#syriss

Exclamations of surprise from around her, words thrown in her direction or simply muttered within earshot slowly build her vocabulary back up. She must know the words, because once they are spoken she understands the meanings, carefully slotting them back into her reasoning.

I… where… who… blade?

Something is not right. Even as the words filter back to her, too much of the world doesn’t make sense. Too much is different.

Different from what?

Something is terribly wrong. It is a statement of fact, not a feeling. Her first feeling is… loss? She is lost.

We were… I have to… I need to do something.

She begins to feel… present. She looks down, aware for the first time of her own body, of its weight. The armor she wears is heavy and familiar.

Familiar. That is something.

The sword is familiar as well, somehow an extension of herself. It glows with a dark energy, one that flickers and starts to fade as she reasons with the world around her. The balance seems somewhat off, but it is still the most comforting sensation she can cling to.

I am lost. I… have a blade? I am no one. Wait, that must not be right. I am… do I have a name?

She can hear laughter, though there is no source she can identify. It is little more than a faint whisper, the last echo of something already fading. "Syriss. You can be Syriss." A small chorus of voices responds to her question. Or perhaps she merely imagines them.

They find each other eventually. The darkness is vast and seems endless, but in its total nothingness, they find it easy to distinguish their souls. They gather together, one by one. Together they empty themselves to the darkness, and when it leaves, they whisper to each other and remember who they are.

She looks for the last one for a long time, long after the others have given up. She hopes this means she succeeded, though the darkness swirling about does not bode well.

The more they talk, the stronger they grow. It becomes harder to empty themselves; this conversation, the pieces of themselves they had to forget in life to survive, suddenly serves as the buffer between themselves and oblivion, the peace of forgetting and returning to the cycle.

And then, one day, they fight back. The darkness comes and they are not empty. Their passion, their hopes, their fears, their love; emotions woven together into an immovable mass of defiance. It burns hot and angry, thick tendrils of red reaching out to strangle the darkness.

It takes a bit of time to formulate a plan. Such a force of emotion is difficult to direct, but that messy mortal element is what stands rooted against the dark. It is almost the antithesis of their training, as though they've turned around enough to bring something different back to where they began.

They take in more souls as time wears on, more fighters with the strength to resist it. They shelter those who cannot hide.

It is the darkness that lets them push into the world. It comes looking for her, and they prepare for a final fight, yet another battle in this never-ending war.

It offers a deal instead.

They aren't sure if it simply ignores the gathering force or if it truly doesn't see them, focused as it is on her.

It needs her help. Promises her body. No memories, but it will not give the soul a new identity, so she will still be who she is.

And it tells her she can help the last night.

Her soul is delivered without issue, and the darkness sends her on her way.

But she has spent so long being empty, being a vessel, and so long being one with the others, that it does not take much. It is easy to conceal them within the folds of herself.