Where once she stood
Her gritty hair flowing in the cool wind, her dark eyes squinting with focus, her sharp teeth peering out from a malicious grin, she stood firm upon this rock. Her armour was dented and used, gritty but ornate, and she held the sword of legend itself, a blade fated to fall into the hands of none other than she who would unite the warring kingdoms. She bore an uncanny resemblance to rulers of the past, spoke words belonging to ancient poets, and inspired men and women alike with an almost religious devotion.
They say, upon this rock, she gave a speech greater than any prior. They say it was enough to turn the tide of the war in her favour... and they aren't exaggerating. I read about the battle that followed. Her men threw themselves into danger, with reckless abandon. An eyewitness account details how they ran into spears, almost on purpose, just to startle their opponents. Countless lives were lost, as she watched from on high with a proud smirk. Her plans were always unorthodox, always impractical, always... dark. After hours of fighting and dying, she finally joined the fray, stepping over her dead soldiers to reach the enemy's front gate... Despite the death, they had made no progress. None at all.
In all the firsthand scripts and accounts I've read, this is where the story seems to end... Her approach causes something, but no one can say what, and older folk don't seem to remember... or perhaps fear remembering? Either way, the truth is unchanged. I may come to this rock and analyse where once her feet were planted, where once she set in motion a new destiny for all of our kingdoms, but I can never undo what was done, and I can never scrub her face from every banner in the land.
It's just... I can't shake the feeling. When I see that smirk of hers on her statues or her paintings, something inside of me screams. Everyone I've met on my travels has had something similar to say from their meetings with her, too.
Last year, during the annual festival celebrating her conquest, I travelled to her hometown in search of answers. It was a useful excuse to slip away from the noise. When I arrived, the villagers seemed thrilled to see a traveller. They held my hands, each of them, and stared at me for a while. I... wasn't sure what to make of it, but had no reason to turn them away. We dined together, spoke of ordinary things, and I helped a little around the place, before revealing the true nature of my visit which, interestingly, seemed to cause a sudden stirring among them. They insisted on some discussion first, which I obliged, but eventually came to me with openness and, seemingly, a slight desperation to help.
They all had stories to tell of the heroine, of her childhood and her ways, and most were mundane or cliché - initially. Then, when I asked about her family, the villagers begrudgingly took me to a set of 3 humble headstones: her parents and her twin sister. There were no records of any twin sister, not in any writing or tale. I was intrigued, and asked the group for information, but they were sheepish. Something held them back, as it seemed to have held them back in the past... but I insisted. I was so close to satisfaction, so close to release. I pressed the oldest of the group, certain that he had the answer hidden in his eyes. He stuttered as I leered, his tongue held and his eyes watering. He managed to speak, but slowly and carefully, skipping words here and there.
The twins, Lorelei (who I knew well) and her sister Philia, had been raised by almost everyone in town, not just their parents. For every significant moment of their childhood, at least a few people had been watching and cheering. When they both learned to fence, battling in the courtyard, all had seen. When they both travelled to a nearby cave, known to hold the sword of legend within a stone, all had seen. When Lorelei had failed to pull it, all had seen. When Philia had succeeded... Lorelei sent them all away, and returned alone, blade in hand...