Silver dashed through the snow-powdered wood, chasing down prey so she might feed her hungry children.

How old was I when I first read this book?

I'm looking at a picture book about a wolf who takes in abandoned human children, giving a kind of home to the otherwise helpless creatures. I loved it as a child, and found myself reading it over and over again.

Why am I reading this book now?

The wolf's skills grew sharper with age. Her eyes were ice, her claws razors. The rocky, snowy terrain posed no hazard for her, and within moments, she had a single rabbit wedged between her teeth.

Where does this book take place?

Though the wolf was powerful, she was also kind. In the beginning, it troubled her how the children wailed without pause and refused the meat she provided, but her spirit never broke. She began to skin the rabbits, cutting their flesh into tiny pieces before chewing it and presenting the results to her changeling pups. And after some time, human and animal slowly came to understand one another.

That's what this picture book was about.

I keep reading the book, but still don't understand what's going on. Then a voice from behind me, sudden. I begin to turn around, hoping to find the source, when it dawns on me:

Oh. Right. I'm dreaming.

My mother had departed the world when I was young, but at this moment, she's talking to me. Looking at me with her soft, kind eyes.

That's right. We read it together.

Why did it take me so long to realize this was a dream?

At the end of this book, humans kill the wolf in an attempt to protect the children. The same creatures who abandoned their own offspring in the woods hunt down and kill the beast that attempts to care for them. They hold the children at bay as they reach for her, and sing praises for justice as they slaughter the passive animal.

This part always bothered me when I was young. I'd been unable to accept it, and remember asking my mother why the wolf didn't fight back when she had been in the right. "I suppose that's just how mothers are," she replied after a moment of thought. I didn't understand back then — in fact, her response made me angry. But when my mother saw my reaction, she only smiled.

I have been dreaming.

I have been dreaming of memories long past.

I am dreaming.

I am dreaming of the day my mother and my younger self were reading a book together, and my heart quivers as I see her for the first time in many, many years.

No, that's not true. I kept her picture with me — the old news clipping that reported the queen's death.

When I was exiled, I had no time to gather photographs or keepsakes — there was time only to run. But I happened across the clipping while making my escape and snatched it up, and it has never left my side since.

The woman in the photograph, however, is not the mother I knew so well. I do not see her gentle smile or her kind eyes — I see only the regality of a queen. Yet even knowing this — and knowing I am in a dream—I desire to speak with her above all else. But despite my fervent wish, my mother's face shifts like smoke in the dusk, and the closer I tried to study her, the hazier her visage becomes.

The next thing I know, I am standing in a different place: a hallway filled with the acrid tang of metal and cordite.

There is something strange about the way I am viewing the world, and after a moment I realize my eye level is different than it had been. I am taller now, viewing a memory of a different time.

I look around and take in my surroundings. Before me stands a great window filled with massive panes of glass; beyond are row upon row of guns belonging to the clockwork soldiers. They resemble human arms, and the way they are spaced equally apart disturbs me in a way I cannot easily explain.

Beside me, another figure observes the laboratory. It is none other than my father — the king of our country.

Ah. I see now. This is the day we visited the clockwork laboratory.

One after the other, the metal arms let fly a bullet. Each time, the researchers write something down, fiddle with this or that, then reload and repeat the experiment. It is what my father calls "fire-control systems research," and I find it equal parts fascinating and horrifying.

I spent more time with Father after Mother passed. I wonder what he had thought about that?

My father was never much of a talker, but I don't recall him uttering a single word about my mother's death. The question of why this is sits quietly in my mind as we stand in the laboratory, but eventually I find myself inquiring about another matter:

"Why did we start conducting research into clockwork soldiers, Father?"

I don't really care about this matter. I just want to talk about something, anything. I want to hear my father speak, because if he does, maybe it will lessen the gnawing fear of him that sits eternally in my heart. But his answer only strokes the flame of my disconcert:

"One's superiors do not often give their answers," he says. "I am superior to all —  including you — yet one day this crown will lie upon your brow. Perhaps I will hear your thoughts of this matter at some point."

Without waiting for a reply, my father turns on a heel and departs.

But can I follow him?

Do I even have the right?

I dreamt of my past: memories of my mother, recollections of my father.

Rarely did I dream after I left on my journey; days of my childhood, images that paid me a visit for the first time in many years, were enough to fill me with nostalgia. The sensation was so powerful, the time back then so different from now, that it almost caused me to raise whines of misery.

I wondered if what my mother said to me back then was true.

I wondered what my father was thinking about when he spoke to me that day.

As the questions from my dream arose, the sight before me warped once again. Heaven and earth flipped; light and shadow melded.

Would these be memories of another time?

The next thing I know, I'm standing in a run-down shack. Before me I see someone's back, one I am familiar with. I know right away what this is — I am in the process of repairing his clockwork body.

"I am sorry, my prince."
There is a slight crackle to the voice I hear from over his shoulder — dust must have gotten into his sound box.

But it's my fault that he was injured. My symptoms had gotten worse, and he had taken a blow meant for me instead. I couldn't fault him for that. I tell him that I should be the one apologizing, but he shoots me down. He is so kind to me, and that's why...

...That's why I'd been wondering this whole time if I'm just a burden to him.

He supports me, and so is doing all he can to help stop the war. He is powerful, yet gentle — I always wonder if there had been a different, more effective path that he could take to make my vision a reality.

All I can do for him is repair his clockwork mechanisms. And if I were ever to teach someone else how to do it, then he would have no more use for me.

The unease bubbles within me and I give it voice: "Should you really be accompanying me on my journey, for the sake of my dreams?"

He falls silent, shocked. Terrified of the quiet, I immediately apologize, but the silence still hangs heavy over us.

He says nothing. Nervous, I lean over and peer at him...to find that his eyes had gone dark and still, his operations ceased.

My unusual question had caused an error in his operations that day.

I reprimanded myself: I shouldn't bring these sort of things up during repairs, and frantically returned to my work.

And so, I never heard what his answer had been to my question.

Dreams come to me, one after the next. I dream of life when I was young, of things that have recently happened — all of them moments important to me. And yet, why do I dream of such things now?

Pain steals my consciousness, wiping away my thoughts. The sights before me slowly fade away. Now I understand: I’m waking up.

I slowly lift my eyelids, but can no longer sit up. In fact, I can scarcely move. The pain is a weight that shackles me to this place. I had forgotten all about these things in my dreams: the ruined church, the illness that prevents me from moving. Ah, if only it was a dream.

Though my eyes can barely focus, I see a figure move. The brim of his hat is wide and round, and he peers at me with worry. It is clear he has been watching over me even as I dreamed. I want to speak to him, but my strained throat can produce nothing but a harsh rasp. It seems our days of long, fulfilling chats are now over.

As I tense, he lifts me into his arms and sets me down atop an old, weathered pew. My body relaxes as I sink into it. It’s much easier to breathe here than when I’m leaning against the wall, and I’m so relaxed I have trouble keeping myself awake. Yet despite my newfound ease, I am still unable to produce any kind of sound.

Suddenly, a thought enters my mind, as true thing as I have ever experienced: If I close my eyes now, they will never open again. And so I muster all of my strength to force out a sound. I have to speak to him. I must.

He has traveled with me across land and time.

He is my best friend.

And this is the end.

"Thank you"

"I’m sorry."

At last, I manage four meager words. He initially tries stop me as I desperately reach for my voice, but then falls into silent thought. Finally, after a long pause, he says:

" — "

Alas, my ears can no longer hear his words. But strangely, I know his message regardless.

Thank you, I say to myself.
Thank you, I say, repeating the words over and over in my mind like a mantra until sleep finally steals up and claims me.

In the end, my dreams never came true; I was not powerful enough to end our endless wars. And yet, there were people who stood by my ideals. Not many, of course, but some of them eventually agreed to form a third party that could act as mediators for various warring nations. They were small in scope, and it would be a long while before they had the pull to bring negotiations to other countries. But I had lit the spark. And hopefully, that spark would one day burn brighter than any fire of war and bring peace to the world.

I want to believe this. For the sake of all those days I spent traveling with him, I want to believe it more than anything.

Oh, you want to know more about him?

He was born the eldest son and first prince of a royal family. When he was young, his father started a war, but he was a kind boy who found this hard to accept. I hear he wanted to preserve peace for the people, so he turned his back on his country. Isn't it nice he got to choose a life for himself?

Sadly, he took after his sickly mother. His physical condition — coupled with his kind, pacifist disposition — made him unpopular with ministers, soldiers, and his own father. Even the citizens occasionally besmirched him, asking him to stop blindly believing in the good of people's hearts.

But even with all that, Mama thinks his thoughts and words saved a great many people. If he ever became king... No. It's because he never became a king that he was who he was.

My son was born today — our first child. Under normal circumstances, the emergence of the nation's new prince would have been welcome news. But right after the birth, both mother and boy were taken to the medical facility.

Knowing they are in danger of losing their lives reminds me how fortunate they are to even draw breath, for the burden birth places on the body has claimed countless lives. Yet she understood this, which is why she gave me the throne that day.

And yet, I cannot help but think on how she paid a great price for our child. How was he going to live? What would he bring to this country?

I looked at his face before they were taken away. The way she smiled at me, in both pain and joy, would not permit me to dismiss such thoughts.

[Sounds of a campfire]

"So whatcha think of that prince?"

"You mean the philanthropist kid?"

"Yeah. Him. Whenever he opens his mouth, all of these sweet little ideas come pouring out — ideas almost as sweet as his face. A world without war? Ha! Easy for him to say."

[Sounds of silverware being thrown]

"Kid's heart's in the right place, but he don't understand reality. Got no interest in risking my ass for a general like that."

"How the hell are we supposed to feed ourselves in a world with no war, anyway?"

"Right? Who's gonna hire a couple'a old farts like us that only know how to fight?"

[Laughter]

[END RECORDING]

When I coughed at the ceremony this morning, my younger brother gently rubbed my back. Father didn't even try to hide his annoyance.

That brother — the second prince — is the only one who bothers to show me kindness. Of all us brothers, I am the only one with a different mother. Though the eldest, I am sickly, which makes me seem terribly unreliable. Yet here I am, next in line for the throne — and I cannot imagine my younger brothers being happy with the prospect.

But I will not give up, for how I can I hope to eliminate war among nations if I cannot resolve quarrels among brothers?

My first task is to become closer to the second prince — he who treats me most favorably. I feel certain he will listen to my ideas.

