Crimson acceptance

Songtekst

From the Journal of Vyrn, the Crimson Shadow I returned to the forest tonight. I tell myself it is because I needed answers. That there are traces of the rift still buried beneath the roots. That perhaps the gods left behind some wound I can carve open and study. But that is a lie. I came because I missed her. The forest knows it when I arrive. The crimson leaves fall quieter around me, and the wind slows as though it fears disturbing the dead. Even the creatures here do not approach anymore. They watch from the dark and lower their heads as I pass, as if they understand this place belongs to grief. I hate that. I hate that the world continues trying to make legends from our suffering. There are candles at the shrine now. Offerings. Prayers tied to branches with red string. Travelers kneel where she died and whisper wishes into the roots, believing the forest listens. Perhaps it does. Sometimes I think the trees breathe when no wind moves them. Sometimes I think I hear footsteps behind me that vanish the moment I turn. Tonight, I heard her laugh. Not truly. Not fully. Just enough to make my heart forget reality for one impossible second. I froze. The sound came from deeper within the grove, soft as falling snow. I followed it without thinking, like a starving man chasing the smell of bread. Pathetic. After all these centuries, after all the blood on my hands, I am still weak when it comes to her. But there was nothing there. Only the old pond behind the shrine. The water has changed since her death. It reflects things incorrectly now. The moon appears too large. Shadows move before their owners do. Once, I saw my own reflection staring back at me with crimson eyes before I had even approached the shore. Tonight, the water showed me her. Ren stood upon the surface as though the pond were solid glass. White robes drifting without wind. Hands folded gently before her. Smiling. Gods, I wanted to believe it. I almost stepped forward. But I know better than to trust gifts from broken places. The Spiritstream here is wounded. Fractured. Memories leak into it like blood into water. Perhaps it was only an echo. Or perhaps the forest remembers her so desperately that it tries to recreate her from scraps. Crueler things have happened. Still… I spoke to the reflection. I asked her why she left me. The moment the words touched the air, I regretted them. Because she did not leave. That is the part my anger keeps trying to rewrite. She stayed. She stood between me and the end of the world while I slept peacefully beside her like a fool pretending he deserved happiness. She walked alone into horror knowing exactly what it would cost her. And I was not there. The reflection smiled sadly, and for one terrible moment I thought it might answer. Instead, the pond began to ripple. The image twisted. Her face became something else. Not Ren. Him. Kairoz’Veth. Even now, writing the name makes the candle beside me flicker. His eyes stared at me from the water, endless and starving. Behind him I saw the rift again, tearing through the heavens like claws through flesh. I heard those screams. The ones that did not sound mortal. The ones I still hear when I try to sleep. Then the voice came. Not through the air. Through me. > You burn everything you touch. The pond froze solid instantly. Crimson ice spread across the surface, cracking beneath my feet. The entire forest went silent. No insects. No wind. Nothing. I reached for my blades before I realized my hands were shaking. Shaking. I do not tremble. Not from gods. Not from monsters. Not from death. But his voice… it carried something ancient inside it. Not power. Not hatred. Recognition. As though the thing beyond the rift knew me long before I ever learned its name. I destroyed the pond after that. Cowardice, perhaps. Or instinct. The water exploded beneath my magic, and half the grove burned before the flames finally died. Even now, smoke clings to my clothes. The trees will heal by morning. This forest always heals. I do not. That is the cruel difference between nature and men. I keep wondering if this is how the gods win. Not through war. Not through power. But through erosion. One grief at a time. One memory at a time. Until eventually there is nothing left of you except the shape of the wound. I cannot allow that. If I forget her voice, then the gods have taken everything. So I will continue writing. Even if these pages outlive me. Even if no one ever reads them. Even if every word feels like reopening the same blade wound beneath my ribs. Because somewhere beneath the sorrow, beneath the rage, beneath the thing I have become… there was once a man who loved her gently. And I think I owe it to him not to forget.