Pricking Flowers

  One.

  Wordlessly, they fall.

  Two.

  A hand releases. The gold quivers.

  Three.

  It glides, slicing straight through them, out the back.

  Four.

  This one has resistance, but with a bit more pressure it gives in.

  Five.

  She can’t help but notice that this one looks slightly younger. Middle-aged, maybe. Is that pressure she’s applying?

  Six.

  The next changes her a bit, but only a bit. The pressure feels different, almost like it’s pushing back. Like it’s resisting. It doesn’t feel good.

  Seven.

  Of course—she just needed to use her anima, that was the key. This one, they looked sad. Their lips were tight, and they were shaking. Maybe it was from the pressure, maybe it was because they were in pain. It was difficult. She felt uncomfortable.

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  Eight.

  An idea came to her—what if she relinquished their pain? No pressure. No resistance. Gliding, slicing straight through. Wordlessly, they’d fall again. They wouldn’t feel a thing—they didn’t need to—so why did she need to? That was what they all needed, after all. All she needed was some anima. She had plenty. She had Nate’s potion.

  Nine.

  Was that it? Was that all that needed to be done? Was her purpose fulfilled? Was that right? That couldn’t be right. The uncomfortable feeling was still in her chest, beating, beating, beating. What happened to the sad one, the middle-aged one? The one with long hair, the one with none? Did she get a good look at them before they fell? She hadn’t looked them in the eyes. See herself. She couldn’t see herself in them. It was too late now, after the deed had been done. Next time.

  Ten?

  There is no ten. There is only her, standing in a field of fallen Ancients, her golden blade a shimmering red mirroring the floor underneath her feet. It’s all over the rocks, all over the weeds, all over the grass peeking through. Her anima feels sapped, and her blade feels heavier. It bears the weight of the world in that moment: nine—no, ten sins. That was the cost of listening to the Earth Mother, of picking up the blade, of accepting it with open palms. It was inexorable, it was fate, it was destiny. It could have been called by any other name, and yet she still would not have been able to escape it. She had made a choice. She was starting down a path that would bring the world as she knew it to an end. It was by her hand. The end. It was there that peace was. When the world was rid of all its sins, all its love, returned to the dead land. Only then would it flourish, renew. Only then would flowers grow, bloom in brilliant shades of pink that could only be dreamt of. The end of all things. That was where it was. That was where she needed to go.

  That’s right. That was who the last person was all along.

  Ten.