Chapter 15 Interlude – The Queen of Blades Remembered(Or: The Day Ulrika Vincent Finally Let Herself Mourn the Woman She Had Been)

Chapter 15 Interlude – The Queen of Blades Remembered(Or: The Day Ulrika Vincent Finally Let Herself Mourn the Woman She Had Been)
The rain fell, a soft, persistent rhythm against the glass of the art studio, a gentle percussion that seemed to wash the world clean. For weeks, this room had been a sanctuary of forced normalcy, a fortress built of soft yarns and delicate brushstrokes. Ulrika Vincent had filled it with the products of her mother’s campaign for domesticity: stacks of normal scarves, quilts with geometric patterns that were just a little too perfect, paper hearts that were cut with a precision that spoke of a life spent wielding blades, and bowls thrown on a wheel with a balance that defied the laws of physics. There were paintings of flowers, so vibrant and detailed they seemed to hum with life, and one portrait of a young man named Aric, whose eyes she had captured with an intimacy she pretended wasn’t her favorite.
And in the corner, propped against a stack of books, was Steve. The emotional support cosmic horror plushie, a tangle of soft tentacles and too-many eyes, was respectfully quiet, its button gaze fixed on the window as if watching the rain.
Ulrika sat on the floor, surrounded by this quiet, domestic abundance. She stared at a blank canvas, the biggest one she owned. It was a vast, empty space, a white void that seemed to absorb the soft, grey light of the afternoon. Her hands, which had been so busy, so productive, felt… heavy. A strange, unfamiliar weight that had nothing to do with muscle or bone.
A soft voice lingered nearby—not mechanical, not distant, but present. A voice that had been her companion, her confidant, her silent witness through the chaos and the calm.
“Your breathing is steady,” it said gently, a quiet observation in the stillness of the room. “But you’re quieter than usual.”
“…I know.”
She hugged her knees, pulling them close to her chest, a gesture of self-comfort that was both vulnerable and childlike. The scent of rain and turpentine filled the air.
“…I miss her.”
The voice didn’t ask who. It already understood. It had always understood.
Phase Two — The Thought She Had Been Avoiding
Ulrika whispered, the words a fragile, broken thing in the quiet room.
“…I never painted me.”
A pause. A patient, waiting silence.
“Clarify.”
“…Not Ulrika. Rika.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt, the soft wool a strange, grounding sensation. “I keep painting things that make me feel safe. Flowers. Aric. A garden. But I never… let myself remember who I was.”
Silence settled—not empty, but patient. A space held open for her to fill.
“…You’ve been avoiding it,” the voice said quietly, a statement of fact, not an accusation.
“…Yeah.”
She swallowed, the lump in her throat a hard, painful thing. “…I think I’m ready now.”
Another pause. Then, softer:
“…Then take your time. I’ll stay.”
Phase Three — Preparing the Canvas(Ritual Without Magic)
Ulrika stood slowly, her movements deliberate, almost ceremonial. She walked to the corner of the room, her eyes fixed on the large, blank canvas that leaned against the wall. She chose her biggest canvas. Not enchanted. Not glowing. Not fate-touched. Just… canvas. A simple, unassuming thing that was about to become a vessel for a lifetime of pain and pride.
She went to the sink, her hands moving with a practiced, methodical grace. She washed her brushes. Carefully. Methodically. The bristles softened under the warm water, the pigments swirling down the drain in a kaleidoscope of color. It was a simple, mundane task, a moment of quiet preparation before the storm.
She laid out her paints on a clean wooden palette, a rainbow of bottled emotions. Deep crimson, the color of blood and fury. Burnished gold, the color of medals and memories. Steel gray, the color of armor and resolve. Midnight black, the color of the void and the end. Ash purple, the color of a poisoned sky. Blood red, the color of sacrifice. Soft silver, the color of moonlight on a blade. Faded blue, the color of a uniform she would never wear again.