Forgive me for writing you a lousy goodbye letter on the day you leave. I would've gone to see you off in person if it weren't for this damn job.

I wanted to talk to you about the formation of a neutral organization to address international warfare. I'm sorry my country couldn't work with you; what power I do have holds little sway over people at the top of the food chain.

I know this doesn't make up for things, but I pulled some strings to secure the medicine enclosed in this letter. It helps with coughs, heart palpitations, and chest pains, and while it's not a cure, it should at least make things a little easier for you. I'm sorry this is all I can do, but I really hope it helps.

On a side note, I want you to know how much you motivate me. You're younger than I am, yet you work twice as hard — so I'm going to take a page from that book and do what I can to earn more power within my own parliament!

I'm really looking forward to the day we can sit down and talk about the future together. Until then.

"Yeah, that kid in the old church? I think he died."

[BACKGROUND TAVERN CHATTER]

"You mean that kid you went out to check on that one time? I got a real kick outta that, by the way — look at you, actin' like some kinda saint."

"Yeah, that's the one. I haven't seen that dude who used to bring him food every day, either. Considering the kid's state, I'm betting he didn't just get better and move on."

[ICE CLINKING AGAINST GLASS]

"Rumors say he's the prince who was exiled from the kingdom."

"Hard to know considering how gaunt his face was, but I guess he looked similar — and if it is him, he'll likely be carrying valuables. Probably wouldn't be hard to secure, given his condition."

"...Well, let's find out."

[GLASS CLINKING AGAINST GLASS][END OF RECORDING]

Glasses clink. Men guffaw. The saloon is filled with chatter, and lively as always. As I attempt to finish my drink in peace, a man who's so drunk he can barely hold up his head suddenly takes notice of me.

"Hey! Hey, she's here! It's the one-armed woman!"

At his words, the doors fling wide and spill forth a group of familiar men. Oh joy, I think. The collectors are back.

"Hey there, sweet thing! We haven't got your payment this week. Maybe we'll just take one of your legs instead."

The lively saloon suddenly becomes silent, as if someone threw a damp blanket over the rowdy denizens. "Sorry," I say, my words slurred. "I'll pay at the end of the week."

The collectors scoff. "And how's the great kingdom-hunter gonna do that, huh? You know that horror show you call a body ain't no good for manual labor."

The kingdom. They were the ones who put my home to the torch and turned my sister into a killing machine before deciding she was a failure and cutting her down. Twenty years ago that was, and I'd spent the long years in between killing every last soldier I could find. I'd been good at my job — maybe even too good, because these days I don't find anyone who claims to have been part of that army.

You think I'd be happy to have done such a thorough job, but I don't feel happiness anymore. I also don't feel satisfaction, or excitement, or joy. All I feel is an emptiness so deep it threatens to consume me every time I open my eyes in the morning. The only thing that drives me now is this saloon and the mind-numbing cure that awaits inside. If I have money, I drink. If I don't, I work. If I can't find work, I use my left arm as collateral and borrow — the same left arm that once cut through so many soldiers of the former kingdom.

"Try speakin' up for once!" growls one of the collectors as he grabs me by the collar and lifts me off my feet. The sudden movement causes the drink I was raising to my mouth to reverse course and splatter all over his arm — a development he doesn't exactly take in stride.

"Damn fool! I'll kill you!"

He throws me aside, grabs a short metal rod from his belt, and begins slamming it into my side. I drop to the floor and curl into a ball as he keeps raining blows down upon me. If I had my left arm — and my wits — I could handle this wretch with ease. But in my current state, I'm a miserably weak and powerless thing.

"Please... I'll...pay back..."

I'm begging now, which some dark corner of my mind finds amusing. Despite my hollow days being filled with nothing but drink and self-loathing, I'm somehow still afraid to die. Life really is a comedy.

"That's enough."

The words come from a man in a cloak who is standing in the doorway. The setting sun behind him makes it impossible to see his face, but his voice stirs something deep in my chest.

"Mind your business," spits my assailant. "This ain't got nothing to do with — "

The cloaked man is a blur. One moment he's standing in the doorway, and the next he's holding a knife against the collector's throat.

"I said, that's enough."

The collector's breath catches in fear. Unwilling to push the issue further, he lowers his weapon and slinks out of the saloon with his metaphorical tail tucked.

"You good?" asks my rescuer. He extends a hand down to help me up, and recognition suddenly floods over me. I know this man — and this is the second time he has saved my life.

The first time we met was the night my sister and I became orphans. We were so cold and tired and so, so afraid, but he extended his hand to us and asked the same simple question: "You good?" From that day on, he taught me everything I needed to survive, from preparing game for eating to wheedling things from adults.

"Been looking for you," he says.

Me? He's been looking for me? Why the hell would he do that? I'm a drunk, a useless lump with nothing to live for but lacks the guts to die. And yet, apparently my mentor decided I meant enough to track across all the miles and all the years.

"Why?" I manage to say.

"Got a request. Hear me out?" 

At that moment, I realize this is my last chance. If I let it go — if I tell him no and turn back to the bottle — I won't last another week.

"Sure," I finally reply. "Let's hear it. And...thanks."

It's a lousy reply, but the best I can do at the moment. And as I say it, I feel a tiny little something in my soul: A spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, my life is going to change for the better.

I reconnect with the man who saved my life once before.

He'd heard rumors about a woman with prosthetic limbs and sought me out for an important mission: to rescue his beloved, who had been kidnapped by a pack of former kingdom soldiers. Playing mercenary is part and parcel for me these days, but hearing I missed some soldiers makes my blood boil, so I'm happy to take the job for a whole number of reasons.

"Hang on," I say to the man as we walk. "I know this road."

"'Course you do. Bastards took up residence in our old home."

The reality of this hits me like a cannonball. I remember these trees — how my sister and I used to run through them without a care. I haven't been here in at least 20 years; maybe that's why the soldiers decided to hole up here.

"How's the new arm?"

I know he's changing the subject to lighten the mood, so I go ahead and play along. "Better than the last time I pawned it. Broker did a good job fixing it up."

The man bought my arm back as payment for my taking the job. And now that it's a part of me again, the old bloodlust that came with it has returned as well. But as I turn it this way and that, my companion suddenly looks over at a nearby thicket.

"Come on out," he says in a voice casual as a spring day.

Sensing an enemy, I raise my sword above my head and grit my teeth. This time, every last whisper of the kingdom will perish. This time, all of them will fall. This time — "GYaHAhahAHAHahaHA!"

What leaps out at me is another modified human soldier with prosthetic limbs—someone just like me.

"It'S BIg siS! EVEryONe, cOOoooOoMe!!"

On this signal, prosthetic soldiers swarm like insects. I feel a gorge rising in my throat as they approach. My sword wavers. But it isn't fear that does this. Oh no. Fear would be easy.

All of them look exactly like my little sister.

The creatures don't share my hesitation, and the first one who reaches me kicks my leg out from under me, sending me crashing to the ground.

"WheEhhEEE hEeEE HEEeE! ThiS Is FUn! THIs feeLS GOOd!"

She leaps on top of me and makes to plunge her sword into my chest, but I manage to knock her aside. As she tumbles, a small picture locket snaps away from her neck and sails into the sky.

She was once a girl. A normal girl with a normal life.

"Come on!" yells the man as he pulls me to my feet. "RUN!"

We race into the forest, speeding through the trees I once loved so much. When the giggling of the soldiers finally fades, we lean against a pair of tall oaks and try to catch our breath.

"Lost 'em," says the man as he places a comforting hand on my shoulder. At his touch, I realize my entire body is trembling. I can tell he thinks it's because they looked like my sister, but he's wrong. That's not the reason I'm trembling at all.

I'm just happy they're still alive.

After losing my little sister, I lived only to destroy the kingdom — and the day I thought that mission was over, my life lost all meaning. Yet because I wasn't strong enough to choose death, my life took on a weird sort of limbo, one where I woke up, drank myself into oblivion, then repeated the process all over again. But now? Facing the kingdom again after so very long? I feel...excited. My anger toward the kingdom is what kept me alive all these long years, my life bound to the object of my loathing.

And I hate myself for it.

"Hey," says the man. "I know you think you can only live for revenge, but don't think that. It's too sad. Hell, I'm sure the life you're looking for is out there somewhere."

His kind voice is a gentle warmth on my scars, and my small hand fits inside his gnarled one as if it was meant to be there. "I'll help you when this is over, all right? We'll find a new way of life. Together."

When was the last time I felt such warmth?

I want to tell him now — tell him everything. Because the walls I've spent so long constructing around my heart have finally begun to fall.

Having accepted my one-time benefactor’s request, I accompanied him to my hometown — a place where former kingdom soldiers were said to be hiding. Though I had twinges of doubt in my heart, I ignored them so I might bring his wish to life:

I want to save my beloved, who was kidnapped by men from what remains of the kingdom.

We snuck toward town, deftly avoiding the soldiers who patrolled the area. But once inside, I could hardly believe my eyes. The town was brightly decorated as if for a festival — and amidst the glitter and pomp, augmented soldiers went about their regular lives.

"WhAT aN AusPICIouS DaY!
WHat AN auSPIcioUS daY!"

Perhaps it’s fairer to say they were trying to live regular lives. Some were giving morning greetings. Some were cleaning. Some were eating. But their every movement was stiff and unnatural, like old toys in need of repair.

"The hell is going on here?"

I did not mean to speak the words aloud, but the sight so shocked me that they simply slipped out. The moment my breath became sound, the augmented soldiers turned as one to look at me.

"KIlL! KIlL! I wAnT to KiLL!"

They swarmed like insects, and I barely managed to protect my companion from the initial assault. "We’re getting out of here NOW!" I cried, shoving him back. I didn’t want to lose anyone important to me ever again — I couldn’t. But then an electric shock coursed through my whole body, sending me crashing to the ground.

"Seize her, but do not harm her."

Just before my world faded to black, I realized the person giving the orders was the very same man I had been trying to protect.

* * * * *

"Ah, good. You’re awake."

The man’s voice pulled me from my unnatural sleep. I tried to move and couldn’t, and quickly realized one of the soldiers was holding me in place.

"Are my toys not adorable? Ah, I tried to get them to act human, but it didn’t work out quite as I planned."

His expression was bright, his voice as gentle as ever. It only made the experience all the more uncanny.

"Why!?" I cried. "Why are you working with the kingdom!?"

