I never liked swords, anyways. But it isn't so bad being one as you might think.
A long time ago, a very, very long time ago, I was alive. I had just reached my eighteenth year, and I was to be married to a noble and good man, a great fighter and protector of our village. I was happy then, even if most of my time was spent cleaning and sewing and cooking. I lived with my parents, I remember, in a little house in the village.
One day, raiders attacked. There was no warning. We were a small, peaceful community, and the unexpected onslaught was nearly unresisted. I did not even know it was happening until a man in armor burst through the door with a yell, brandishing a sword. I screamed and backed away, and my parents were saying something. I never quite heard, though, because that was when the sword ripped into my breast. I had a vague sensation of falling, and I remember hearing the voice of my betrothed shouting. Then there was blackness.
I laid in the darkness for a long time, I knew not how long. For an eternity there was no sense, or feeling, except a tingle where I had been stabbed. But then I felt as if I were being pulled by a cold wind, drawn on and on through the darkness, and then...
My eye opened.
I was resting on the ground, my red scarf wrapped around a scabbard. I was pinned down by a charred timber, and everything was dim. Only a small bit of light showed through a gap up above, but it was enough to see my surroundings. It was my old home, but burned and scarred almost beyond all recognition. Everything was ashes and ruin. And then I saw it. Though the cloth was rotted by long ages and burned away by fire, I still recognized it. And I knew who was wearing it. It was me. I wasn't really me anymore, though. And that body wasn't me, either. What was I now?
I looked over and saw the red cloth scarf, dirty with ash but untouched by flames, and let go of the scabbard. I needed to get out from under this wooden beam. I grabbed at the nearest stone, not even thinking about the fact that I was using a cloth as a prehensile limb, subject to my mental commands. It was as natural as blinking. My cloth wrapped around the stone, but it wasn't connected to anything. I dropped it and gripped at a different piece of burned wood, which must have fallen from the ceiling. I tugged, and I felt myself begin to come loose. I pulled again, and there was a scraping sound, metal on stone. Then there was a groan of creaking wood, protesting at the shift of weight. I ignored it, gave one last effort, and pulled myself free. Something fell nearby. Without a thought, I instinctively grabbed my scabbard and floated upwards toward the hole where the light was coming in. I just wanted to get out. I reached the small opening to the light, and something else fell with a dull boom and a puff of ash as I passed through. And then I was in the full daylight.
The light of the sun poured down, warming the long grasses and reflecting with painful brilliance from the surface of a nearby lake. There were rolling hills, and scattered trees, and I could see many Pokemon going about their business. The landscape was familiar, yet so strange. That lake had been a mere pool, and those hills had been much higher and steeper. And... all the houses were gone. Not gone entirely, for I could see faint signs of them here and there, sticking up from the ground. But I was beginning to put things together. There had been many signs of a fire in my home, and I had been killed by a warrior with a sword. I figured out that it hadn't been just myself who was attacked. My whole village must have been pillaged and burned, and now it was buried. Perhaps those hills had eroded and flattened out the land, burying the ruins.
But that didn't matter to me. Nothing did. I was a lost spirit, trapped in a time and place where I did not belong, with no purpose or desire. I did not need to eat or drink now, and I had no desire to approach any of the Pokemon I saw. Some ran away from me, some bristled and warned me away from their territory. I didn't care which happened, I just floated on, searching for something, with no knowledge of what that thing was.
A long time ago, a very, very long time ago, I was alive. I had just reached my eighteenth year, and I was to be married to a noble and good man, a great fighter and protector of our village. I was happy then, even if most of my time was spent cleaning and sewing and cooking. I lived with my parents, I remember, in a little house in the village.
One day, raiders attacked. There was no warning. We were a small, peaceful community, and the unexpected onslaught was nearly unresisted. I did not even know it was happening until a man in armor burst through the door with a yell, brandishing a sword. I screamed and backed away, and my parents were saying something. I never quite heard, though, because that was when the sword ripped into my breast. I had a vague sensation of falling, and I remember hearing the voice of my betrothed shouting. Then there was blackness.
I laid in the darkness for a long time, I knew not how long. For an eternity there was no sense, or feeling, except a tingle where I had been stabbed. But then I felt as if I were being pulled by a cold wind, drawn on and on through the darkness, and then...
My eye opened.
I was resting on the ground, my red scarf wrapped around a scabbard. I was pinned down by a charred timber, and everything was dim. Only a small bit of light showed through a gap up above, but it was enough to see my surroundings. It was my old home, but burned and scarred almost beyond all recognition. Everything was ashes and ruin. And then I saw it. Though the cloth was rotted by long ages and burned away by fire, I still recognized it. And I knew who was wearing it. It was me. I wasn't really me anymore, though. And that body wasn't me, either. What was I now?
I looked over and saw the red cloth scarf, dirty with ash but untouched by flames, and let go of the scabbard. I needed to get out from under this wooden beam. I grabbed at the nearest stone, not even thinking about the fact that I was using a cloth as a prehensile limb, subject to my mental commands. It was as natural as blinking. My cloth wrapped around the stone, but it wasn't connected to anything. I dropped it and gripped at a different piece of burned wood, which must have fallen from the ceiling. I tugged, and I felt myself begin to come loose. I pulled again, and there was a scraping sound, metal on stone. Then there was a groan of creaking wood, protesting at the shift of weight. I ignored it, gave one last effort, and pulled myself free. Something fell nearby. Without a thought, I instinctively grabbed my scabbard and floated upwards toward the hole where the light was coming in. I just wanted to get out. I reached the small opening to the light, and something else fell with a dull boom and a puff of ash as I passed through. And then I was in the full daylight.
The light of the sun poured down, warming the long grasses and reflecting with painful brilliance from the surface of a nearby lake. There were rolling hills, and scattered trees, and I could see many Pokemon going about their business. The landscape was familiar, yet so strange. That lake had been a mere pool, and those hills had been much higher and steeper. And... all the houses were gone. Not gone entirely, for I could see faint signs of them here and there, sticking up from the ground. But I was beginning to put things together. There had been many signs of a fire in my home, and I had been killed by a warrior with a sword. I figured out that it hadn't been just myself who was attacked. My whole village must have been pillaged and burned, and now it was buried. Perhaps those hills had eroded and flattened out the land, burying the ruins.
But that didn't matter to me. Nothing did. I was a lost spirit, trapped in a time and place where I did not belong, with no purpose or desire. I did not need to eat or drink now, and I had no desire to approach any of the Pokemon I saw. Some ran away from me, some bristled and warned me away from their territory. I didn't care which happened, I just floated on, searching for something, with no knowledge of what that thing was.