written by A. E. Stover
this version is self-edited

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Why is it
that those who seek freedom
take flight?

What can you do
from so far above,
from so far away?

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Shake the skies.

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It was many years ago that I came into being. I was born into a desolate world, where nothing seemed to matter. My existence, my future; all these things had already ended when I came…

Or so I had said to my keeper upon meeting him.

To be honest, I don’t remember when I came to be. It feels as though I had always been.

I do remember that I had outlived many keepers, all too many to count. There were men, and I recall some women too; both young and old. I’ve had children, and I’ve seen them grow old; their human skins leathery and wrinkled. I’ve seen many turn to dust, some even at my own hands…

This one is like many I’ve had before, perhaps the best. An excellent swordsman and strategist with quick reflexes and a sharp eye. It’s quite unfortunate that his mind is frequently occupied with thoughts of that fool’s keeper. If he gave as much focus on his training as he did on that woman, maybe he could…

Perhaps that is asking too much of him too soon. From what I understand, she is the only thing of his past life that remains. The moment he was reborn to wield me, the life he’d lived began to rot around him, making way for a new heartbeat, a new breath, a new world.

I would imagine that being given a new life would be more liberating than restrictive, but this one didn’t seem to understand this as well as my previous partners. He seeks acceptance from a world that can not accept him, and is eager to please those who will never be pleased. I can feel his childish notions fading slowly, but it is not with the kind of maturity I had expected of him. He remains shattered and disillusioned, submitting to his new life with an unwilling heart.

For the record, I wish to express the irony of the fact that the one person most competent to wield me is unwilling to do so, and unwilling to accept the benefits of doing so. This has never happened before. I have never been in unwilling hands. Though we are in sync, though we are connected, we are not whole. There is a barrier of which I am unable to pass through, a barrier through which our connection is thinning.

It is a rejection of the heart, the rejecting will of the wielder, which I cannot overcome. In time, we will go our separate ways. This bond will one day shatter, and he will no longer be responsible for shouldering the burden that comes with carrying Murciélago. It would be my greatest joy to grant him the freedom he so desires.

Until then, I will do my best to ensure that he lives to that day.

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