RONIN
THE FALLEN STAR
Ronin wasn’t there.
But then Ronin is never there, is he? Since the longest night of his life passed by, when he held his daughter and let go of her mother, has he ever really been there?
The fights he has missed, the grief he has caused, the pain and hurt on his behalf or others - he wasn’t there for it - he is never there for it. A fool crowned king; a fallen star that never landed.
And now all of that culminates in the frantic beat of a heart through a ring on his finger, a beat that slows... slows...
The sky made material moves faster than his feet, and he crouches like a statue upon the nimbus as it sails across the fields, revealing muck and carnage, a swathe of brown slopping atop the Fiat Lux festival.
The beat upon his finger has stopped - or else it is too weak to register - and Ronin forgets to breathe as well. Soon he sees it - the bunting, the blood, the shards of ice, the moaning monster still oozing forth, the people running...
And the people who aren’t.
Ronin stumbles off the nimbus on legs too numb to do much more than hold him up. He sees Amalia, Evie, Wessex - Remi - and his lips part around his daughter’s name, a question, a plea.
Then he sees Rexanna cradling her, and there’s a blanket over her and she’s not moving, and Ronin swears, he swears he can feel the void punch through him, letting in the sucking blackness, filling him up and pushing him out.
It’s sick. He is sick.
His feet take him away from the fight, away from the carnage, from dead husbands and children, and into the growing dark.
And Ronin isn’t there now either. Maybe he will never be there again.
But then Ronin is never there, is he? Since the longest night of his life passed by, when he held his daughter and let go of her mother, has he ever really been there?
The fights he has missed, the grief he has caused, the pain and hurt on his behalf or others - he wasn’t there for it - he is never there for it. A fool crowned king; a fallen star that never landed.
And now all of that culminates in the frantic beat of a heart through a ring on his finger, a beat that slows... slows...
The sky made material moves faster than his feet, and he crouches like a statue upon the nimbus as it sails across the fields, revealing muck and carnage, a swathe of brown slopping atop the Fiat Lux festival.
The beat upon his finger has stopped - or else it is too weak to register - and Ronin forgets to breathe as well. Soon he sees it - the bunting, the blood, the shards of ice, the moaning monster still oozing forth, the people running...
And the people who aren’t.
Ronin stumbles off the nimbus on legs too numb to do much more than hold him up. He sees Amalia, Evie, Wessex - Remi - and his lips part around his daughter’s name, a question, a plea.
Then he sees Rexanna cradling her, and there’s a blanket over her and she’s not moving, and Ronin swears, he swears he can feel the void punch through him, letting in the sucking blackness, filling him up and pushing him out.
It’s sick. He is sick.
His feet take him away from the fight, away from the carnage, from dead husbands and children, and into the growing dark.
And Ronin isn’t there now either. Maybe he will never be there again.
now don’t you lose hope
I swear I never dream that we’re alone
I swear I still believe but I don’t know
