"Let me tell you a story," a voice sounded in the dark mist, which swirled endlessly through the emptiness. It was ethereal and beautiful, carrying a trace of warmth in this cold, desolate place.
"Which story?" another voice asked—softer, filled with childlike innocence.
"A story of heroes, saints, travelers, great kings, and magicians. It is a story of love, and the song of humanity," the older voice answered, its tone steeped in nostalgia.
"Is it a sad story?" the younger voice asked, curiosity stirred.
"Is it sad? Is it happy? That I do not know," the older voice replied. "I only know it is a beautiful story."
---
I walk the brilliant halls. Banners sway in the wind, and glorious trophies line the walls. Before a vast chamber I sit upon a golden throne, looking down upon the kingdom's subjects. With a majestic voice I command, kneel—and all bend their knees before me.
---
I grip a blood-soaked sword, the air thick with the stench of iron. Crimson banners sway as bodies of comrades litter the ground. My hands clench tighter as another enemy rushes forward. I cut him down, though my body trembles from exhaustion. Looking upon the endless tide of foes, I whisper hoarsely, "I'm sorry, brothers…"
---
I wander the grassy plains, the blades swaying gently in the breeze. The sun dips below the horizon, bathing cattle in golden light as they graze. A sack of grain rests heavy on my shoulder—my harvest for the day. Breathing deeply, I murmur, blessed be the goddess of nature.
---
I stir a potion. The pungent odor spreads across the dark chamber, lit only by a flickering purple crystal. With a final stir, the mixture shifts from violet to soft pink, its aroma sweet and calming. Gazing at the concoction, the shadowed features beneath my hood soften into a bitter smile. "Wait a little longer, brother," I whisper. "Your apocalypse shall begin."
---
The rhythmic clang of steel on steel rings like music within the quiet of the smithy. I lift the newly forged sword, its surface glowing faintly red, then quench it in water. Hanging it in the display case, I glance at my worn hands—hands that have birthed a thousand blades, bridging the line between life and death. With a sigh, I lift another ore and return to the anvil as the furnace roars hotter.
---
The cries of children echo beyond the tent, mingling with the groans of wounded men. The air reeks of medicine and despair. One by one, I tend to the broken. When at last I step outside, a boy no older than ten approaches. His eyes tremble with fear as he asks, "Miss Saintess… is my father going to be alright?"
I turn to him and smile gently. "Of course. As long as I am here, nobody shall die."
---
I tread a battlefield drowning in the smell of iron and the sight of crimson soil. To my left, a mage walks silently. I ask, "Was all this necessary?"
He glances at me, eyes shadowed with thought. "Hero…" he begins, then pauses. "This is the tragedy of this place. It was inevitable."
I touch the holy sword at my waist and let out a bitter smile. A hero, huh…
---
More visions flash before me, perspectives shifting from one life to another. The memories blur, overlapping until they collapse into fragments of color that shatter away, leaving only grey.
And there I float—no longer man, nor woman, nor king, nor saint—only a purple orb of light, adrift in a sea of lifeless mist.
"Who am I?" I wonder, as I have countless times before.