Every Little Memory

Entry #4: Aquamarine

I am standing beside a stream, my feet deep in the water. The water is a deep blue, pure and untainted by pollution. I have seen villages where the water is murky with trash and debris. Out here in the wilderness, the water is clear and fresh. How I wish I could feel the cool liquid against my skin. It is as if I am not here, the water passing through me as it flows. 

Trees surround me in every direction, the stream of water cutting through them. It seems to flow on for miles through these trees, on towards the ocean. Clouds cover the rays of the sun; perhaps it will rain soon. The light threatens to break through, to no avail.

I walk through the stream for a few moments, but then I happen upon a curious sight. The blue waters beside the bank are stained crimson, the color of blood. Alarmed, I step closer to investigate. The substance smells metallic and there is so much of it. It is definitely blood, but where is it coming from?

A trail of the fluid leaves the river and heads towards the trees. I follow this thin line of blood, concerned. Whoever it belongs to must be injured beyond belief. He or she must also have immense strength, to be able to carry themselves through the waters and into the forest.

I quicken my pace, dashing through trees and bushes, following the blood trail. Within moments I happen upon the injured. His wounds are so grotesque, I begin to feel nauseous. There is a deep wound in his stomach, blood staining his entire shirt crimson. There are gashes on his arms and legs, the fluid dripping from his limbs onto the grassy ground.

I identify him immediately as one of the Prologus, a race similar to the elves spoken of in stories. They live in grand ancient cities, absorbing information. These people can memorize things without struggle, their minds having infinite capacity. Thus, their society values knowledge above all else. They rarely leave their large cities, preferring to distance themselves from humans. So what is he doing here?

Pointed ears hide behind hair that is a strange color; mainly black, but it has a tinge to it that makes it appear dark blue. It is disheveled and dirty, framing a pale face. The expression it bears is not pained, but sorrowful. Tears stream from his beautiful violet eyes. In one hand he grips a rapier, the silver blade stained red. He is dragging it behind him, the metal scratching against the ground.

There is something familiar about this man. I think I remember him from my old home, when I used to live on the plains with my clan. People from the neighboring village would often come listen to our music. Yes, I remember. He would always listen when we played, sitting as close as possible to hear everything. I remember finding it strange that a Prologus would come all the way out here to listen to humans perform. He always left before I could speak with him and I never learned anything about him. Even his name. I never saw him again after what happened to my people.

He sticks his blade in the grass and falls to the ground, landing on his rear. He pulls his knees up to his chest, and rests his head on them, shaking as he sobs. What has caused him so much misery, to make him ignore his wounds, only focusing on his sorrow? This poor, poor man…

I am pushed out of the memory against my will. I feel a great sadness, and a strong desire to end this man's sorrow.…