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Number one.
The crisp sound of dry leaves crumpled below the soles of her boots. Adornments of the wind ring around her ankles. Petrichor entered her senses, a relaxing contrast for what was to come. Besides, murder was a normalcy in this war-ridden world.
Number two.
She trudged along the sanden path, the grains slowly blending into the grass. The sound of her footsteps being drowned out by the sounds of the fauna that currently surrounded her. Her mind was wistful. It begged her to just turn back and move on, but the heart was desperate.
Why? She’d rather not admit, and she found herself pathetic for it.
Number three.
This small island held the majority of her young adulthood, or should I say both?
She climbed through the foliage, remnants of history almost swallowed by nature. Her mind thinks back to the past that was proved with these markings. Moments of trust and camaraderie happened on this land. The plans that the both had made for their future, the laughter that accompanied them infront of the campfire, the sweat that dripped from the spars.
The trees formed a canopy above, casting comfortable shadows below with a few speckles of light cramming their way through. She remembered settling down with him after a spar, laughing despite the exhaustion.
Number four.
The serpent’s edge at her side reflected the light from above, a testament to her lonesome journeys that she took upon. The journeys they promised to go along together. Her expression went to one of melancholy, wondering what went wrong between them.
She took a slight detour, muscle memory bringing her to a familiar place, the rocks still held the faded burn marks for when she was training her Flamecharm. The guidance he brought her through despite not getting his calling yet- She always admired his honesty and patience, it was such a contrast to her loud and impulsive behaviour.
She couldn’t help but reminisce the events. But really- what went wrong?
Number five.
When the two pathfinders discussed about vowing themselves to an oath, one brought up wanting to rush with the wind, while the other willed to work under the Lord Regent. From the perspective of an eleutheromaniac, she was perturbed by the idea of becoming a pawn to a tyrant like that thing.
It led to an argument. Sure, it took one to understand the other, but it took another to tolerate the constant disagreements and fights. Trust faded with every scowl and sting. Despite the attempts to rekindle their bond, things would just go downhill again.
And now here she was, walking uphill to the place that used to be one of respite.
Number six.
The spars used to be one of playful intent and to train, soon they became of grudge and spite. A feeble attempt to prove the other better. They used to be seen as equals, yet now seen as oppositions to eachother. Everyday, each meeting were no longer friendly, but were just where one was tolerating the other. Despite this, he still tried to show her that he cared, it was just her being stubborn. His efforts to assist her still continued.
That was until, she didn't show up. Then the days after.
Number seven.
Memories of the past flew over her head like how the wind currently was causing some white strands to come loose. Like it too, was telling her to go back. This is not worth it. It warned her.
But the guilt had been gnawing at her for years. The unconfessed sins, the mistakes she'd made. She wanted to pay up for it, even if it meant being at death's door.
The adrenaline had started when she reached the top of the hill, familiar walls of stone towered on both sides of the clearing. At the end of it stood an imposing figure that had strings connected to his limbs, as if he was being puppeteered. His back was turned to her, facing the sea before him, it was like he as well, was on the same page as her.
"Hey." She called him to face her, though her voice came off as weak, yearning even.
Her heart wrenched when he turned. His face was unmasked, revealing the soft smile and the warm golden eyes that adorned the face of the man she'd once promised to accompany. Despite his intimidating form as a Contractor, she couldn't help but let her guard down slightly. The warmth still followed him despite it all.
"Miss me?" His arms spread, as if inviting her to a hug. Though, she knew better than to serve her head on a silver platter. She knew what he called her here for, despite it, she still came to this damned island.
She just wanted to see him again.
Number eight.
She took a step towards her opponent, her old companion, him. She opened her mouth to say something, but it choked her to say it.
"Honestly, I hoped that you wouldn't come." He sighed as his arms fell to his sides. "This is your last chance to turn around. You know what I'm here for." Looks like a notorious reputation was enough to send him after her head. Her posture stiffened, but now, she wouldn't run anymore. No more.
"I want to set our dispute straight."
He wanted to laugh, she still had the stubborn determination as remembered. It was an odd charm to her. But the current situation was different. "Negotiations will get you nowhere." His tone was sharp, yet eager to convince her to leave. "Please, Sashenka." A part of him didn't want to do this.
"Isrik-"
"At least you get to see my face before well... yeah." He bitterly chuckled as he tossed his chitin mask to the side. She would laugh if she could, only managing to give him a weak smile. He knew her well.
The tension was tight.
"Okay, so we're doing this"
Number nine.
Both eyes looked into eachother, finding a moment of hesitation in the latter, but they only drew their blades instead.
"You could've hunted me down, yet you gave me a moment. You really do care for me, don't you?" She snickered with a rueful tone.
He took a step forwards, nearing the middle. "Maybe I do, I'd be lying if not." A weak smile crawled its way up his face. "You're still as stubborn as I remembered."
"I know there is no going back," her eyes wandered to the side, "but I'm sorry."
To which he responded,
"I forgive you.'
One, the atmosphere crackled with the essence of the Song.
Two, their gazes fell onto eachother, seizing up their opponent.
Three, the waves beyond called, awaiting to swallow up another soul.
Four, the lowering sun casted shadows at their feet, creating a renaissance-like sight.
Five, each fighter took a step forward, the ground crunching beneath their boots.
Six, fingers tightly gripping their hilts, causing their knuckles to turn light.
Seven, breaths synchronised. Slow and deliberate.
Eight, their eyes burned with resolve, expecting for a first strike.
Nine, adrenaline has reached its peak, higher than a pine.
Ten, only one shall survive.