A Cracked Frame

[ShiroKirishiki]

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The blackened skies wept—no, they bled.

The clouds peeled away during an accursed rite.

The rain stained crimson covered the dead.

Until, at last...we saw Her light.

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The world, to me, is black and white.
Shades of grey, at times, but otherwise boring and dull.
The only color I can see, is red.

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It’s why I pick up every Sinka I see.

It’s why I stare at each cut I make.

It’s why Veinrend and the Veil are so beautiful.

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For the first time, I saw the sky. I saw rain.

I saw the city that I had helped nurture and curate, for the first time.

The people, the buildings, the streets…

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I could finally see them, once they were adorned in Red.

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The rite was a success.

She saw us. She heard us. She spoke to us.

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The blood flowed in silence so loud it echoed, screams raised so high that they fell silent. The silence that it ended with was blissful. It was as if the entirety of Meranthe finally stood still and recognized Her Grace as what She truly was—undeniable beauty.

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The Martyr moved. With Her divine power, he moved. He doesn’t breathe like he used to.. But how he was always meant to. Potent, titanic, undeniable. Everything is with purpose, every movement has meaning. He has become more than a monument to sacrifice—he’s become a monument to our devotion.

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They came soon after, naturally.

The Just. The Righteous. The Heroes.

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An Angel of Kraus followed, looking to stop us. Yet, we did not. We stood our ground.

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I found their leader in the chaos. He stood out like a shape of white against a field of black. A shining beacon of ignorance and misplaced fervor. It was a strange dance. Every cut, he erased in short order and I would do the same. It was as if he would deny me a canvas to shape, defiant and steadfast. Perhaps it was his beliefs that gave him that determination. His own faith.

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So alike, yet we clashed. In the end, my Shades were the deciding factor. The Veil, Veinrend, Vult…
Her light, Her gaze was on me. I could not fail.

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And so I didn’t.

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Another came after, a mimic that Zho once knew. A beautiful thing, with faux eyes that were more genuine than many of Meranthe’s. She could be any shape, but she chose the wrong one. It was tragic, such wasted potential. I gave her a gift, a reminder of what she could be. Maybe she liked it—maybe she’ll hate it so much it will correct her anyway. 

I can’t wait to see.

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When their patriarch was vanquished with mercy, they decried us. When we stood triumphant, they called us villains. Humanity has declared us the enemy, and I could only smile.

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The Martyr told me I did well, that Her Grace was proud of me.

It was the first time I cried since Katsuya’s death.

I’d almost forgotten what it meant to be truly at peace.

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I was wounded in the war. Nothing that cannot be mended, but my flesh will never forget them.
These cuts, the blood shed, they whispered to me. They called Her name as I lay awake in bed that night. It is as if Her eyes are still on me, even now.

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It’s a heavenly feeling. Otherworldly.

This is what it means.

This is what I always look for.

Wounds that sing as they bleed.

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Yet, something has changed. The stories I heard of Mydaea, and what I heard from Her calls, differ. She seeks to bleed all of mankind, not for expression but for annihilation. I tremble to think that the feeling in my heart is what I think it is. Doubt in Her goals is something that I didn’t expect to feel. It concerns me. It makes me wonder.

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Are there exceptions? What is the step beyond blackening the canvas?
Will I have to end my family, myself, once we succeed?

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I don’t know…so I will have to ask.

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Who? It’s simple.

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The Angel of Art,

My Lady,

Her Grace.

I will ask Her myself.