"Oh, there’s no need to worry about that," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "The kingdom is gone — consigned to the dustbin of history. All I did was borrow a bit of their technology regarding human augmentation."

He pulled out a locket and opened it, staring spellbound at the photo inside. "Do you recall my wife?" he murmured, almost to himself.

Memories of a more peaceful time flooded over me. Though older than me, his wife was a tiny waif of a thing who resembled a little girl more than a woman grown.

"We ran when the kingdom attacked, but our journey only led to a different kind of hell."

He stopped his story, pulled a newspaper clipping from his pocket, and tossed it at my feet. The headline read: ROYAL MILITARY EXPANSION CAUSES CHEMICAL POLLUTION.

"The rot started in her lungs before spreading to the rest of her body. It was fast — so fast. Like a wind. The doctors had no idea how to help her, but rather than surrendering hope, I decided to replace her failing body with that of a machine."

"You wanted to augment your own wife!?"

"Yes. And if you wish to know how it ended, you need only remember the thing that jumped you in the forest."

At that moment, I realized the face in his locket was the same as the soldier I encountered in the woods. Even though the kingdom itself was gone, its horrid technology lived on to birth new pain — and those who weren’t compatible with augmentation inevitably lost all control of themselves.

"Ah, yes," he said in response to the horror that moved across my face. "I fear she’s been like that ever since the operation. I needed to know if there was a way to get her back, so I kidnapped people and experimented on them to further my research."

The soldiers I had seen in the forest? The people I’d seen in the town? All victims of his cruel work.

"Alas, I could never get the results I wanted. But then I found you."

Me — someone who survived the operation. Even though I was deemed a failure, I still retained a sense of self.

"I wanted you to see the pain of those who do not have the sweet release of death. With you helping me, I can end that! My research will grow by leaps and bounds!" A flame lit in his eyes then, one stoked by madness. "You endured the augmentation, so give me your mind! Give me your body! Do so for the sake of my wife, as well as for all who suffer in agony and pain!"

He had come down a road from which he could not turn back, all for the sake of one he loved. It was a truth I knew painfully well.

Which is why I could not permit him to continue.

I shook off the soldier holding me and readied myself for battle. This nightmare would end today.

The man who once saved me had modified human bodies at the cost of countless lives.

"AAaaAAHh Ha HA hA ha HA!
LEt'S dANce, sIs!"

I didn't want to hurt the augmented soldiers more than he already had, so instead I damaged their machine parts, rendering them inoperable.

"Animal! You would destroy the fruits of my research!?"Realizing the tide had turned, he tried to slip away through crowds of augmented soldiers. But I saw right through his ruse and chased him down.

"The kingdom's technology dies with you." I said as I stood over him, sword at the ready.

"No, wait! This is good for you, I swear! I'm going to help you find a new way of life, just as I promised!"

I could tell he was trying to curry favor, but instead of rage, the attempt created only a kind of emptiness inside me.

"You think having me aid your experiments is a new life?"

"Yes! You can help people! You can finally be a savior, not a murderer!"

Oh, but he knew how to spin a pretty tale. Yet I was viscerally aware of how his technology brought about only misfortune and misery.

"I bet she would be happy if you helped!" he continued frantically. "Your sister ― "He spoke my sister's name.

"You..."

The tip of my blade shuddered.

I saw a distant past, then. Beheld forgotten memories — memories of the only time in my life that could hope to soothe me. And he destroyed them. He used my sister's name for his own ends.

"All I want is to perfect the technology!"

As my memory fell apart, I destroyed him.

"That's a shame."

There was a flash as my blade struck flesh. Silence descended over the area. It was over quickly — far too quickly.

Enough is enough.

I had my revenge, and lost my life's meaning in the process. I know now that my days would run into each other one after the next, turning into a meaningless, insubstantial blur I could never escape.

"Time to join her."

The ending of my own life would snuff out any lingering existence of the kingdom. I brought the blade to my chest, felt the pressure. But the moment I began to push, a soft thud from somewhere beyond the trees brought me to a halt. If there were augmented soldiers left, I had a duty to dispatch them quickly and painlessly. But as I approached the sound...

"Who are you?" asked a little girl who could be no more than 10. "What are you doing here?"

"Me? I, uh... What are you doing here?"

"I live here with Papa and — cough, cough!" The hand to her mouth turned pale red. "Sorry. I can't stop coughing. Mama was like that too."

"What happened to your mom?" I asked.

Her eyes clouded. "Mama...stopped being Mama. But Papa's trying to fix her."

"Is he now?"

"Yes! And once Mama's fixed, he's gonna fix me, too!"

The man had expressed his wish to save his beloved. That, at least, had not been a lie.

"But Papa's been so busy with research that he...forgot me."

It all started with a wish to save his wife, all well as his daughter. It started with a desire to keep his family safe. What did he say in the end?

I want to perfect the technology.

The poor fool was so caught up in the journey that he forgot the destination.

"Have you seen my papa?"

There was only one thing to do. I can't say it was the correct thing, or that I even had the right to do it in the first place. But...

"Your papa went on a journey. He's trying to find a way to save you. You can stay with me until he comes back."

I must be at her side.

"Aw! I wanted to wave bye."

The girl took my hand with her own. It was soft and warm as the sun.

"He didn't want to see you sad," I whispered.

"Papa's so nice," she said with a smile. As she did, I felt the evening breeze slowly push aside whatever remained of my hesitation.

"All right, let's leave our review there for today."

"Okay."

"Sure."

"Good idea."

"When's the next one?"

"Not a problem."

"Um, if I may?"

"Yes? What is it?"

"So I understand she gave her life for revenge, but that wasn't all it was about."

"Go on. Please. I'd love to hear your thoughts."

"Well, a lot of people passed through her life."

"That's true. Her record is much longer than most, making analysis difficult."

"And of course, she made mistakes along the way. But she slowly grew because of it."

"Precisely. But let's leave our judgments until we watch to the end of the record."

"But we're the only ones who can watch over her journey."

"Thank you for pointing this out. We need to take this seriously or ■■■■■■

ERROR: INSUFFICIENT MEMORY

Today is my birthday and it's sunny! My big sister made me sooo much food!

It's been a long time since we had so many vegetables and so much meat! The meat was kind of hard but it tasted great! My sister is great!

She said Mom taught her a lot about how to cook food! I want Mom to teach me too so I am going to be on my best behavior all the time!

So I helped clean up too! My sister made a big mess while cooking, so the whole house was a mess! It was funny.

By the way the neighborhood dog went missing so we are all going to go looking for him.

Maybe he just wants to play hide and seek?

After repeated cries of exertion, the finishing blow arrives. The animal — which had been rushing at the speed of an arrow not moments earlier — crumples to the earth before the man. When that happens, a small girl less than half his size peeks out from behind a tree, her eyes glittering in wonder.

"Footprints in mud. Broken branches. The forest leaves many clues for us to find."

The man does not know how to be a father; all he can teach her is hunting and survival. Though he knows logically that teaching a woman such skills will only make her life difficult in this day and age, it remains all he can do for her. But his daughter is blissfully unaware of his worries; she is only delighted to watch his gallantry.

Soon, the man will be drafted and sent to war. He must return alive, lest his family starve. This fears kick the cogs of his mind into gear, and he shakes his head to clear his musings.

"While I am away, you must look after your mother and the new baby. Understand?"

His words are casual, the meaning behind them lost on the little girl. But in her eyes, she clearly realizes this is what a family protector should look like.

"I will come back to you," he says as he enfolds the girl in his massive arms.
"I will return. I promise."

"What do you think?"

"Tasty."

"This is what meat tastes like when the animal doesn't suffer and you dress it correctly."

"I'm sorry."

"Why did you kill that dog and steal those vegetables?"

"The house burned up. We had nothing left to eat."

"But you still know there are things you shouldn't do, right?"

"I know. But I don't want to worry my sister any more."

"She'll be okay. You're doing a fine job."

"...She knows I cry when she's not looking."

"And yet she doesn't seem upset about it. In fact, she's been having a great time writing in her diary."

"She does that to make me feel better. She knows I'm hiding something."

"Perhaps it's her way of showing you kindness."

"I don't want to lie to anyone anymore. Not to myself — and definitely not to her."

"That's why I'll teach you all you need to survive."

"Thank you. I really want to hunt by myself next time."

"You'll be doing that soon. Hell, you're already good at stalking prey! Where'd you learn to do that, anyway?"

"...My dad."

Today's my sister's birthday! But it's raining. Boo.

My sister is so nice! She lets me do almost anything I want! She lets me study, cook, AND play. I love that about her.

But no matter how much I ask, she never lets me hunt. She says it's too dangerous. But things are hard with just the two of us, and I feel bad relying on her for stuff. I wish she'd teach me to hunt. Oh, and I also wish I knew how to ask her about it better.

(Plus, if I was super good at hunting, she might even give me her hairpin! Hee!)

So I'll say it to myself again: Happy birthday, Sis.



—I'm sorry. I'll take you hunting next time.

The mother drew the bow taut and let it loose. The prey drinking water not far from them fell silently to the ground a moment later.

"That was amazing!"

The excited girl couldn't help but run to her mother, whose valiant form she had been closely studying. Her mother turned to look at her rounded eyes and said, "Next time, you will loose the string."

When she and her mother first met, the girl had lung trouble, but she was well enough now to begin hunting. Her medical procedures had their foundation in experiments the kingdom once carried out. "Such is life," thought the mother.

She placed the bow in the girl's hands, supported her small frame, and leaned in to whisper, "A long time ago, reminding those I reviled that I'd never forgive them was the only thing keeping me going."

The girl turned to look into her mother's eyes, sensing pain in her voice.

"But I realized my error, and now I'm glad to live for happiness — for your sake and hers."

My wife is the queen of this land. She has long been a strong, kind woman, and the words she uses to describe our country's future always shine brighter than the stars.

And yes, it is perhaps idealistic and naive for a ruler to speak of such things, but the more you listen to her, the more it sounds like an achievable reality. The beautiful country in her mind is precious to me, and I want to see the notion become real. But more than that, I want to be at her side on the day she achieves it, because the hours she spent telling me of her ideal future have been some of the finest of my life.

But I know. I know that in order to achieve her dream, we will have to, at times, resort to methods she hates. Physical force. Violence. ...Or worse.

