Once again, I’m depressed. What would Loriette do in this situation? I don’t know— No,
I do know. She’d write and write. Write until that sign of 'false dedication' on her right
index finger burst. Write until she’s unaware of her surroundings, of her pathetic little
life. Write until she’s in another world, transcended. Write… until she leaves a mark
upon this world.

Panic attacks. They’re not fun. Loriette’s breathing quickened. Loriette’s breathing
paced to an unstoppable rate. Intervals of her breathing collided with each other, crashing
into one another; she was losing control of herself. Loriette fell to the ground, placing her
hand on her chest, heart pounding. She did not know, could not know when it would stop;
all she knew was that for the pain to cease, she needed to die.

Tired; always tired. Tired of being tired. Loriette hugs her legs and hides in a corner
whenever she’s too tired of everything. Lowly little Liberator. I wonder why I don’t do
that. I’m not a Liberator; I don’t carve out hearts. All I do is generate words on a screen.
This is about Loriette, though, not me. What about Loriette again? Right, she also writes
quite a lot, even says a prayer every now and then. In the actual world I do not know if it
works, but in the world of Everlaster supernatural beings are ubiquitous. So yes, indeed,
Loriette praying makes perfect sense. Guardian of the world, she would recite to herself,
her hands clasped together, tears flowing from her closed eyes, love me like a mother.
And my heart is yours forever, dear Everlaster.

To what extent does one’s heart dictate their life? Loriette’s heart is, as a whole,
adequate. A heart that has experienced loss and shattering, like every heart has. She keeps it with vigilance, guards and protects it, as a way to preserve her finite life. And yet, she
knows well how vulnerable she remains, susceptible to afflictions which shall pierce her
heart. There’s a spear in her chest right now as a matter of fact. But she does not remove
it. She keeps it in her chest, the spear which thrusts her heart, and walks on. Walks on
with life, walks on with her many duties, all while leaving behind an invisible trail of
blood.

'Do I love Mother?' You do, Loriette. But she wasn’t perfect to you. Nor were you to
her. At times, she was forceful and toxic, forcing you to be her surrogate for her failed
dream, to become a Liberator she oh so wanted to see her daughter become. Nonetheless
your mother acknowledged your passion, your love for journaling, how each little phrase
you put onto paper was so special to you. She loves you, cares for you. I love my mother;
her love is one of the few things in the world that keeps me alive. But again, this is about
Loriette, writer, not you… And yet you care more about writing than her at times, Lori.
Do you love writing, Loriette? Of course you do. It calms you – that’s for certain. But
why do I still sense animosity brewing within you? Why are you so harsh to yourself?
Your words are beautiful. For you, to scab over your wound is to turn tragedy into
beauty. Do I know what beauty is? Writer, answer the question. Do you consider being
harsh an act of beauty or an act of betrayal? For what reason, then, am I so harsh to
myself?

The first time Loriette meets Anric, she is but a weak soul. Her strong arm bleeds; her
legs are begging for her to stop moving. Tears streak down her cheeks; her sweat
perspires. She, however, understands one thing: the knight before her is her saviour, her
new reason to live and endure the hardships of life. She desires to kiss the man; she
yearns for the knight to embrace her and grant her warmth. But all of this is perhaps too
much to ask for in an imperfect world. Anric is to Loriette what writing is to me. Nothing
else quells the burning— No, there is no such fire within me. Let me begin again.
Nothing else vibrates the silence within my heart quite as loud as writing. It energises me,
gives me light. It fires the frigidness within me. I have nothing else. Nothing at all.

Now, for Loriette’s strengths for once. A little change of pace. She perseveres despite
her many flaws, keeps on Liberating despite how much she hates it. She lives a life she
detests, a life she deems unworthy. But she lives on. She hides her tears well, keeping her
emotions to herself. What she lacks she makes up for in tenacity. She’s also quite
idealistic – this is a good thing. Hope is a necessity; cliche I know, but a fool lives
perpetually in hopelessness. We need to be joyful and hopeful every now and then. Father
says so. And Loriette is not a fool. She understands the necessity of happiness, even if it’s
a hard little thing to obtain. What else? Determination – another one of Loriette’s strong
suits. Determined to become a guardian. Determined to care for Frey. Determined to love
Anric. Determined to show her mother the love she deserved. Say her name: Loriette
Abigail. Once a lowly little Liberator, now forever a guardian, whose love is akin to a mother. 

Tell him you love him, Loriette. Tell Anric those words. Three words, three syllables.
A sentence to decide the trajectory of a person’s life. A sentence to make two into one.
Tell him, Loriette, for without him you would not understand the true meaning of
affection.

Are you sure about this, Loriette? To be a guardian is no easy task. Loriette hesitates,
but at long last, she nods. Guardian of the world, love me like a mother. And my heart is
yours forever, dear Everlaster.