Ye ancient blossoms,
scatter here and bloom no more.
O weary phantom,
pass on to the other shore.
For there is horror
in beauty everlasting
and the fleeting which endures.
The autumn winds bewail a forlorn spring.
Yes, it is true.
This land was once a paradise, the garden of the gods.
A cradle of creation, exalted in the songs of all within it.
The murmur of wind through leaves. The purl of water over stone. The warble among the reeds.
Thus nature sang, calling life into being.
Creatures of many forms took to the skies, to the waters, and the soil.
Things that moved, and things that stood still.
All planted their roots in the garden, joining its cycle.
All of them, in their ways, were beautiful.
And in truth, one more than others.
In a glade at the heart of the garden stood a cherry blossom.
From when it was but a sapling in the shadow it had striven for the sunlight.
It did not mind the myriad things gnawing at its roots and leaves.
Its only care was to grow tall and find its place in the sun.
In time, its canopy grew to loom over all.
The splendor of its flowering spanned the corners of the world.
Yet that beauty waxed and waned.
Brief was the glory of its bloom, its blossoms shed thereafter, falling like tears upon the land.
When all of nature revelled, it alone lamented.
The impermanence of a full bloom, the withering fated to the flower of life.
Most brilliant of all, but brief, all too brief.
The seasons of grief turned and sorrow festered.
Until, at last, the tree called out to the gardener.
His was the task to tend to the archtree.
His predecessors had toiled in the name of the gods.
Then, after their passage, for that which most recalled them.
Under their care the great tree had been pruned to lofty growth.
Yet it had grown jealous of the world's enduring splendour.
And in such jealousy did it command.
Cut down that whose revelry mocks me.
Cut down that which may wish me harm.
That which impedes my growth, which suffocates my beauty.
The warbling reeds, the whispering grass.
The trilling thrush, the susurrant cicadas.
The pearl-dewed spider web, the glint of fox-lights.
And most of all, the flowers of all seasons.
Of the wisteria, the plum blossom, the low-lying chrysanthemum, none were as lovely.
The gardener wondered, what was there to envy?
All the same, obeisance bade him turn his shears on them.
And so, root and stem, he cut, cut, cut.
Soon, the garden fell still.
Gone were the warbling reeds, the whispering grass.
No glint of light pierced through the shadow.
The streams were gaping rends, the copses funeral pyres.
All voices silenced, all colours drained, save one.
Flourishing all the while the world diminished.
And yet untended since its servant was set to task.
It sprouted wildly as an outgrowth on the very sky.
An everbloom of flowers red as blood.
A ruinous beauty watered with the tears of the very land it stood on.
Without guidance, its boughs became a shroud.
So the tree recalled the gardener to tend to it once more.
And loyally did he return.
He picked up his shears, and he hacked at the tree.
Crimson blossoms scattered. Great branches fell. Sap flowed in dry riverbeds.
The tree cried out its betrayal, but this was no fault of the gardener.
Long had he cared for root and soil, to excise the growths, to prune and mend.
To grow, and to let grow.
By its own will, the tree had bent his nature.
And the gardener now knew only to cut.
.
.
.
.
True Archer
Day 0 - Afternoon (Phase 2/3)
Minami Ward - Tokisaka Shrine
The first breath tasted of longing. The second of regret. He forestalled the third, pondering his bearings.
A garden. Dreams were truly horrid things. He might have smiled.
It seemed this land would never cease to haunt him. A purgatory of his own choosing. For he had chosen this, had he not. To be, once more, was remuneration, but the price did not elucidate the matter. Even enticed by spurious invocation, one emerged from the ring of restraint as a vessel of commands and not desires.
A swarm of false voices crowed their ordinance from some non-place high above. Making to listen in, the flash of divine mandate struck his being with force enough to imply the ease with which it could force him to his knees.
Obey this mind and this reason. His? No, never. His.
Ah, but that simplified matters wonderfully. Already his mind was clearing.
A call had been issued and answered. Onerous oaths had been sworn to sway one into service. Service which had been exacted as prerogative.
That much was fairly struck. Choice was not in the nature of servitude. The recompense, though beyond his recall, was something he would have to trust.
Then there was nothing to it but to make acquaintance. A half-turn aligned their view. Intangibles were exchanged. Tension coursed through tightening arms.
Master. It was a good word, loaded with meaning. Steeped in duties. It was, more than any other, one he could accept.
The third breath wakened the hunger, his first and constant companion.
He grasped his sword and drew out a hiss of steel from its spine. Then, he drew an arc of steel through the young man's own.
A first impression, to merit or not a second. What use were words, when steel was words enough?
Originally Posted by Troublesome Servant
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