A King's Memoir, Part 1

Our kingdom had always been adept at creating intricate clockwork mechanisms, with a skill in the art far surpassing that of any neighboring lands. As such, the other countries on the continent considered us to be a great menace.

And perhaps they were correct to do so, for a new type of research was taking place within our kingdom — one that would secure us an endless supply of soldiers. Throwing all of our money, power, and effort into the task, our country soon found favorable results, and the soldiers were brought to life more quickly than even the most optimistic projections.

Our new creation was the ultimate soldier: a creature made of steel and wire that would never tire, and with a mind capable of calculating at impossibly fast speeds. The lead researcher, who called his creation "clockwork people," explained that having passed basic performance tests, they would now enter the final stage of testing before sending them into the field.

"I appreciate you taking the time to come out all this way, Your Majesty," said the lead researcher as he gestured to a line of clockwork people on the other side of the window.

They looked more human than the last time I came to observe the work. And yet, despite their familiar bodies, their eyes were empty⁠; they seemed less like they were standing of their own free will and more that they could do nothing else.

"We have come to the conclusion," continued the researcher, "that in order for clockwork people to operate in an optimal manner, we must integrate into their thought processes four laws. And today, I would like to demonstrate for you a test of these laws."

The researcher's fingers flew over the device in his hand. A moment later, the room went dark, and an image was projected onto the wall. It was a bit difficult to make out, but through the shadows and gloom I could see a mass of people heading into a village. Some were the clockwork people, but a number were our own human soldiers — I even recognized a few of their number.

"This is a live feed of a unit presently en route to the stronghold of some bandits," said the researcher. He went on to explain that the test was for the clockwork people to protect the senior officer leading the arrest operation.

The bandit stronghold looked like any other house in the city. But when the unit marched in — their footsteps rough and heavy in the moonless dark — they caught the bandits off-guard and captured them without incident. It was an impressive display, one so good I failed to hide my glee.

"I see Your Majesty is pleased," said the researcher. "And yet, we've something far more impressive in store."

As the squad led the captive bandits out of the building, a few more of the ruffians launched a surprise attack. Chaos engulfed the scene⁠, and I saw the superior officer at the front of the fray take a stray bullet and fall. The clockwork people immediately surrounded him, prioritizing his safety above all else.

But then I noticed someone strange: one of the clockwork people did not leapt to the officer's defense. Instead, it hurried to the side of a random human soldier and assumed a protective stance.

After a bit of a struggle, our unit managed to subdue the bandits, and the video cut out. But all I could think about was the clockwork soldier who had protected the random man — and when I mentioned this to the researcher, I saw a smile appear on his face.

"You've a keen eye, Your Majesty. In truth, we had the commanding officer switch uniforms with that man."

"Interesting," I replied. "I'd heard the clockwork people automatically confirmed rank by the insignia on a uniform. That alone would be impressive, but this one somehow saw past the insignia and recognized the superior officer."

"Your Majesty is indeed correct."

"But how?"

The researcher explained that the clockwork person in question had been collecting information of its own accord during the mission. It did not rely solely on the intelligence provided before the mission; instead, it continued to observe and arrived at the correct conclusion through a constant updating and verification of information.

"To sum up," said the researcher, "we have given the clockwork people small variations to their cogitation. In essence, each one has something of a personality."

"And it appears this 'personality' worked in our favor this time," I added.

"Indeed, sire. Yet while we have achieved fruitful results, we will make certain not to incorporate any dangerous behaviors to said personalities."

As I nodded, another thought occurred to me. "What were you testing in this particular instance, by the way?"

"The First Law: A clockwork being must always protect the lives of the royal family or its own commanding officer."

He turned to me then and bowed his head slightly, "Now then, Your Majesty, do you have any opinions as to what should be done with this particular unit?"

"Keep testing it," I said as I turned to leave. "We can always dispose of the thing later if we need to."

My wife is pregnant. It will be our first child, and the future ruler of this country.

Her breathing is pained. Her skin, which once shone like a newly-polished pearl, it is now pale and lifeless. As I stand before her and gaze upon her distended stomach, I cannot contain my anxiety.

She has always been sickly, and I worry she may not survive the birth. It is the first time I realize I have such a weakness, yet somehow I manage to swallow my fear and smile at her.

"Let's think of a name for our child," she says to me in a faint whisper. "We will entrust our baby with the future of this country, so I want to name it together."

I grasp her delicate, fragile hand, and nod.

A King's Memoir: Part 2

There came the deafening sound of something large splitting open, followed by a wave of high-pitched, delicate noises. Several clockwork soldiers had obeyed orders and opened fire on a vase of flowers.

The kingdom was currently pushing the development of automatons of war. Yet if they were to be the ideal soldiers, we would need to implement in them four distinct laws. The destruction of the flower vase was a test of the second law, one many members of the royal court had watched with great interest.

The Second Law: A clockwork being must follow the orders of the royal family or its highest ranking officer.

Several soldiers — as well as a common beggar plucked off the street — were shouting commands at the clockwork people. The test was to see if they could pick out the voice of the highest-ranking person and execute that command.

The clockwork people stood in a line on the other side of thick, reinforced glass. All wore special earpieces; we were told that was how they heard the cacophony of orders. And when they determined the highest-ranking one — to fire on the flower vase — they did so without hesitation.

As the test continued, they fired on a number of different items from among a jumbled mass on a desk.

"Let's have them shoot the clock next," said the lead researcher. A moment later, the orders came through both the headsets of the clockwork people and speakers in the room where the royal court was stationed.

"The pot!" cried the beggar.

"The vase," murmured the soldiers.

"The clock," whispered the commanding officer.

The clock exploded in a hail of bullets, causing the audience to cheer with delight. After clearing up the mess, the researchers came out of a back room with a number of live rabbits and proceeded to dump them on the ground, where they began hopping about.

"Might you order them to kill the rabbits, sire?" said the lead researcher.

The voices began anew, order spilling upon order. But when my voice rang out, it was followed by the predictable thunder of gunshots. But something was strange this time: unlike the previous demonstrations, the gunshots were not in unison. Indeed, while all the rabbits now laid dead on the floor, some had been shot multiple times.

What could explain this discrepancy? Yes, the rabbits were moving about, but I had been assured the clockwork people had near-perfect accuracy.

The head researcher clearly sensed my question, "One of the units feels joy when it kills a living being, sire," he said. "Another is hesitant, while a third makes no distinction between animate and inanimate objects. Basically, the results change depending on their personalities."

Ah, yes. The personalities. When I last visited the lab, the researcher informed me that each unit had been given small changes to their cogitation, resulting in what they were terming "personalities."

After cleaning away the gore, the scientists brought out a group of monkeys. The head researcher then proceeded to dole out various conflicting orders.

Bite their ears.
Soothe them.
Grab their legs.

While the clockwork people obeyed, their actions were not anywhere near in unison. And when they were given the final order to kill the monkeys, things diverged even more. Some took their time, enjoying the act of slowly taking a life. Others, however, seemed wracked with guilt, and their hesitation to end a life ended up causing the poor creatures far more suffering than if they had simply been swift and sure with the killing blow. So though the means had been different, the pain experienced by each monkey was ultimately the same.

I personally found it fascinating. But the expressions of my fellow royals soon clouded over; they clearly had not expected to see such a gruesome sight. The lead researcher, however, paid no attention to their discomfort, and ordered his subordinates to proceed to the final test.

One held with humans.

Just as with the monkeys, the lead researcher gave the clockwork people various orders. But this time, their personalities shone through brighter than ever. When they acted against their targets — with their unique hairstyles, face shapes, and clothes — they moved with a grace and skill that belied their mechanical nature. But in the moments where they were not exerting power, their movements were awkward and comical.

I suddenly understood that was how deadly weapons were meant to be. But I also realized that nothing more could be gained by dragging such a thing out further.

"Enough," I said. "End this test."

The lead researcher turned to the clockwork people.

"Kill them," he said.

Hearing the order, the crackle of gunfire rang out through the room. One unit, however, did not act. Instead, it simply stood in place, almost as it had been powered off. This was a unit which had obeyed every previous order with a kind of dull, plodding precision — one which I thought might lack a personality altogether.

As I shook my head in disappointment at having witnessed our first failure, I heard the sound of a sob and looked over to see a small boy crying.

"Ah, most excellent," said the lead researcher.

I turned to him, confused, and he continued."I believe the unit was following a voice not from its earpiece, but from this very room."

The crying boy was the heir to one of the country's most prestigious noble families — and upon hearing his distress, the clockwork soldier had stayed his hand.

Now that was most impressive.

At the end of a difficult birth, we finally have a healthy baby boy. And yet, my wife's condition continues to worsen, almost as if the child is stealing her life away.

But she is too clever to leave things in flux, so before becoming bedridden, she bequeathed the throne to me — leaving the future of our country in my hands.

Now that I hold the power of a king, I see everything differently, and I realize doing things my wife's way will make it difficult to bring wealth to our land. This thought — and others like it — plague me more and more with each passing day.

In our happiest moments, my wife spoke of a bright and shining future. But can I really achieve such ideals alone? Doing things my way? Down one path, we link arms and work in harmony with other countries. Down another, we expand out borders with force. So though we wish for what appears to be the same future, why must the journey be so different?

A King's Memoir, Part 3

The kingdom's best scientists and most advanced technologies came together during the development of the clockwork people. And as the tests continued — tests to see if they could endure real-world usage — things reached a new and exciting phase.

The lead researcher had concluded that four laws needed to be incorporated into the clockwork people's thought processes if they were to operate optimally.

The First Law: A clockwork being must always protect the lives of the royal family or of its own commanding officer.

The Second Law: A clockwork being must follow the orders of the royal family or of its highest ranking officer.

The Third Law: A clockwork being must protect itself, as long as doing so does not contradict the first two laws.

Now, the team was finally ready to test both the durability of the clockwork bodies, as well as the Third Law.

Thirty clockwork people stood in neat rows in the testing area. Each one had a slight variances in their thought process, a trait that would manifest as a kind of "personality." While this was done in order to produce more accurate reports, it meant each clockwork person would act differently in response to the same order.

"Let us begin," said the lead researcher.

A large door at the far end of the room rolled back to reveal one of our largest weapons — a thing the size of an elephant that stomped into the room on multiple legs.

"This unit has proven to be one of our greatest battlefield successes," said the lead researcher proudly. I knew all about it, of course: it was a crude device that couldn't execute fine maneuvers, but was perfect for situations requiring overwhelming destructive power. It was also the first weapon I'd ordered to be built after ascending the throne.

