THERE IS A TREMBLE in my hands that has never been there before. Each step taken feels as if I am on a path of knives, piercing my feet as I force the trek onwards. The shadow I follow is impatient, but still keeps pace with me as I stagger against a tree, fall against a mound of earth. The trident does not bring comfort against my back; it is a burden, forcing my shoulders, my back, my head, closer to the ground. My wounds have begun weaving themselves shut, but I can still feel the bite of each strike against my body, my navy ichor trickling out, staining my skin, the ground - what a waste, I think to myself, head bowed in shame. The chain of my left shackle drags along the ground, a metal snake forced to make the journey with me. The lock was stuck, and I was not going to waste time forcing it open in case my captors had returned.

The relief of the fountain water within my throat has long since dried; exposed to the open air, my wounds feel cool, but my voice remains barren, unable to voice a word. My lips are cracked, barely refusing to mouth any phrase, much less the creed I created to keep myself sane.

I nearly stumble into the shadow when it pauses, and I can barely register its touch against my chest. It motions towards the sky, and I slowly lift my eyes to see that peak, poking into the stars. Yet, the relief I yearned for does not come. I try to turn my head back to the path we have trekked thus far, and the woods have long since shrouded the way. The motion itself shoots a pain within my neck, and my gills - or whatever's left of them - crack.

The shadow lifts something to my lips, tilting the flask up. Water trickles down my chin, and I feel the shadow against my chin, forcing my mouth open further to allow the water to trickle into my throat. It seems as if the water clears my gaze for a moment, and the shadow inspects me closely. She nods, and motions forward. The walk continues.

As we continue walking, the shadows in the corner of my eyes begin to dance once more, consuming my vision until I can just hear the dull crunch of the leaves, the grass, beneath my pierced feet. There's a rustle above us - perhaps a bird. Its wings have not been clipped. How lucky.

My heart, my mind - they are working in tandem to ensure I make one step after another, as to not become a burden to the shadow who seems to have been tasked to walk this road ahead of me. But in keeping me alive, they struggle in keeping me focused. A word from the shadow sends me reeling; a slight brush of wind overwhelms me, reminiscent of a breath upon my neck, a touch upon my face. I fall to my knees - I palm the bark of a tree - anything to ground me, to remind me that they are not real. 

Unable to lift my voice and wail, warble, weep - the melody has now grown faint in the back of my mind; that song of care, of comfort, now barely a whisper. I wish I could just draw it out, that singular lifeline of compassion, hope, now simply out of my grasp. In my mind’s eye, I see it there, limp on the ground, and I am unable to reach out and grasp it.

Centuries pass until the shadows of my sight become spread apart by city lights; the town is awake, breathing, despite the early hours we - I seem to have arrived in. The shadow that shepherded me here is long gone; The ocean is much, much smaller than I remember, until I register it is a lake. My knees surely bruise further despite landing in soft, warm sand. 

I cannot make out my reflection - it seems that my eyes spill out beyond my face, simply just an outpouring of water. Faceless. Nameless. As I lower onto the sandy ground, my eyes begin to close - there is an odd twitch in my face as I feel my shoulders finally relax in the summer air. Am I - am I smiling?

I briefly close my eyes, and my heart and mind finally find rest from the trial of keeping me moving. My right hand reaches for the lake water, and it sends a chill through me; a quiet, painful reminder that I am still here. Somehow.

The faces that anchored me to the living, that haunted me to join them in death - they inspire little within me, now. Perhaps they were not an anchor, but I was a tether - leashing them from going forward, from moving freely. I imagine myself shaking my head to correct myself - no, they now inspire grief within me. And, if I were to be vain, perhaps I inspired a twinge of sorrow within them.

It aches to turn onto my back, but when I open my eyes up to the sky, I can see the sky sprawl out before me. And then, almost in a rush, it is falling, and I brace myself for impact, eyes closing -

I fall into a mindless sleep.

IC