Rebirth

By: Evvy Posted on: August 28, 2005

She awoke with a groan. A dim light was creeping through the slats of wood that were her walls as she began to lift herself off the floor. Her body protested, defying the arrival of morning with a steady ache, but the sunlight proved it wrong; light rarely permeated the red-hued fog surrounding the city, even during the day. Heaving a last sigh, she pulled herself off the floor and onto her feet.

Even though the daylight was working its way through the cracked walls, darkness remained. Reaching for her tinderbox, she lit a candle, filling the chamber with a faltering red light. On her table was a bowl, and she bent herself over it, splashing the cool water over her tired face. It had been a long week; she had barely celebrated her eighteenth birthday and was already expecting her first promotion within the Blood Congregation. She had exceeded everything that was required of her, straining her body in an attempt to keep her mind from those thoughts. But she knew she could not.

The candle flame flickered, casting shadows through the blood red lighting to blend with the still-black recesses of the room. A moth had flown through the futile walls, innately drawn to the illumination of the fire. Pulling her head up from over the bowl, she watched as the moth drew closer to the flame, the soft wind from its wings scattering the light. A moth's path is not steady; its haphazard path pulled it too near the flame, and its papery wings were consumed. She watched as the moth's wing singed, and couldn't help but laugh at this pitiful death.

No sooner had the laugh escaped her lips did emotions surge within her chest. A pitiful death…

~Don't.~

She wrenched her mind away from those thoughts. They were returning more often, with less time elapsing before the next occurrence, but she would not allow herself to face them. Not now, after she had worked so hard already. She clenched her teeth, her mouth forming a determined line as she donned her ringmail and cavalry shield; activity had proved to be the only means of keeping herself from thinking.

She had joined the Blood Congregation at the same time as two other Blade Aspirants. A man of a higher rank had given the three of them an orientation of sorts, teaching them in Necromancy and Evileye until their bodies ached. The other two had been shaking with exhaustion, their eyes wide at what they could do when in touch with Death Magic. She had never seen or heard of such power coming from death itself, but it did not surprise her. If there was one thing her life had taught her, it was that death was not to be underestimated. Her response to the training drew a wry smile from their teacher; her eyes had widened not with shock, but with hunger.

Pain and suffering defined her life thus far. Death had taken from her almost all that she had, and she had dwelled on it. Her mind was bent on the sickliness of life for a large portion of her life, and it was this that prepared her for the path that she was following. She was drawn to the Apostate life by a latent closeness to the thin line that lies between the living and the dead. She had not chosen the Apostate life; it had chosen her.

Approaching an intersection in the road, she paused and looked back on the billows of fog that were her new home. A mere week ago this walk made her pant with loss of breath, but she had pushed her body beyond its limits in training. It had been the only way to keep her mind from drifting, but that was becoming increasingly harder to do. Her body was growing accustomed to the work; she no longer had to concentrate to force her muscles to do her bidding. Her mind was beginning to work independently. It would not be long before…

~Stop it.~

She closed her eyes, breaking her daze and forcing herself to continue on the road. She was heading north, to one of the villages. Tasur'ke was her normal destination, and the villagers there had grown to hate and fear her; even the mightiest of the men quaked at the site of her approach. Emerging from the road through the Ithmias, she saw ahead of her what she had come for: a boy of the village, a little rascal playing heedlessly at the village gates. She stepped up in front of him, watching as his eyes met hers and he froze with fear. He didn't recognize her, yet his body quaked at the site of her cold stare. Her eyes boring down on him, she reached out slowly as if to caress the child as a look of hope awakened in his eyes. But as her fingers connected with his cheek, the boy screamed out in pain, his flesh decaying under her deadly touch. She dragged her finger from his cheek down his chest, withering his skin until he fell to the ground.

The boy's body was light, and she picked it up and continued on her way, her eyes falling on her next victims: the village was crowded today. She traveled throughout the coastal village, killing off all townspeople should came across with her deadly magic. This had been her routine for some time now, and it was easy for her to slay them all, if only she could find them. As she finished her round, she turned the corner of an alleyway off Maelstrom Boulevard. Two little girls had escaped her raid on the village, and were hiding behind the tavern. Their small bodies trembled at the sight of her, as she reached out her wicked finger, stroking the first of the girls to her death. She turned to the second of the girls, her finger still outstretched, their eyes locking together. And she was horrified at what she saw.

She left all the corpses there. She ran from what she had done, and didn't stop until she ran out of land to run upon. Panting for breath from combined mental and physical strain, she collapsed on the shore, her eyes staring unfocusedly out to the horizon. Visions of her life were passing rapidly through her mind, reaching back to the earliest days of her recollection. Confusion flooded her being as she let her emotions free, yet the Congregation and her City had trained her well. Their words rang through her head, breaking through the bulks of confusion.

What is called evil is simply the drive for advancement, for greatness. We seek, through discipline and pain, to spur the advancement of nothing less than sentient life.

~Sentient life. Were not these children sentient life? Yes, they were sentient life, and I am slaying them.~

Cruelty - the application of pain - is the method by which one weeds out the weak and feeble-minded from the population.

~The weak and feeble-minded. But Mother was slain by my City, was she weak and feeble-minded?~

Weakness must be eliminated in all its forms: Physical, Mental, and Spiritual.

~But what of the others from home? The warriors, who had been able-bodied; the village Elders, whose minds were solid; and the Priestess, whose touch with the Gods had brought much needed fortune.~

The enemies of strength are those who trumpet the effeminate values of forgiveness, tolerance, and laxity of discipline.

~The enemies of strength. But did one have to be malevolent to be strong? Did forgiveness and tolerance mean laxity of discipline?~

The body may be made stronger through combat.

~But I'm killing the weak. Could I not become stronger by battling others of less innocence?~

The mind may be made stronger through the elimination of conscience. One does this by inflicting pain on others.

~I am inflicting pain on others, and it is eliminating my conscience. But what of myself? Must I gain from torturing others?~

The spirit may be made stronger by enduring hardships, both self-imposed and externally-imposed.

~I've endured my hardships. I've seen my family die, brought down by the hand of Evil. And now what am I? I am one of Them.~

She closed her eyes, remembering the young girl's face after having killed the other. She had looked into those eyes, wide with fear, and she had seen herself. People have said she was drawn to Apostasy; they said that she hadn't chosen the class, the class had chosen her. Deep inside of her, her emotions were screaming; her mind was rebelling against the cage she had locked it in.

The memory of the moth, flittering through her walls earlier that morning returned to her mind. The moth had been drawn to the flame, and yet the flame had killed it.

~No. I will not become this person. I will not be consumed by these ways.~

She rose from the sand and returned to the village. Picking up the corpses, she headed to a Shrine to the Great Mother, bowing her head and offering them, a plea to the Gods for a new life.

(**Author's note, for clarity: Prose enclosed within the ~ symbols represent thoughts.)