"In this test, we hope to see the clockwork people defeat their foe while protecting themselves in the process. Any units that accomplish this task will be considered our first field-ready clockwork people."

As a buzzer sounded, signaling the beginning of the test, the clockwork people sprang to life before the massive weapon could even respond. They pelted it with gunfire from every direction, but that did little more than scratch its heavy armor plating. After a few seconds of this, they changed course and began focusing their attacks on its joints in an effort to bring it down. But then the weapon unleashed a brilliant beam of white-hot light from its cannons, and attack that sent the clockwork people flying.

"It's like watching ants fight a scorpion," I mused.

"Precisely," he lead researcher enthused. "But wait."

The different personalities of the clockwork people quickly began to emerge. A handful attempted to escape, but were gunned down before they could reach the doors. Some clung desperately to the massive weapon, while others ran in chaotic circles and fired their guns wildly. The weapon kicked and smashed and stamped them in a frenzy, and it seemed only a matter of time before all the clockwork people would be destroyed.

There was a clear imbalance of power, and I felt certain the test had entered its final, messiest stage. Irritated, I turned to look at the leader researcher, and was shocked to see him smiling.

"Please watch, Your Majesty!"

At his prompting, I saw one clockwork person firing at the weapon from behind cover. As I watched, I realized it was not firing indiscriminately, but instead targeting one specific part of its armor.

After creating a rather sizeable dent, the unit leapt out from its hiding spot, ducking and weaving through cannon attacks as it approached the weapon. Once there, it reached into the dent and ripped the plating free. Clinging to the weapon itself means there's no possibility of being struck by any of its attacks. The weapon's pilot, realizing their predicament, causes the weapon to move in such a way that the clockwork person would be shaken free, but it quickly leapt back on and peeled away more of the plating.

"There is potential here," murmured the researcher.

The newly armored clockwork person — the last one standing — ripped off another chunk to reveal the weapon's internal circuitry. If it could break through in that precise spot and tear apart the wiring, there was a chance of victory.

But the unit was in a sad state. Despite the armor, it had been thrown to the ground countless times, losing an arm and suffering various other injuries. Before it could reach into the wires, it was thrown free into a pile of its disabled fellows. And as it struggled to pull itself to its feet, the massive weapon stomped over, raised a single leg, and ended the test for good.

"A disappointing ending," I said, shaking my head.

Having completed its mission, the weapon sat quietly in place, as though awaiting its next orders. The valiant unit that had fought to the end was now buried amidst the husks of its fellow clockwork people, and I could no longer pick it out from among the rest.

"However," I added, "that one unit showed promise."

The lead researcher nodded in excited agreement.

My wife — our queen — has died.

Her past, including everything she said and did, now feels as fiction. My light is gone. My world is empty. Hollow.

I was right: love and kindness are not enough to save us. Only by military force can this country and its people hope to be governed.

Though I was the one who ordered the development of the clockwork people to begin in earnest, the first prince still looks upon our new soldiers with fear. Though he's grown into a kind young man — one fitting of the name his mother gave him — I feel he may be too weak to take up a position of power.

If only the prince had been named not by my late wife, but by me. If we had only named him after our god of war as I desired...then perhaps things would have been different.

A King's Memoir, Part 4

Metal bodies that do not know exhaustion.
Mechanical brains which calculate at impossible speeds.
This is the new face of the soldier.

As our research progressed, tests were carried out in the name of the kingdom's prosperity. We had been calling our new creations "clockwork people" under the assumption they would take on tasks in place of humans. But one day, the lead researcher said something that changed everything:

"Your Majesty, I would like you to meet our very first clockwork soldier — the first one to successfully pass all of the tests."

Before me knelt a clockwork person — no, a clockwork soldier. Its head was bowed in the manner of a loyal retainer, and I was immediately intrigued; while I had seen many such machines at work in the tests, only a select few had managed to catch my eye.

"This unit does not seem familiar to me," I mused. "Which tests did it pass?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty," replied the lead researcher eagerly. "This is not a unit you have seen in action. Yet at the same time, one could also say you have."

As I frowned, the lead researcher pointed out the window toward the massive testing area, where clockwork corpses were scattered across the floor like discarded toys.

"This unit is the cumulative result of all our tests, physically as well as mentally."

The perfect soldier would have a quick mind, a tenacious body, and an unshakeable spirit. And while humans could come close to these ideals, they could never quite achieve them to the utmost. But now, the lead researcher was claiming this new creation has done so.

I gazed down at the kneeling clockwork soldier, who remained perfectly still. From all of those clockwork people — all of those sacrifices — this unit had been born.

"It was not simply a matter of switching out parts, though," the researcher continued. "We extracted experiences and thought processes from the remaining records in order to optimize this unit's operational circuits."

Images of all the units that had acted in bizarre fashions — the ones that left an impression in past tests — flashed through my mind. "Such a combination would certainly make a clockwork soldier that fights like a human. But I thought I made it clear that was not our ultimate goal."

What I wanted were beings that did not think, but instead followed orders, doing whatever was necessary to see a task to completion.

"As you said, Majesty. Our tests proved the greatest results are obtained from units with the weakest personalities."

The lead researcher had once thought instilling human-like emotional variations would lead to the creation of soldiers that could adapt to any environment. It was not an altogether incorrect thought; several of the clockwork people I saw throughout the tests managed to put such personalities to good use. But the clockwork soldiers were weapons — and standardized, practical tools did not require variations.

"But this is not to say their personalities were a total waste," continued the researcher. "Their thoughts and experiences played a role in heightening the abilities of the unit before you. Of course, we will ensure it does not manifest as a personality, but as a kind of auxiliary mechanism that helps the unit execute its mission."

The researcher wound his way carefully through his words, making them sound less like an explanation and more like an excuse. But I merely nodded, choosing not to question him further. Because even if a personality were to manifest, all we had to do was delete it.

"And the fourth law?"

"Expunged, Your Majesty."

The researcher originally wanted a fourth law: A clockwork being must serve the royal family and its superior officers of its own will. But weapons did not need a will any more than they needed personalities. All they needed to do was take lives without thinking. And now that this unit had been born, we could unleash our weapons to the world.

"Raise your head."

The clockwork soldier looked up at me as I spoke. Though it was designed to look human, its expression was completely blank, which caused me to smile. This was the face of a killing machine — a heartless creation that would carry out any order without a second thought.

I crouched before the unit, took its chin between my fingers, and peered into its glassy eyes. "As our country's first clockwork soldier, I think you are deserving of a name."

I smiled as I fell silent. Though I appeared to be deep in thought, I already had a name in mind.

"You will fight like a god of war and bring victory to this country. Therefore, your name will be..."

This man is a clockwork soldier built by a kingdom consumed in never-ending war. He has been programmed to know and feel all manner of things: fighting styles, battle strategies, and of course, loyalty to the kingdom's rulers. And if I had to guess, I'd say his memories of the time he spent traveling with the prince were also filled with violence. Let's take a little peek, shall we?

Oh dear! He's pointing his gun at a woman who spoke to the prince in town! ...Oh, but she was just asking for directions. Hurry away, you poor thing!

Oh no! He just shot at something in the trees! Was it an enemy, or an assassin or... Oh. No. Apparently he was just getting some fruit out of the tree for the prince's dinner.

And now, in the dark of night, he keeps watch over his charge. Each time the boy turns over, he pulls the blanket back across his thin shoulders. He does this over and over and over again.

I imagine if we asked him why he did these things, he would claim they were merely a byproduct of his programming. But Mama thinks there's more to this story. In fact, Mama thinks the clockwork man has created his very own will.

A lone man waits on a dry and windswept land. Across from him stand several metal dummies — his targets. This is a firing range for a weapon currently in development — a weapon known only as the clockwork soldier.

Though the man holds a gun for the first time in his life, it somehow feels as familiar as an old friend. He pauses a moment to calculate the bullet's trajectory, the windspeed, and the recoil, then pulls the trigger.

It is over in the blink of an eye. As he places the gun in its holster, curls of smoke rise from the single hole in each of the targets' chests — the exact place where their hearts would be.

The man admires his work for a moment, then turns and leaves the range. In that brief span of time, he has learned all there is to know of the gun.

"Wait for me. Do not move until I come back."

The man does as he is told, standing motionless before a church scarred by endless war. No muscle so much as twitches as he waits for his commanding general to return.

Eventually, a priestess covered in ash approaches the waiting man and throws herself at him with a cry. "Please, sir! I don't want to die! Protect me from the army!"

She clings to him, causing the man to sway ever so slightly. When the general returns a few moments later, he finds the priestess lying on the ground.

"Why did you kill her?" he asks.

"You told me not to move. I had to follow your orders."

The general grins, clearly Delighted by the man's answer. "You truly are the perfect little puppet," he says.

The boy's cough echoes through the room, his pale breath vanishing into the air of the underground storage area. The clockwork man notes the temperature and realizes it has fallen another degree.

"This climate will harm you, My Prince. Allow me to disable my temperature regulators so I might heat the room."

At this suggestion, the boy suppresses a cough while holding out one pallid hand.

"Just promise you won't destroy yourself trying to help me again."

The man, reflected in the boy's clear gray eyes, replies with a hardened voice and blank expression. "Clockwork soldiers do not understand the concept of promises, My Prince. Only orders."

The words appear to wound the boy.
But the man does not know why, nor does he ask."But I'll remember," says the boy. "And that's enough."

He coughs again and weakly lets his hand sink back down to his side.

"I'm going to ask around. Wait here, okay?"

After arriving at the village, the boy gives the order before stepping inside a small church. The man follows the child's instruction to the letter, waiting patiently near the door. But after a bit, he hears the sound of screams. A moment later, a child runs up and begins desperately tugging on his arm.

"Please, sir! Our friend just fell out of a tree! You have to carry him to the doctor!"

The child then yanks the man's hand again, pulling him down the road and away from his charge.

A short time later, the boy emerges from the church to find the man kneeling in the dust of the road. "I failed to follow your orders and await punishment," he says. "Here is what happened...."

The boy listens intently to his story. When he learns the child is safe, he sighs with genuine relief and allows himself the briefest of smiles.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not going to punish you for that."

Let us rest.

The attending man makes this suggestion upon hearing the boy — his master — breathing in harsh, ragged gasps.

"No," replies the boy. "We need to hurry on."

