Aerugo [District One]

...Aerugo... -- eighteen -- District One

Sometimes, when you question one aspect of your life, it becomes easy for the rest to fall out of place. You take a steadying breath one day after three years of worry to say don't call me that anymore, and a month or a year later you look at your life—the fighting games, the secondhand dreams—and wonder what you're doing. You break everything down to basics and relearn what matters to you.

Your parents mind the fuss about your wardrobe and name less than they mind that you spend more time now with a fragile memoir in your hands than a spear. They only want the best for you, but they don't understand and you don't know how to explain that you've outgrown agreeing with them about what that means. Training taught you to be steadfast and resilient, and you'll never regret your career years, but you're learning to combine that with gentleness now. Learning to turn ancient pages too softly to tear, to see the world for what it is instead of for what you can use.

Tracing the aerugo over what once they meant to destroy, shrouded by the city, rendered beautiful by an aeon in the mist. Change matters, even when it looks like damage. Protecting things while they become what they are meant to be matters. Glory does not.

You're learning how to wear jewelry, too. That's fun. So, though you'll admit that sometimes you miss the competition, is having companions instead of only rivals.

Everything has its place. You used to think you knew what yours was, but you laid those bricks wrong and were left exposed and anxious when they crumbled. This time, bolstered by the rustle of pages and voices echoing in the old catacombs, you think you're getting it right.