I know, dear historian reading this journal if it survives, what you're thinking. Learning to wield an axe has absolutely nothing to do with being a better person, or becoming heroic, or whatever it is this goal of mine should be classified as.
An axe and heroism have exactly one common factor, and I'm not him. Not really. Not enough. I'd say "not yet", but I can and will only ever be me.
But, as usual, I digress.
Honestly, given my build and the weapons I'm already proficient with, an axe doesn't even seem like it would suit me. It's better aligned with a more balanced frame--anything other than an Elezen, really, and yes, that includes Lalafell. Reviewing my form with pictures just makes me wonder how I don't fall over, even with such a small axe.
And yet...as awkward as it looks, it feels natural in my hands. Of course it does.
Feeling doesn't translate into skill, though, so it's boulder breaking and crab slaying time for me.
It's strange....until now, I've had only my memories and the gentle warmth he left to me. The scenery in Norvrandt, Mitron, Elidibus--nothing changed that. But picking up an axe, choosing this way of fighting....bits and pieces have started trickling in.
It feels like we're back in the Pendants, swapping travel stories again. Or rather, the times he'd get caught up in his own tale, all grins and gestures, and I could see the adventurer that worked so desperately to save Norvrandt.
But set the axe down, and the memories will stop--I know this instinctively. Just like a knock on my door or finally having to sleep would bring the fallen hero back--a somber soul trying to stay out of the way of the living. A ghost fidgeting at the edges of my vision, pretending he doesn't see or hear what's going on, because he can't really leave.
Ah...It really is the same, isn't it? Putting it like that...I left him alone for a long while. Sorry.
He's talking now, though, if this can be called talking.
Fragments seem to come back with every swing--dungeons, errands, powerful monsters--landscapes different or gone, but I understand. And the way he laughed between words in my room, trying to get through a comedy of revelry and mishaps--I know now, it's the same stifled laugh he had at the tavern with his friends back then.
He had a nice laugh--I miss it.
We didn't have enough time--
he didn't have enough time--and if this is the only way he can talk to me now, then I don't want to put this axe down.
But that's enough writing for now--I have a rock to chop and a crab to turn into stew somewhere.