As they proceed, a pack of overgrown stray dogs suddenly appear to block their way. Though annoying, they are enemies easily failed. But as the fight proceeds, a thought occurs to the man:

If I were to let myself be injured here,
my master would surely accept my proposal to rest.

On the heels of this thought comes a memory — a thing the man recalls someone saying to him. He immediately discards the option of intentional injury and begins dispatching the dogs with calm efficiency.

Once the enemy is defeated, the man turns to the boy. "My apologies, but due to exhaustion as a result of that battle, I require rest."

At least, the boy nods in agreement.

*         *         *

After they make camp and the boy drifts off into a fitful sleep, the man minds the fire and thinks about the events of the day. The thought that came to him during the battle was a memory of himself and his master. White breath. Shaking hands. Gray eyes. And these words:

Promise me you'll never harm yourself for my sake again.

Why did he use his own injuries as an excuse to force his master to rest?

Why did his promise come to mind in that moment?

Why did it cause him to alter his actions?

Why did he lie about exhaustion when he was not tired?

The flames of the campfire shimmer in his eyes. No matter how many calculations he runs, he can find no answer. Instead, he simply sits back and thinks about the warm emotion rolling about in his chest.

Fallen leaves swirl in the wind, kicking up dust devils in the courtyard. Though they steal my attention, the bright sunlight causes me to shut my eyes. When I open them again, I find the leaves have drifted to the children's feet. They pay them no mind. Perhaps they do not even notice.

I watch them dance.
It is Hypnotic.

Beneath the open sky, behind a wall topped by ominous red spikes, children yell as they scamper to and fro. Their movements are clumsy due to their immature limbs and musculature, but their energetic voices still echo across the sky. Passers-by outside the wall hear them and smile, remembering the halcyon days of their own childhoods.

But the passers-by do not see what they are holding.

Each child carries a deadly steel blade in one hand. They stand in a triangular formation so they might better observe one another. It is the custom of this family for even the youngest child to wield true steel at all times, save when sparring one another. This is because we must think of out weapons as extension of our own bodies.

All for the sake of our lord.

I sigh and look away. A man who had been standing separate from the children meets my gaze and bows — their teacher, most likely. I respond with a brief wave of my hand.

The family I now lead is an organization of killers. We are killers who support our lord's rule from the shadows, having polished our skills for decades so we might ensure that his rule is absolute. We are comprised of many generations of blood relatives, as well as supporting staff. Though I hear tell the family was not always so large, it has now grown in size for various reasons: the expansion of territory, securing power for wartime, family feuds, preserving secrets, and so on.

The head of the household receives direct orders from our lord, while day-to-day management of the organization falls upon the previous lord — my father. But his work is not unrelated to my own; indeed, I hold a position where I have great sway over the futures of our young charges.

The children are training in assassination. The daggers at their belts and in their hands are common things found throughout the world, and nowhere near as suited for our work as a concealed weapon. But there are times when an assassin cannot choose their weapon. Perhaps they are not yet skilled in stealth, or perhaps their preferred weapon breaks during a mission. This lesson teaches them how to act in such unfortunate situations.

We have no choice in this.

Children will give their all to the cruelest regiments precisely because they are young and innocent. Their eyes do not yet perceive the weight of life, and this leads them down a path most dark.

It reminds me of my own past. Of the day I first took the life of another. And if I close my eyes, I can still see my blood-soaked hands.

The horizon blurred, almost as if I was viewing it after a long and restless night. I stood in place, staring down at a pair of hands slick with scarlet. I had just killed someone, and this act would be a part of me forever.

I remember the day I came of age. Even though I would one day inherit our house, I was given a wooden sword and told to drill with one of my father's many subordinates, no different than any other child in a samurai family.

My training was merciless, and I endured it day and night without pause. All that time, I pretended not to notice the cheerful sounds of children playing beyond the walls. In hindsight, I realize my instructor's irritable demeanor and harsh methods were not because he wished to see me succeed, but because he hated my being heir to our house.

In one particularly brutal session, I watched the man's swordsmanship closely before slipping through a gap in his swing. But a child's meager strength and short limbs are no match for an adult — only after we quash our fundamental disadvantages can we first stand on equal footing.

The nearness of my tutor invited a mistake in judgment. No one in our family flounders when another enters their circle, and my instructor quickly shifted his pivot foot and continued to swipe at my legs. Frantic, I struck his kneecap with the handle of my wooden sword in an attempt to halt his momentum. My plan was to slip past him to the left, then send the blade into his side. But as I readied my next move, I saw him adjust the grip on his sword out of the corner of my eye.

It was too early to step out of the way, but too late to dodge. Almost without realizing it, I grabbed the man's clothing and attempted to body slam him. But a child's grapple means nothing without momentum; all the move did was bring my physical disadvantage to the fore.

Instantly regretting my mistake, I prepared myself for pain. But rather than deliver a blow, my instructor froze. I followed his widened eyes and turned to see the former head of the family: my father. He greeted my instructor, who sheathed his wooden sword and kneeled, then turned his attention to me.

"We must speak. Come."

My father brought me to the parlor and told me I was to be given a mission. While the news came as a shock, the cold weight in his tone said all I needed to know about the nature of the task.

"I wish to acknowledge my daughter's maturity," he said. "Before the week is out, you will choose a target and bring me their head. But know this: the value of the target determines your own worth."

These words caused me to lift my head; while I had expected many possible missions, that had never been one of my considerations. Yet now I had five days to eliminate someone whose death might prove beneficial to my father and our house.

My mind reeled. Unable to reply, I bowed deeply and exited the room. The question of which life was the correct one to take held me tight, almost as if I had been seized and bound in a great and weighty chain.

If it was ever acceptable to measure the worth of another's life, who would have the right to do so? Even if it is not acceptable, people still seek their own worth.

It is as though the value of one's life is fixed.

I was given my first order to kill when I was yet young. The trial would serve as a display of our abilities, and involved us killing a target of our choosing.

I was allowed to venture into the city under supervision of people from the family in order to search for a target. While I sometimes left the house for espionage missions, such instances had been rare. This was the first time I was able to act and search of my own accord.

As I moved through the city, I recalled something my instructor said to me before I left on my mission:

Anyone can be killed if they are considered weak. Even you.

His meaning was clear: If I did not put my life on the line to satisfy my father, he would take it without any hesitation.

But I was so young, and the hesitation of taking a life combined with the pressure I felt in the face of my trial was enough to drive me into the proverbial corner.

And that fear bound my shadow to my house. How ironic.

As I searched for my target, I did my best to hide my trembling fingers in my fists. I wandered the boundary between light and dark, weaving the narrow alleyways between buildings as I tried to make my decision. It was as far from true freedom as one could be, yet I mistook it for such in those early days.

Removing this samurai will be more than enough to display my strength.

But I have never killed before. Can I do it?

That man drowns in unearned riches. His death will be easy and beneficial.

But is that enough to satisfy my father?

That merchant has earned great ire from the townsfolk. Many would want him dead.

Is it my place to make such a judgment?

My thoughts came to a dead end. I repeated the same actions over and over until the very last day, staring for hours at the boundary between light and dark.

When that last day came, I grew impatient. Where did I even go? I know I pursued my target with fevered desperation and a kind of awkwardness, and eventually my hesitation led me back home, where I stared at the weapons along the wall of my room and shivered.

Who can I kill?
Who is the right candidate?
Who is all right to kill?
How should I kill?
When should I kill?
Where should I kill?

In the end, perhaps the answer is for me to kill...me.

My family made children determine the value of a life, putting their very selves at risk in the process. Indeed, that was likely the purpose of the exercise. Will their sensibilities break under the weight? Will their spirits shatter under the pressure? Can they still bring profit to the family?

In the end, it taught me that hesitation in the face of a kill was unnecessary to those of my household. Perhaps it even served the purpose of destroying any worthless hopes and dreams.

I greeted the dawn of the final day with exhaustion and anguish. I had forgotten what it meant to be alive.

When I finally looked down, I realized my hands were soaked with blood. My eyes clouded, and I found myself unable to hide my irritation. As such, I did not notice my fingertips relax and begin to draw slow patterns in the soft earth below.

Almost as if this was the way things were meant to be.

The bodies lay at my feet.
Their eyes lifeless. Waxy.

A blossom of brilliant crimson bloomed. Its wretched vermillion petals scattered. As I looked down at my palm and saw a dim reflection of glimmering light, memory finally returned.

I'd always wondered what was so different between the life I led within the walls and the lives of the children who lived outside it. But when I finally asked the question, it was far too late.

That was the moment I killed a part of myself.

My father gave me the mission and allowed me to choose my companions, so I selected my instructor and his younger brother. They had long been dissatisfied with our family and current lord, and since I would one day assume that position, I saw the mission as a chance to solve that most tired of problems.

Perhaps I let my guard down in the process.

I knew they schemed to use me to depose the current lord, and when I snuck into their manor under the curtain and shadows of night, the were so engaged in their plans they did not notice me. But as they continued to converse, I felt time growing short.

Father will be pleased that I am ridding him of traitors.

Alas, I did not bother think of how I would kill them. Soon, thick sprays of blood flew through the moonlight.

My father praised me when I returned with their heads. Though I took their lives in a cowardly ambush, he was pleased I had the backbone to kill people I knew personally. Thinking back, I'm sure it was a test — my father knew full well who the traitors were. Though I was now free from the trial, my life as a killer had only just begun.

Afterward, I meticulously washed the blood from my cold hands and let them rest, folded as though in prayer, on my lap. But it was a fool's errand; those hands would be soaked in blood countless times after that. No matter how I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, I could never cleanse the stains of murder.

I could never walk a different path.

And so, I began to plan.

I watch as the children devote themselves to their training. They have yet to learn of the outside world, and know nothing of the circumstances of their existence. I lead this family now, and much as my father before me, I will likely shake them free of their reverie with a trial of blood and death.

This is wrong. I know it to be so. But I have walked the path of a killer. Even if I were to cast it all aside and free them from this house, I know not if I could protect them from whatever the future holds. Perhaps they would only end up lifeless on the ground, just like those who plotted betrayal and met death by my own hands.

Birds freed from their cage. Dolls obtaining sentience. Where would they go? Would they travel? Do they even know such a thing is possible?

And what of me?

The past steals freedom. Responsibilities steal freedom. The future steals freedom. The fetters of unending reincarnation have returned to me once again, and though I now have the power to choose, I have no solution at the ready.

