There are things my body remembers, deep to the bones; things my father must have taught me, though I do not remember him now: how to row, sail and navigate. How to wield a blade and command men. How to disarm an enemy and snap his neck. There are other memories, so detached from me now that I am never certain if they are real ... or just parts of songs I've heard sung belowdecks. Now, there is only the pain.
"Hullo, beauty!" he calls. She is human from the look of her; tall and still as morning, a sword resting between cracks in the rock, eyes impassive. His face, or what is left of it, cracks open into a grin.
"Do it!" he howls at the round metal eye of the turret, half grown over with brambles and rattan. "Put another hole in me! Blow me apart!" If only it would work. The rusted turret remains silent. Once there were explosions. Once warriors would crowd the choke point beyond the derelict machine-ready and hungry for a fight. And beyond that, perhaps what he seeks.
Don't go out there! I saw it ... him ... with my own eyes. An impossible creature. A man no longer a man, with a colossal sword through his chest. The glowing blade went clear through him and out the other side. Just imagine the gaping hole of a wound. An unthinkable sight. And then he reached for me
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