Her hands shook. A fine, almost imperceptible tremor that was a betrayal of her calm, composed exterior. She pressed them flat against the table, the cool, smooth wood a grounding force against the rising tide of emotion.
“…Don’t run.”
No answer came—only quiet presence.
Phase Four — The First Stroke(The Past Bleeds Through)
She dipped her brush into the black. The bristles, heavy with pigment, touched the canvas. A single, decisive stroke. She drew a silhouette. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Battle-worn. Her old stance. Her old balance. Her old posture. The posture of a soldier who had spent a lifetime carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Her breath hitched, a sharp, painful intake of air.
“…That’s my frame.”
She added armor. Segmented plates. Scratched steel. Burn marks. Every dent exactly where she remembered. A deep gouge on the left pauldron, a memento from a close encounter with a mutant warbeast. A series of smaller, pockmarked scars on the chest plate, the result of a shrapnel blast. A long, deep scratch along the back, a souvenir from a desperate retreat.
Her jaw tightened. “…I never fixed that dent.”
“You never had the chance,” the voice replied softly.
Her brush moved faster, a blur of motion as she lost herself in the memory. She painted her sword. Long. Elegant. Brutal. Its edge shimmered silver, a deadly promise. Its core glowed faint blue, the tell-tale sign of an energy-infused blade. The Queen of Blades’ signature weapon. Her fingers went numb, the phantom sensation of the hilt in her hand so real it was a physical ache.
“…I named you after my squad.”
Paint splattered. A drop of black, a stray tear of memory, fell onto the canvas. She didn’t correct it.
Phase Five — The Face(Where She Almost Stopped)
She stared at the blank space where the face should be. A pale, empty void that was more intimidating than any battlefield. Her breathing went shallow, the air catching in her throat.
“…I don’t know if I remember what I looked like.”
A quiet answer, a gentle, reassuring presence. “You do.”
She closed her eyes. And remembered.
Scars:
One across her eyebrow, a thin, white line from a training accident.
One along her jaw, a jagged, ugly thing from a knife fight in a back alley.
One through her collarbone, a deep, pitted scar from a bullet that had nearly killed her.
One on her knuckles, a series of small, calloused reminders of a thousand punches.
One along her ribs, a long, sweeping mark from a beast’s claw.
Her eyes:Sharp. Tired. Burning with a fury that could level cities and a love that could save them.
Her hair:Short. Wind-tangled. Streaked with ash.
Her expression:Not cruel. Not kind. Just… determined. A look of someone who had seen the worst the world had to offer and had refused to break.
She painted it. Slowly. Painstakingly. Her vision blurred, the world dissolving into a watery haze. Tears dripped onto the canvas. She didn’t wipe them away. She let them mix with the paint, a salty, sorrowful pigment that was a part of her.
“…I look so tired.”
“…You were,” the voice whispered.
Phase Six — The Battlefield(She Lets It In)
She added the background. A world on fire. Burning buildings, their skeletal frames silhouetted against a purple, poisoned sky. Ash drifting like snow, a soft, silent blanket over a world in agony. Mutated beasts in the distance, their monstrous forms a shadowy threat on the horizon. Broken shuttles, their metal carcasses scattered like discarded toys. Fallen soldiers, their bodies a testament to the cost of war.
Her squad:
Jax — smiling even while bleeding, his face a mask of defiant humor.
Mira — shielding a child, her body a living shield against the chaos.
Sol — firing his last round, his expression a mixture of fear and resolve.
Tamsin — laughing at death, her spirit unbroken even in the face of the end.
Kade — holding the evac beacon, his light a symbol of hope in the darkness.
She painted them. Every face. Every wound. Every expression. A gallery of ghosts, a memorial to a family she had lost.
Her hands shook violently now, a tremor that was so strong she could barely hold the brush. Her breath broke, a ragged, painful gasp.
“…I left them.”
“You stayed until the last shuttle launched.”
“…I should have gone with them.”
“You wouldn’t have let youself be selfish.”