It is a riddle with no solution, and I hate it with all that I am.

Home is a place for kin to gather.

Kin is a concept created by people for the sake of others. They do not have wills of their own. They are but words — or so they are meant to be. Yet it seems those who never intended to find a home now find themselves amongst kin.

Those who have abandoned a sense of individuality to come together under a singular belief and roof have formed a bond more powerful than anything — and are more feared than anything.

But she alone is different. She is the only one who stares off into the distance.

She gazes beyond the walls that encircle the manor. From within the prison that is her home, she looks to a world somewhere beyond.

There's one regular who often comes to my shop for a cup of tea and a plate of dango. She's always alone, and always carries a katana, which tells me she must be of some significant standing. I'm not certain what she sees in my humble little establishment, but I appreciate the business.

At first, I was terrified of her, for the crest on her clothing belongs to the manor known as the Den of Demons. It's an eerie place that normal citizens all steer clear of — but when I thought about it more, I realized the reputation came from nothing but hearsay. I felt shame at having judged someone based on rumors, and more ashamed still since she was a regular.

So today I made her more dangos than usual.

"This is my thanks for you being a frequent customer," I say as I hand her two plates piled high with dangos.

She looks at me in shock and murmurs a brief thanks.

"I'm home!"

"Welcome back. ...Hmm? What's with the pot?"

"I got these flowers after helping at the temple today. I was admiring them, and they said they had way more than they needed, so they let me take some back."

"Well, how nice of them. You'll have to return and thank them later."

"It was nice, right? Anyway, I figured since they're letting me have some, I should get blossoms as close to red and blue as possible."

"What? Why?"

"Because then they match our names, silly!"

"Not sure I'd call that color Scarlet, but I suppose the blue one could be Indigo if you squint real hard."

"Oh, don't be a downer! It's the thought that counts!"

A peculiar air settled over the house known as The Demon's Den. Stalwart fighters who were the eyes and ears of the dreadful undefeated hound — and who at times acted as her fangs — gathered in the hall for a somber discussion.

Though they had successfully vanished the successor of the opposing lord, the body had yet to be found. But more importantly, the woman who served as head of their house had gotten into a skirmish and cut down countless enemy samurai. She then dragged her injured self away and vanished like smoke, leaving only a bloodstain behind.

If she were dead, well and good. But if she yet lived, it meant trouble. For she was their lord, the one who knew every secret of the house. She was a cure for all problems while within their walls, yet would be poison if ever she turned her back.

"We cannot permit her to live. Find her. End her."

The metallic sound of blades loosening in scabbards echoed throughout the room in reply.

Twilight. Fading sun shines through the smallest gap in the woman's eyelids. Her vision is crimson. Vaguely, she hears the faint drumming of a heartbeat.

When viewed through a curtain of blood, everything looks the same. The woman stares at palms and footprints stained the same deep shade of red. She thinks back on that day, a dim one drowned in rain, when she met the girl. The girl who bore the selfsame scars. The girl she attempted to save in exchange for her own life.

But, the woman thinks, have I not been using her life to save my own?

And it's true: The life she thought she saved, she had merely claimed for herself.

Alone, the woman is ashamed. She scolds herself. For she knows that when she sees the girl smile, she will forget the blood staining her own hands.

One fateful day, the head of our house vanished. It was she who taught me how to live — and how to kill — in this cruel world of ours.

Despite not being related by blood I admired her as one might an older sister and referred to her as such, and it is she who made me into the devil I am today.

The sudden absence of the one most skilled among us with a blade bettered my own status within our house, but plunged us into chaos and petty rivalries at the same time. There are even feuds regarding whether or not it is appropriate for those not of our head's bloodline to accept missions from our lord.

How foolish it all is. I've no interest in authority or power. For neither did she, you see, and that it was allowed her to grasp the peerless strength she wielded.

I search for her even now; her beautiful pale skin stained with the blood of her enemies, her gaze as cold and dark as night turned upon the corpses of her felled foes.

"Oh, my dear sister... Where have you gone?"

――FOREWORD――

To date, I have published several biographies based on the diaries of adventurers, but this one is quite special; it is the final tale of the man I most admire. The reason I never touched on this story was because I always knew it would be the final entry.

As you know, I myself am a practicing adventurer. As I pen this foreword, I am planning the greatest challenge of my life. It is likely this book will be published in a world where I no longer exist. But as I prepare to venture into a dangerous and unexplored land, I must free myself from the anxieties of the future so I can place my life on the line.

This book must be published, for I firmly believe an adventurer's soul lives on through those who read their tales. In fact, I consider this to be the record of a soul that can only exist within adventurers. As such, I hope you read every word about this lofty man, and take his tale as deep into your heart as I have.

* * *

"Adventures are surprise and discovery. This is a universal truth — and why I cannot stop."

I guess you'd call that my catchphrase. At the very least, I've repeated the words so much I often feel a sense of exhaustion in them.

Why do I adventure? What is an adventure?

This is the answer I always give the rabble who do not understand adventuring — the ones who view me as a simple and shallow man:

"Surprise and discovery," I say. I have crossed the world and conquered unexplored lands in search of these things alone.

I have found deep lakes that slumber in the desert. I have traversed mountain ranges so tall they kiss the very sky. I could go on and on — my accomplishments are many, and I have ventured from the haunted depths of caves to the abyssal black of the sea. There is no adventurer who does not know my name.

But though I have no interest in over-the-top fame and nominal awards, I take some small pleasure from inspiring a younger generation.

On that day, I ventured into unseen lands. I sought the Shimmering Falls — a waterfall of legend whose rapids were said to flow the color of gold. But when I arrived at the place said to be its origin, I found not golden falls, but a golden city.

As I climbed a sheer cliff to get a better view of the captivating sight, I heard a scream below me. My gaze snapped down to see a younger man who had missed his footing and was dangerously close to tumbling o'er the cliff.

His youth had made him bold, but now his face was warped by fear. Sweat covered his body, brought on by the panic of his impeding fall. Were I to move on, his hand would eventually slip, plunging him into the unfathomable ravine.

An adventurer who dies by accident has only themselves to blame. I consider this a universal truth, yet felt ill at the prospect of leaving a valiant youngster to his imminent demise.

"Stay calm," I called to him. His attention immediately snapped to me, his eyes wavering with dangerous hope.

"Do not panic. I will come to you,"

He replied with a bite of his lip and a slight nod. Careful not to spook the young man with bits of falling rubble, I descended and extended a hand. I was met immediately by his own — one with a sense of desperation in the grip. The softness of his palm told me he did not yet know the full joy and pain that adventuring could offer.

The wind is cold, and dry enough to crack my skin.

Having reached out to the young man who was in danger of falling, I found a nearby ledge where the two of us could take our rest.

His face was stunned and bloodless; staring death in the face will do that to a man. Yet he made no word of acknowledgement. No word of thanks. In fact, he seemed to be willfully ignoring me — and after a minute of silence, he reached for the cliff in front of us once more.

How interesting.

More emotional weaklings might have taken offense, but the adventurer's spirit inside me appreciated his recklessness.

Encounters between people in unexplored lands are rare — and usually fleeting. Even if we forge a kind of friendship in that moment, we never know what happens to the other once we part ways. But I sensed great potential from the young man — so much, in fact, that I feel a burning desire to know where his life might take him. Still, an adventurer needs more than calm presence of mind; they must be willing to risk all if they are to open the way to new lands.

"Let me show you the secret to rock climbing," I said as I pushed past him. The boy, who had been disinterested only moments before, began to follow me in silence. I took that as a good sign; he had pride, true, but was also flexible enough to accept advice. Still, I saw annoyance on his face that he was in this situation, and found it almost charming.

I'd generally taken on new challenges alone; solitude was how I found my satisfaction. But this is a hard life, and sometimes a lonely one. Perhaps, deep down, I'd been searching for a kind of apprentice all my life. If I could teach what I knew to the young man — like pouring water from one vase to another — it might give greater significance to the rest of my accomplishments.

With that thought, I felt a new zeal for what little remained of my life.

I patiently taught the boy tricks to climbing. He absorbed them earnestly, and immediately began putting them into practice. Courage and skill? Yes, he was a rare find indeed. I wondered if I would even have anything to teach him by the time we made it up the mountain and down again.

Once he had a plethora of skills under his belt, we reached the top of the cliff and hauled ourselves over the edge — and what awaited us there was a sight more beautiful than my meager words can possibly describe:

The Golden Falls.

They shone with a brilliant light the color of treasure. It was intense enough as to blind a man if he stared at it for more than a few moments. But the boy cared not for the sight before him. Instead, he just looked around briefly before turning to me and asking a single question:

"So where's the gold?"

I burst out laughing before informing the boy there was no actual gold to be found here — the color of the falls came from how sunlight reflected off the water. He looked genuinely disappointed; he'd apparently heard a rumor that real gold had been buried at the source of the falls. After learning he couldn't reach them on his own, he'd been planning to split the treasure with me instead.

His greed made me burst out laughing again. But not in anger or disgust. Oh no. This was no chance meeting, you see — for greed is a lifeline to the survival instinct.

I knew then and there my instincts about the boy had been correct.

He gave me the evil eye as I guffawed, no bothering to hide his dissatisfaction. Then, sparing not even a single moment to appreciate the sight before him, he hurriedly turned to leave.

But I stopped him.

Few places within the entirety of nature are so grand as the Golden Falls, and the men who gain the chance to see them are even fewer. The true treasure there was not gold or wealth, but the view itself.

The boy scoffed when I told him as much, but his expression finally loosened just a bit.

"You're a real idiot, aren't you?" he said.

And he was right. Because I would do anything — anything — in the name of adventure.

Things took a bad turn in this part of my tale, and I found myself in a predicament more distressing than any I'd encountered in all my years of adventuring.

Years had passed since I traveled to the Golden Falls, and I now had my heart sent on conquering a jungle teeming with large serpents, deadly insects, and ferocious beasts. It had been easy going at first — so much so that I let my guard down. But the moment I did, I brushed up against some brambles and scratched the back of my hand, drawing a single bead of blood.

That faint smell was invitation enough.

The next thing I knew, I was face-to-face with a starving, ferocious tiger. It bore its fangs and claws, eyeing me like a hunk of meat on the dinner table. Then, as a chill ran up my spine, it leapt toward me with murder on its mind.

I could not block it. I could not even move.

