Miyuki Miyabe - ICO - Castle in the Mist

A gentle breeze blew through the village, carrying with it the scent of new leaves and fresh blossoms. They went to sleep tired from the day’s work, thin quilts to keep them warm on the chilly spring nights. They listened to stories told in tender voices by the men and women who raised them as their own. On summer days, their skin was brown from the sun and mud and dirt. On autumn evenings, the moon rose full above them and the sky was filled with stars. Then came the brightness of dawn. The taste of freshly picked fruit. Teeth biting through the skin, smiles brightening as the juice hit their lips. They hunched their heads low in the cold winter, huddled around fires for warmth. They looked up with pride at the village hunters returning from the hunt, taking off their gear, the faint smell of the blood of their catch still lingering around them.

Always shining, always warm, always alive. He saw their lives in an endless series of scenes, like paintings of everyday moments. And faces, so many faces-too many to count.

All the Sacrifices, in every age-they were alive.

And the people who had sent them to the castle were alive. Toksa was the sorrowful farewell port for the Sacrifices. But it was also the place blessed with the task of raising them.

The sword had lain here in the Castle in the Mist as a symbol, an object of worship-but had they ever known that all of the days lived by all of the Sacrifices were still here, kept safe within its blade? The blessing of the Book of Light was nothing other than the joy of life itself.

Ico returned to his body, feeling as though he had come arcing across the sky, through shining clouds, back down into the cave. He was still holding the sword in his hands. Only his face was reflected in its shining blade.

And now the blade was asking him a question. It wanted to know if he was ready. If he was, it would show him the way.

Ico understood. He knew what he had to do. The clarity of the task before him was like the light of the midday sun, shining high in the sky inside his heart.

HAD IT BEEN yesterday or the day before? Or had an entire month already passed? In this sequestered world, a world without time, it was impossible for Ico to say how long ago the priest and the two guards who wore horns on their helmets had led him through this place.

He lifted the sword before the idol gate, and the stone idols, bathed in the sword’s light, slid to either side. Ico stepped onto the platform he knew would take him into the castle above-alone, this time, without the pride or the fear he had known upon his first arrival. He worked the lever, and the floor began to slowly rise, lifting him into the hall of the stone sarcophagi. He brandished his sword, yet still he hesitated.

This was the path. Ahead lay the queen. Through the hall of the stone sarcophagi he would find her true throne. The sword had told him that.

What slowed his pace? Was it the fear that he lacked the resolve it would take to fight those he would soon face? Or was it that he lacked the strength to cut them down?

No, that’s not it. Ico looked in vain for the words he needed to express his turmoil.

Pale light shone between the idols framing the passage into the hall. He knew exactly what that eerie, ill-omened color represented now.

He stepped out into the hall, shining sword in his right hand, left hand clenched into a fist by his side, and looked upon the source of the pale light.

Every one of the many sarcophagi lining the walls was glowing. Or rather, the designs upon their surfaces, the enchanted patterns, were undulating with living light.

Several torches burned along the walls. Yet their light did not reach the sarcophagi. The designs on the sarcophagi were slithering snakes. One snake per stone. They slithered across the surface of the sarcophagi, weaving patterns that had no head or tail-engraved chaos.

In harmony with the movements of the pale-glowing serpentine patterns, the sarcophagi were humming. It was as though the sarcophagi were in ecstasy, growling like animals lacking mouths. It was a horrifying sight, and yet it possessed an otherworldly beauty. For a moment, Ico stood entranced, his heart held by the strange light of the sarcophagi. He felt the strength leave his arm gripping the sword. The point dropped down toward his feet.

What’s going on?

A wind blew through the hall, making the Mark on his chest flutter. His hair got in his eyes. Ico blinked, forcing them to focus.

Someone was crouched amongst the sarcophagi on the landing halfway up the wall in front of him. He took a step closer to see who it was, then realized he was looking at a statue. The figure was bent over as though in lamentation, forehead pressed to the ground. Its arms might have been part of the stone landing, they were pressed so low, and the slender arch of the back made Ico realize who it was.

It’s Yorda! She’s been turned to stone!

The enchantment woven around him by the sarcophagi and their light broke in an instant. Ico launched into motion, running toward her when he saw shadowy shapes rise around her, drifting up like shimmering waves of heat, like shadows forming in a sudden flash of light.

Ico went a few steps farther and then stopped, looking up at the landing. The shades did not move. They merely looked down at him with their dully glowing eyes.

Ico was breathing hard. The shades held their ground. Ico’s heart threatened to burst from his chest. Still, the shades did not move.

Ico steadied his grip on the sword.

“What’s happened to her?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I know who she is now. I know what she means to you.”

The shades continued to stare.

“B-but Yorda didn’t want what happened to you. She never wanted you to suffer…”

Ico’s knees buckled beneath him.

Have I come this far only to lose my nerve? No. It’s these sarcophagi that are doing this to me. It’s those eerie glowing enchantments. They’re happy. They enjoy my pain, enjoy the grief of my fellow Sacrifices. That’s the source of those vibrations I’m feeling.

The visions Ico had seen when he looked into the blade came back to him in a rush of memory. It was as though the sword were cutting through his confusion. He saw the eyes of the Sacrifices shining with happiness. The joy of their lives in the village. The brilliance of their existence.

These creatures I’m facing aren’t shapeless things of smoke. They’re not dark souls come boiling out of whirling pools of black. These are the Sacrifices. These are children. The descendants of Ozuma. My brothers and sisters.

They are me.

Suddenly, a howl of rage escaped Ico’s lips. His throat trembled and his voice echoed off the walls of the vast hall.

Ico lifted his sword and charged. He ran up the steps. He wasn’t charging at the dark creatures, he was charging at the sarcophagi. He was going to destroy their pale glowing curses.

He split the first stone sarcophagus he reached in two with a single swing of the sword. On the backswing he destroyed the one beside it. Look how fragile they are, look how weak!

Ico screamed as he ran from sarcophagus to sarcophagus, swinging his sword. As they broke under the sword, their shattered pieces shone brightly, and when Ico cut the lines of their enchantments, they howled like steam escaping a kettle. The coffins crumbled, lost their lives, and fell to cold fragments of stone.

The shadow creatures began to move. Large ones with horns were gathering around Ico, bobbing up and down as they trailed him. They advanced and retreated, formed a line and pulled away. Winged creatures flew in circles over his head. The moment he thought they might land on his shoulders they would peel away or swoop low by his face and flap their wings at him.