[note: as neither Gjioscript nor Eafyn have separation of words, I have artificially added them as I thought fit. The present tense is preserved from the original. The living scholars of Easfrania assure me that this was how writing was done in S'san's time.]
I sift the soaked sand seeping water into itself as the waves recede again. Just similar I am the shoreline with tears of my sorrow seemed into me, and every age I live through the waves soak me with tragedy again. Then that becomes a part of me. I am riddled with sandcrabs that onely appear when heavy feet trod on me; as they do so rarely but suddenly and with torrent. The sandpipers are the small biting daily anxieties. They poke at me and trod on me as well. Easier to heal from, but everpresent unlike the heavy feet. I hold the hilt of the shortsword my father gave me. He did more than give the tool to me. He forged the metal with force of muscle and sung the hilt from a strong saplingtree. I hold the hilt, while the tip is tilted in the sand. The sword cannot do anything for this beach. Though my father named this blade Rye - for my tears - so that I might heal things and then myself heal. Rather he named the blade Tear for all beings that cry. I have taken to calling the tool S'sanrye. This shortsword is for my tears and mine alone. Who has suffered as I have? Only Flor'eliant knows the same suffering. She and I are one. Even now I feel the suffering of this land in the distance to the east and in the far future. I feel the tears pour out of my eyes. I feel the pain from Flor'eliant as my own. Still this beach is healthy and happy, and will be for as far as I can see in all directions and the future. Why do I get to feel these future pains when I will not live to see them lifted? This is why I will do what I can to replace the spirits within the blade. This is not possible some think. Maybe they are right. Then I will join the spirits of the blade. When my body perishes and I return to elements, I will fill this tool with myself. What Mina I have within me. What Flora? None. A hilt of bone? A hilt of my sadness? Emotions have no elements. What am I do to? My father might be angry, but will he understand? He will not live a natural life long enough to understand. Spirits of Gjio - Mina, Flora - You will be me and I will be you. Unless... it is not posssible. What point is there to this tool if I cannot live long enough to see it used? Flor'eliant will lose her aid. Very well Gjio - have it your way. Let me die with my family. Let Flor'eliant suffer evermore! Ugh. I am fed up with this! Anger... and yet I still cannot escape this sadness. Ever the sadness. My tears join the waves that lap in, soak in the sand, and lap out again, again, again.
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