Claws rent clothes and skin. Blood poured from wounds on my chest. Though it hit no vitals, the intense pain was enough to steal away all rational thought.

I should have run, you see. That would have been rational. Instead, I grabbed my weapon and readied for battle.

A single wounded person against a mighty tiger? It was absurd. I had a one in a million chance of victory, if even that. The thought of death passed through my mind like a chilly breeze in the early morning dawn, and I felt my eyes close in spite of myself.

To the tiger, this was an invitation; there is no easier prey than one who has surrendered, and the beast saw straight through my despair. Before I knew what was happening, it leapt upon me a second time.

If you're going to eat me, make it fast.

I thought those would be my last words before oblivion.
But no matter how long I waited for death, it never came.

I slowly opened my eyes and beheld the tiger lying on the ground, its life stolen away. Standing on the hillock above was the boy I'd met all those years ago on the cliff.

I was shocked. My mind reeled. It took agonizing seconds to recognize who he was, and even longer to realize he'd saved my life. The gallant young lad had ended the tiger in a skilled ambush, keeping me and my frozen resignation ever in the corner of his eye.

He was larger than I remembered — thicker and more stalwart. Countless ordeals had hardened him as a forge tempers iron, turning his once-weak body into the ideal physique of an adventurer. To be honest, I was more impressed by this than the fact he'd saved my life.

"We're even," he said curtly. Clearly he'd not forgotten the day I reached for him on the cliff. More to the point, he remembered it so well that he'd been searching for a chance to repay his debt for all of these many years, following me in my journeys while simultaneously honing both body and mind.

Perhaps some of you — perhaps many — would find such a thing unsettling. But all I saw was an earnest, focused lad who wanted to do what was right.

A great feeling of fondness for the boy passed through me in that moment, and before he could turn to leave, I mustered all my remaining energy to give him both my earnest thanks and my praise.

Sadly, these words only caused his cheeks to redden and his eyes to drop. It seemed as though he'd spent his entire life without ever receiving a word of thanks, and had no idea how to take mine.

Gods, but it was so like him.

I laughed then. I couldn't help it. I roared with laughter, and his expression quickly moved from shame to rage.

"I saved you!" he snapped. "Stop laughing!"

Of course, this only caused me to laugh all the more. And after a few moments, a smile slowly crossed his face.

From that point on, we traveled together at my request. It took a while to convince him; he was crabby, bashful, and reluctant to trust. But his fate was sealed the moment he started taking to me.

I knew that together, we would face ever more challenging and fascinating adventures. We would find surprises and make discoveries that set any previously untrodden areas to shame. We would find miracles not begotten by God, but created by us.

My life — and my future — was now filled with light.

The young man and I conquered numerous lands after that. Though his logical mind was a bit lacking at times, he was able to overcome even the worst of predicaments by way of his superior physical strength. And as I watched him grow into a strong and dependable companion, I found myself harboring more fondness for him than I ever expected.

Ah, but it's true. This proud woman finally fell in love.

The boy — no, a man now — seemed to favor me as well. He told me he'd suffered greatly after we'd parted ways at the Golden Falls, and couldn't dismiss my face from his mind. I wasn't sure how to respond to that — I've never been much for compliments, and my speech is hardly what you'd call elegant. Thankfully we each saw through the others' faults and pursed a relationship with single-minded stubbornness.

We eventually married, and soon thereafter were blessed with a child. To ready for the birth and my subsequent motherhood, I abandoned the adventuring life. But though I was no longer climbing mountains or tromping through woods, I somehow felt more adventurous than ever.

Adventure is wanderlust, you see. And to my great surprise being a mother satisfied that itch. I found that raising a child was a journey filled with more surprise and discovery than any I had ever before undertaken.

I am satisfied with my new life.

As I write these words, my husband is out on another adventure. While I wish he would spend more time at home, I gave up trying to convince him long ago. Whenever I ask, he what he always says to anyone who questions him:

"That's just how I am."

Oh, but he can be an infuriating man! And yet, I know the passion that drives him, so I always forgive him. I was the adventuring idiot who invited him on a journey and asked him to be my husband, after all. I was the one who changed his life.

And I must also be the one to send him off.

That's why I want to end my diary here. I want to enjoy the present instead of reminiscing endlessly about the past. My present is my future now, and it is filled with light. So together, my daughter, husband, and myself will venture down the crooked, wonderful path that is a life.

――AFTERWORD――

There's no adventurer I look up to more than my mother, so I modeled this record after her diary.

Mom's diary does indeed end there. Despite how much she complains about Dad being stubborn, she's the exact same — she never changes course once she's made up her mind.

People experience all sorts of meetings, but I believe my parents' union was inevitable — maybe even a kind of fate. Even so, I still find being the daughter mentioned in the diary to be a bit embarrassing.

But even though the diary ended where it did, there's more to the story. There's a second diary, you see. But it isn't very good, and the handwriting is so bad that it's almost impossible to read.

It's Dad's.

I inherited the habit of writing in diaries from both of my parents. And even as I write this afterword, I find my thoughts changing. I thought this would be the last chapter, but now I think I should write Dad's biography too — both for the sake of little brother, and for my parents. I mean, it's sad to think his story might never survive, right?

All right. It's decided. I'm going to write a sequel.

My next work won't be about an adventurer I look up to, but an adventurer who deserves love — the same love that pushed me to adventure myself. It might be a bit more slipshod than the work you just read, but I promise to make it enjoyable nonetheless.

And to do so, I will cross the threshold into that land.

Surprise and discovery.

I survive so I might keep these things alive.

So please. Wait for me.

So please. Pray for me.

Let's continue our adventure together.

Hee hee! Are we gossiping here? I hope you don't mind if I join in, because Mama has a juicy little morsel to share.

So when I went to check on that adventurer the other day, I found him moaning and groaning as he hung from a cliff by one hand. His arm is as thick as my entire body, and yet there it was, just slip, slip, slipping away!

Well, I was so shocked, I yelped in surprise! And I knew his record didn't end there, so it was all quite embarrassing, let me tell you....

Hmm? What happened next? Well, just as he was about to fall, I heard his wife yell. She was cradling their little girl and staring at him with THAT look, so I knew he was in real trouble. Then she demanded that he stop training and come play with his daughter!

Can you believe it? The man was just training! And right after she yelled at him, he switched hands and started humming to himself! I swear, some people...

Mother's Ballad

Sturdy scoundrels descend
from mountain peaks.

Screams startle from sleep.
Hide all the swaddled babes
in the house, quick quick.

I was born by the sea.
Raised on the blue.
If I stay on the mountain,
I'm naught but a cosset's dam.

Blustery snow.
Swelling courage.
All who protect, embrace rage.

They are coming, quick quick.

They are coming.

They are here.

All who protect, stand ready.

Father's Ballad

When home I drink. I brood.
I gaze out windows and wish
for cliff and ash and bone.

I thank mother earth.
How she battles for me.

I was born at the foot and
raised at the peak, and if
I descend I'm just another
worthless old man.

A lion's fate.

Unknown stars.

All who are valiant,
rise, rise to the zenith.

I must go quickly.

I must go now.

All who are valiant,
rise, rise to the sun.

How did you two meet?

In the mountains, naturally.
We met when I attacked him.

Sorry. You attacked him?

Yes. I was a bandit then. What, I don't look like it? I was abandoned by my parents at a young age, so I had to do what was necessary to survive. It was so easy to take things from climbers; they never think a woman could do them harm.

Was he one such climber?

Yep — and I don't think I worried him for a second, either. I approached while he was in the middle of a climb, pretending to be a frail little girl before trying to stab him, but it didn't work. He just sort of...slid out of the way.

Did he know how to fight?

Who knows? I had the same question, but he just laughed and said: "I fight mountains. Of course I can handle at least this much." He then said to me, "Quit banditry and try adventure instead!" ...Heh. He laughed, too. He had this big, infectious laugh, and it started me laughing as well. It's such a nice memory for me now.

Anyway, I stopped attacking climbers on the mountains after that, and we had two kids together. I'm really thankful for all he did.

I'm so glad you're happy. Thank you for your time.

Where did you meet him?

I ran an inn out of my house in the harbor, and he showed up one night looking for a room. He was so filthy, I could barely tell he was human at first.

You ran an inn?

Yes. It's closed now. There was a little island nearby that was impossible to access due to the tides, but various foolhardy folk kept showing up to try their hand at the challenge anyway. They kept me in the black for a few years, but then...

But then?

He reached the island. Can you believe it? Well, once that happened, the shine was off the whole idea, and our stream of adventuring guests dried up. I had no one to take over the business, so I just shut it down and walked away. Still can't believe someone like him pulled it off...

Did he leave a bad impression on you?
Oh, the worst. The worst! He came in covered in mud — the only thing you could see were these two beady little eyes shining in the dark. Like a child's. My brother and sister were adventurers, you see, and I recognized those eyes right away. I hate adventurers — the whole lot of them. To think we'd end up as family! I still can't believe my rotten luck.

Ha ha! Well, thank you for your time today.

So where did you two meet?

In the tavern where I worked. One of our more inebriated patrons was bothering me, so he stepped in to save me.

He saved you?

Oh yeah. He picked up the drunk with one hand and tossed his ass right out the door! I remember noticing how the muscles in his arms flexed, and also how he didn't seem phased by any of it. He just went back to his seat without a word and continued as before. It was... Well, it was hot, I guess. And gallant. I couldn't stop thinking about how wonderful he was, so I —

Um...

So I gave him a pint to thank him, and he threw it back in a single gulp. But he was already a few ales in, and that put him over the top. His went all red, then put his face down on the table and started to snore, so —

Hello?

So at that point, I thought about how wonderful and cute he was! He had a charm about him, you know? The kind of thing you wouldn't expect from looking at him, but that —

Excuse me! Sorry, but I think we're good here. Thank —

No! I'm not finished! I can talk about him all night!

Where did you meet Dad?
Hmm... I forget.

You're kidding.
Heh. I'll let you read my diary once you're older. It's all in there.

But I want to read it NOW!
We all want things, kiddo.

Okay, fine. Why did you marry Dad?
Oh, I think I treated it like a little adventure. I wanted to conquer someone who only ever thought about adventuring, you know? Your aunt didn't approve at all, but it's kind of exciting to have an obstacle to work through.

You sound like him.
Do I?

Are you happy you married him?
Of course I am. Because that's how I got to meet you.

Hee hee!