Reborn From the Cosmos

What does one wear to a slaughter?

After a fitful night of sleep, on my part and no one else’s, a small point of embarrassment despite the logical part of my mind insisting there’s nothing wrong with being hesitant over taking lives and that I’m not doing myself any favors comparing my reactions to the temperaments of my unusual lovers, the sun dawns on the fated day.

Saintsday is meant to be a time for reflection. Some say it is the time when the saints turn their gazes to the world, evaluating what we have done throughout the week. Some see it metaphorically, saying it is up to the individual to judge themselves as the saints would and improve on their faults.

I wonder what they would think of what we plan to do. Did the heroes of humanity ever face such choices? Or were their journeys simple, their enemies clear as they purged the continent of dangers to the fledgling Harvest kingdom?

I wonder, if Paradise is real, if it has anything to do with me anymore? After all, it is the afterlife for humans, presided over by human heroes. I am far from my humble beginnings. I wonder, if to them, will I be no different from the monsters they made their legends slaying? Will I never be reunited with Father?

It’s sober thoughts like that and more that darken my mood throughout the day. Far too soon, night falls and finds me in front of the lord’s dresser now stuffed with my clothes, once again contemplating the proper dress for an occasion. It seems disrespectful to intrude upon a meeting of importance and murder its attendees in common clothes. Almost as if I see the whole event as trivial. But what is the point of dressing up? I doubt the hunters I bludgeon and shred will give a damn that I dressed up for them.

Is this just a vanity project? Saints, if they’re watching, must detest me for this little act. I wouldn’t be welcomed amongst the best of humanity, even if not for my transformation and it’s ridiculous to think otherwise.

Giggling announces Rolly before she appears over my head, yellow as a flower. She flies for a moment before settling on top of my head. She crawls to the edge of my brow and hangs on by my hair to look me in the eye. “What are you thinking?” she asks, wings flexing and head cocked to the side.

“What does yellow mean?”

“Ah, don’t spoil the mystery! Really, Lou. You ask everyone’s advice but mine. Aren’t we partners? Come on. Let me helllp.”

I don’t ask because I dread what she will say. It’s not that the lueorale is sinister like my succubi or savage like my elf. She is something just as bad, or perhaps worse. Theatrical. Whimsical. Silly, but not childish. The opposite of my current mood. making it hard to appreciate.

“Coooome on.”

Sigh. Then again, those same qualities make it hard to be harsh with the creature. “I’m debating what I should wear while killing my enemies and if it’s horrible to be thinking such a thing.”

“Horrible? Of course not!” She lets go of my hair in favor of flying in front of me. The swirling colors of her face are featureless but it’s easy enough to discern her mood from her tone and I think I’m learning what the colors of her body mean. The yellow brightening and gaining a tinge of pink means she’s excited, very much so. “This is a terribly important question!”

This is a bad idea. “Really?”

“Of course! What makes a person, Lou?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“It is~ Humor me. Tell me, what makes you notice one person over another? What makes a person memorable?”

“Er, I suppose…their face?” So I’m shallow, Abyss take me.

Rolly giggles. “What else?”

“I suppose…their demeanor. What they are doing and how they are doing it.”

“Yes. How you do something matters.” She flies closer and lays one of her small hands upon the end of my nose. “Did you know that the villain is the most important character in any story?”

“Isn’t that the hero?”

“Nope! Heroes are easy. Predictable. They march ever onward with daring and bravery to right wrongs and rescue maidens in need. See, for a hero, it doesn’t matter what they do or what they look like. The crowd, the people, will love them as they love what they do. You need not be smart or beautiful or personable or pitiable if you can slay monsters. You need not make hard decisions or compromise, as you are righteousness and justice personified. Oh, heroes have it easy.

“But villains? Their actions are detestable. The crowd, the world even, is inclined to hate them. For them to be anything other than a bad memory, they must compensate in every other area of their life. They must be clever, charming, powerful, and memorable. Think of any play you have ever seen. Who had the more dashing costume? The hero from humble beginnings? Or the villain that had conquered the world?”

“The villain.” She’s right but I don’t understand what she’s trying to say. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Everything, my summoner! You mean to kill your enemies tonight?”

I wince. “Yeah.”

“Then, think of how the story will be told tomorrow. Imagine being known as the horrible woman who ruined a party, replacing the cheery music with screams of pain and terror, slaughtering dozens of innocents before absconding into the night.”

My brows furrow. It’s not the reputation I would want for myself given a choice but there’s no way around it.

“Now, imagine another version of the story. A tale of a beautiful woman who appeared at a party and breathed into it life and wonder. A woman who walked through the door with a beauty on each arm and more trailing in her wake. A woman who caused all in attendance to go red in the face, the men with anger and the women with want.

“After charming half the room, she reveals a secret meeting taking place beneath their feet. What’s this? Hunters skittering underfoot like rats, plotting her demise. A foolish action, as nothing escapes her gaze.

“Like cornered animals, they bare their fangs and assault her. But she is untouchable, an existence far beyond even master casters. With one hand, she slaps them about like errant children, the hunters paying for their audacity with their lives. Then, she strolls away from the destruction with a smile, the crowd giving way before her like peasants before royalty. Or sheep before a wolf. Do you see the difference?”

“One story is much longer than the other?” I grouse.

“Noooo,” she whines playfully before laughing. “One is glamorous. It takes a horrendous event and makes it into something spectacular. It turns a villain, someone to be despised, into an idol. A villain, a good one, is meant to appeal to our dark desires. Everyone wants to rescue the helpless and be admired for their saintly qualities, sure, but they also want to crush their enemies underfoot. They want to have a once-in-a-lifetime love, of course, but they also want to be desired by a sea of admirers.”

The lueorale’s color changes from yellow-pink to scarlet, then to scarlet mixed with black, a color I’ve never seen before. The strange coloring is matched by an even stranger tone, one that is dark and sultry.

“To make things plain, my summoner, if you must be a villain, then you must be the pinnacle of villainy. An evil so fantastic that even the good of heart are forced to admire it and are tempted away from their saintly paths. Will it make what you do any more moral? No. A change in wardrobe can’t soothe your conscience. But at least you can take pride, should you choose to, in that you are no common criminal.

“If you must have a reputation as a bad element, then let it be as the best of the worst, the villain unmatched by any other, the evil that eclipses even the greatest hero, a darkness that swallows the brightest star. Shield yourself with grandeur, Lou. Presence, opulence, and relevance. They can define an action more than an action itself. And it starts with your choice tonight. Whether you wear the clothes of a laborer meant to do a dark work or the finery of a noble nobly conducting insidious deeds.”

An evil so fantastic that even the saintly are forced to admire it, huh?

That…doesn’t sound too bad.

Better to take pride in something about tonight than wallow in self-recrimination. It’s theatrical, whimsical maybe, but better a little whimsy than the bog of pity I’ve been struggling to claw my way out of. “I should ask your advice more often.”

Rolly’s laughter echoes throughout the room as I pull out clothes from the dresser.