A Marionette (2)

A young man in a strange uniform kneeling before royalty—a prince, a princess.

His tears fall in silence.

They’re noble, like the others. But their world feels different.

Not this one.

Then—violet hair against violet sand.

A girl stands atop a beast. A titan. Towering. She laughs, eyes full of wonder.

She sees the world in its beauty.

Then—a shift.

Darkness again.

A chamber.

A girl lost inside it. Alone.

Her body shifts—suddenly, violently—transforming into that of a grown woman. The change startles me, not just for how fast it happens but for how it feels. At first, I sense only emptiness in her, a familiar hollowness that reflects too much of myself. But as her gaze lifts, drawn toward kaleidoscopic colors spinning beyond her, something inside her fractures and then floods.

Emotion.

Sadness. Anger. But above all—happiness. It bursts inside her like sunlight cracking through centuries of stone, warm and all-consuming. It makes me jealous, briefly. Then the vision yanks me away.

A black-haired woman with strings of whiteness, terrible and tall, marches at the front of an army. She is no woman, not really. A demon with raven-like wings, leading legions against angels. She battles the skies—and loses. A spear of pure light strikes her and she falls, crashing to earth like vengeance made flesh.

The world tilts.

And then the moon appears.

But not the moon I know. This one is red. Too red. As if it bleeds. As if it watches. Its gaze pierces straight through me, and the vision shifts again.

I see the world.

And golden people. Ethereal, divine. One kneels. Another prays.

“Golden Reaper,” whispers a voice, curling through my mind like smoke. Familiar, yet changed. I can't place it.

More images now, overwhelming and too fast to hold. People. Faces. Suffering. Battles erupt. Blood stains the earth—spilled, drunk, screamed for. Cities burn. The sky splits apart. The moon looms, swollen and pulsing.

The world dies.

And then—darkness.

Not emptiness. Not void. But something alive. Something that moves and breathes and thinks.

Red mist drapes over everything. My limbs move, but not by my will. A sword extends from my hand, yet I don’t grip it. I am merely the vessel now.

A jolt, a pang—my body spasms.

Ahead of me, a boy stands. Black hair falls into his eyes, eyes that hold grief so raw it splits my soul. He looks at me, and in his gaze, I see someone familiar; however, it’s distorted, and I can’t make out who it is.

Then my head turns, as if pulled by strings. The world tilts again, upside down and off-axis. I don’t control this body anymore.

“Golden Reaper.”

Time slows.

Memories, like shards of broken glass, race through my vision.

Then a voice, young and steady, full of solemn resolve.

“In this life, you shall die for the greater good... and not for your selfish vengeance.”

Someone, whom I can’t identify, raises a blade, the one that I held in my hand some heartbeats ago.

And brings it down.

I don't see the strike—only the blur of motion. Then a heavy thud.

My head hits the ground.

Wet. Cold. Final.

Blood pools around me. I am swallowed.

“I’m sorry, bi—” The voice breaks, cracking into something monstrous.

Pain wracks me. My eyes roll outward. My mind begins to collapse.

And then—I breathe.

A miracle. A foreign act.

I inhale like it's my first breath after drowning. The red world dissolves around me. The mist fades, thinning and fading until blue light spills in to take its place.

It radiates from a crystal—positioned on a long, ancient table to my right. The wood looks older than time. The light deepens, overtakes the crimson haze.

My pupils shrink. My body trembles.

And for the first time in what feels like eternity, I feel.

Tears well and spill over as wind stirs from the crystal’s light, brushing my face, lifting strands of my hair back.

I lift my hand to shield my eyes, grimacing—

And suddenly I’m somewhere else.

Not the void. Not the sewer.

I sit at a grand table, one carved from marble and inlaid with gold. A porcelain plate rests before me, artfully filled with delicacies. The meat—sky-blue in the center bleeds with a color too close to that of the blues.

The cutlery gleams.

The room is excessive: gold trim, violet banners, orange and blue walls adorned with paintings that seem older than nations.

But my focus narrows, because—

My hands are wrong.

They aren’t mine. Paler. More delicate. The nails shimmer faintly blue. So do the knuckles.

Something's wrong.

I try to move, but I’m locked inside.

Like a soul trapped in someone else’s shell.

The body I inhabit—whoever it is—lifts its gaze from the meal.

Across the table, five people stare back.

All dressed in rich blue robes. All wear the same sigil: three roses blooming over their hearts.

Their lips are blue. Their faces cold, unreadable, sculpted from disdain. Stoic.

And inside the body I’m trapped in, rage builds.

A man at the head of the table—blonde-silver-haired and tall—speaks without warmth.

“Aston.”

The name ripples through the host body like venom.

Then eyes fall to the wine glass, purple and glassy, and in it—

A reflection.

Young. Blonde.

A face I’ve seen before.

The hanged man from only moments ago!

“Yes, Father?” the voice, this body responds, controlled and clipped.

The mouth moves, the tongue tastes, the throat swallows.

But it isn’t me.

It’s he, this body, who does all these things.