Her brush slipped. Paint streaked across Jax’s face, a smear of red that looked like blood. She dropped it. The brush clattered to the floor, a loud, jarring sound in the quiet room.
She collapsed to her knees. And finally—She screamed. A raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated grief, a scream that was torn from the depths of her soul, a release of a lifetime of pain and loss.
Phase Seven — The Grief(It Comes All at Once)
Ulrika sobbed. Hard. Ugly. Uncontrolled. Her chest hurt, a deep, physical ache that was a manifestation of her emotional pain. Her throat burned, raw from the force of her screams.
“…I was supposed to save them.”
“You did.”
“I should have lived.”
“You made sure they could.”
“I didn’t get a future.”
“…You have one now.”
She clutched the floor, her fingers digging into the wood, the pain a small, grounding sensation in the overwhelming storm of her emotions.
“…I wanted a garden. I wanted tea. I wanted someone to love me. I wanted to grow old.”
Her voice shattered, a broken, fragile thing. “…I died alone in ash and blood and nobody even knew my real name.”
A long pause. A moment of quiet, respectful silence.
Then, quietly: “I know your name.”
She pressed her forehead to the floor, the cool, smooth wood a small comfort against the heat of her tears. And wailed. For her squad. For her body. For her lost future. For her stolen peace. For the woman who never got to rest. She cried until there was nothing left to hold back, a storm of tears that left her empty, hollowed out, and strangely, peacefully, clean.
No interruptions came. No miracles. Just rain. And Steve, who shuffled closer, offering a plush tentacle in a gesture of silent, unwavering support. She held it tight, the soft, yielding fabric a small, comforting anchor in the vast, turbulent sea of her grief.
Phase Eight — Finishing the Painting(The Crown Without Thorns)
When her sobs faded into trembling breaths, when the storm of her grief had passed, leaving behind a quiet, calm aftermath…Ulrika stood. Wiped her face. Picked up her brush.
“…She deserves to be finished.”
She added one final detail. A faint golden light behind her former self. Not divine. Not cosmic. Just… hopeful. A soft, gentle glow that was a promise of a new dawn, a new beginning.
She softened the eyes. Not angry. Not afraid. At peace. A look of quiet acceptance, of a job well done, of a life lived with honor and love.
She stepped back. The painting was stunning. Not magical. Not reality-altering. Just… honest. A portrait of a soldier, a leader, a woman who had given everything for a cause she believed in.
“…Good,” she whispered. “…Goodbye, Rika.”
She bowed. Deep. Formal. Military. A final, respectful farewell to a part of herself that she had carried for too long.
And let go.
Phase Nine — The Aftermath(The Weight Is Gone)
Ulrika sat on the floor. Drank tea. Wrapped in a normal quilt. Silent. Light.
“…I don’t feel heavy anymore.”
“That’s what happens when you stop carrying everything alone.”
“…It took two lifetimes.”
“…It was worth both.”
She looked at the painting again. Smiled softly. “…She was amazing.”
“…She was.”
“…I’m proud of her.”
A pause. A quiet, moment of shared understanding. “…You should be.”
Phase Ten — The Journal Entry(The One That Closed a Chapter)
That night, Ulrika wrote:
“I painted Rika today.Not as a weapon.Not as a myth.Not as a martyr.But as a tired woman who did her best.I cried.A lot.And it didn’t break me.I think that means I’m healing.I love her.And I forgive her.And I’m ready to live now.”
She closed the journal. Set the painting on an easel in the corner. Lit a small candle beneath it, a single, flickering flame that was a beacon of memory and hope.
And whispered:“…Rest now.”
FINAL STATUS
Ulrika Vincent:
Remembered who she was.
Honored those she lost.
Faced her grief.
Let it move through her.
Released what she could not carry anymore.
She is no longer running. She is finally at peace.
Ulrika went to bed that night. Not haunted. Not numb. Not broken. Just… human.
And for the first time since she died on a battlefield—She dreamed of a garden.