presence was known, it was a matter of time before her attacker came to light; she'd be foolish to think she could play this one out without a trace. Quickly but with certainty, she grasped a stone the size of her fist and bound it to a stalk of lumber, securing it with twine.
"Whoever you are, I am not afraid!"
"You should be," A fair whisper materialized behind her, pressing on her irritation.
Amelia slowly turned around. Expecting to greet a feral creature or the many colorings who loathed her existence, yet nobody was there.
Nothing but a lingering knowing.
Unexpectedly, the surface beneath her began to crack and crumble, tearing the harmony of stability into the abyss.
Amelia desperately tried to catch her fall as much as she could against the roughly hanging vines, chafing her arms and hands, failing to uphold her weight. Instants before crashing into the ground, she pressed against the tree's falling lumber before pushing herself off with force at the last second and landing on top of the fallen tree, sending vibrations throughout the land.
Through the haze of dust, Amelia notices the silhouette of a person, only to be tackled by different intensities of matter.
"Get off me!"
Amelia fought to notice her approaching attacker as she tried to break free from the specter over her.
"What? Cat, got your tongue." Finn mocked her
faint state as he emerges from the tricks of his facade.
"That wasn't funny." Amelia unwound and let out the breath she was holding in.
"It wasn't supposed to be, but judging from your disposition, I surprisingly caught you off guard. How odd you're usually so in tune with your stalking ground. They don't call you the burden of the forest for anything."
"Fuck off, Finn."
"Oh wow, the witch has claws. What am I to do?" He taunted, straining to unleash a side of her he hadn't witnessed before.
"Come closer. And I might show you what this witch is capable of doing."
"Not planning on any bloodshed, are you?" he asked lightly, teasingly.
"Are you?" Amelia countered.
"I might if you continue to be so carefree without a care of the consequences."
"I'm not. There's nothing to worry about."
"What about all your lurking patterns?"
"Old habits die hard, plus no one ever notices me except for you." Amelia snares at him as if he were the issue of her matters.
"You speak with such certainty." Finn lifted an eyebrow in amazement.
"No one ever comes to these parts of the woods, not anymore, and if they did, the custom was abandoned long ago."
"Look," Finn insisted as he looked around before returning life to the otherworldly scene.
"It doesn't matter. This isn't what we agreed on about laying low."
"If guilt is eating you alive, you shouldn't have given me access in the first place. " Amelia muttered under her breath. Maybe then you wouldn't come off so vile."
Finn rolled his eyes. "That isn't what I'm referring to."
"Then explain it to me."
"It's complicated." Finn's voice seemed to come from nowhere.
"How many times have I not heard that before? Oh, right, so much for it not to mean a thing but rather what clings around the world."
"That's not who I am."
"Far better to be feared than loved if you cannot be both right." Amelia finally averted her gaze away from him.
"Look, I don't regret what I've done for you!" Finn protested. "If I hadn't given you access, we both know you would've found a way. I feel better knowing what I know rather than not knowing a thing."
"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night."
Amelia felt the hateful swallow of a breath shrink in on itself, but then Finn spoke in a solid and confident tone, as steady and perfect as he ever was.
"You need to understand this isn't a game. There are no second chances when it comes to you. And roaming around certainly doesn't benefit your case."
"Hatred is power," she responded, "And pitiable is the life of those who wish to be feared rather than loved."
Finn blinked. "I don't know if I see it the same way as you."
"Well, you shouldn't have to. We're opposites in ways that even death couldn't recognize our matching ties." Amelia let her eyes stray to the piercing occurrence behind her.
Finn opened his mouth and then thought better of it. "I'm hopeless and a screw-up to my family, but it led me to you. And there's nothing that I wish otherwise.
Sounds of euphoria echoed throughout the grove. Curiosity rained over Amelia like the waves of light in the sky without the foundations of a beating heart.
'I am like what they say about me, the burden of the forest, except a keeper of trouble where nothing occurs other than the familiar.'
"Come," Finn gestures to follow him to the growing sounds.
"Your serious?" Amelia asks.
"Look, we are already here, and I recall promising you an excursion, so why not take the chance and explore?"
"But what if someone notices? I don't wish to put you at such a fixed point."
Finn rolled his eyes. "Please, as if you have ever overlooked the possibility? You live for the adrenaline rush and as for your disguise, leave that to me."
Amelia pondered over the offer with open judgment. Finn understood her better than anyone else. The one who possibly knew anything about her and acknowledged the presumption of the unfairness of her being an outcast.
"Alright, I..."
"Let's go then," Finn demands without a doubt.
She takes his hand with a grasp that one's desire sits on the other side of fear.
'I learned every good thing reaches the other side of a curious wandering.'
Amelia contemplates as she lets Finn steer her where her dreams had never taken her.