The Priesthood

What even is justice? He couldn't help but wonder as he met the eyes of the self-proclaimed Angel of Death.

All he knew was that we all long for it, in one way or another. When we yearn for peace, we wish it to be just. We all long to be treated justly, without malice or injustice. We don’t want to live in a world that treats us like dirt, and we sure as hell don’t want to be unfairly treated for things that we didn’t even do or receive words that don’t, perhaps, describe us as well as we think they don’t.

Either way, “justice,” as far as he knew, was something he didn’t quite understand. All he knew was that this was unjust. He believed that it was perverse. It was a perverted form of justice, from the beginning to the end, toward someone who hardly deserved any of it.

If it were him, and just him, who would be the target of this circus, then perhaps he could accept it as it was. When you believe that you are at fault, you then believe that you deserve all that there might be, as now everything is a form of punishment for the crimes that you have committed.

But justice… Was it not just another illusion? Another structure of sorts, like good and evil, but also something that one could use in the most evil ways known to men. One might construct a society where there is justice or at least a somewhat common and mutual understanding of what that justice is—what one deserves and what one does not deserve. But justice is for those who have the ability to act upon it. Justice is for the powerful, and those who have enough power can enact it as they see fit.

It is not that justice means law, but justice, the concept of what one deserves and what is fair, might form certain laws as they are. And those laws can be used, be it for good or bad.

A tyrant will always use these laws and this so-called justice to his or her own benefit. Because why wouldn’t they? Is it not in the nature of a tyrant to do so?

Here, in N’Sharan, it all began with the ideas and ideals of equality so that they might construct a society that is just, where all have mutual agreement on what justice is, what it might be, and how it might work. A common understanding of what we deserve, when we deserve it, and how we deserve it.

Yet there were biases from the very beginning. People don’t just change out of their goodwill or when they meet the error of their ways, the wrongs of their culture, or the brutality of their forefathers. Such things aren’t good enough reasons to change, not for an individual or even for a society.

A society built on slavery might be rid of it, but the scars of it will remain for generations. And there will always be a disparity between those who benefited from it and those who were abused by it.

The elite that first followed Kalma with all their hearts is the same elite that then helped build N’Sharan; they agreed to these new laws and ideas of what one deserves and what is right and what is wrong, but a law does not change the heart of a man.

Those who had power and were powerful benefited most from the justice everyone mutually agreed upon because they had the capability to enact it as they saw fit. This does not, of course, mean that all of those who are powerful are evil, and not all of those who are powerless are good. It isn’t so simple.

Justice inherits the nature of men. And people aren’t just good or evil, nor are they both or either. They’re as complicated as the concepts we think of to explain how complicated we are. And this must be equally true of the Sharan.

So when the so-called Angel of Death asked their question, “Aren’t you excited to serve justice once more?” He blinked his eyes for a few moments and soon produced a scoff that then turned into a bright giggle, one that conquered the cell and the ears of those who might be there to hear it.

This left the Angel of Death shocked, or rather confused; their grin faded away, and they observed the petite Sharan, wet by the water that they had formed and dropped on top of them as they were asleep, as a means to wake them up. Kanrel’s whole body shook as he laughed for the first time in such a long time—not because it was funny, nor because he could actually muster a true laugh, but because of the absurdity of everything.

It was all so obscene. Not just the so-called justice he was asked to serve, but also his own thoughts and his own helpless situation. And then the bitter reality of his own beliefs: The Angels, his gods, were like this? These were the creatures he and the rest of the Priesthood looked up to as the pinnacles of morality and as guides through the darkness of night and the darkness of human corruption.

His gods weren’t so great. They were like him and the rest of humanity. His gods were as obscene as justice in this city.

“Was it something I said?” The Angel of Death asked, again leaning closer, and as they did so, the temperature in the cell began to increase as they formed a warm wind to dry Kanrel’s clothes; they even swept the water off the floor.

Tears ran down Kanrel’s face as he was at last able to breathe and control the laughter that was so uncontrollable. “I’m going to die soon, aren’t I?” He asked and let the warm wind dry his clothes; then he got up from the bed and took a few steps forward, just so that he could stand face-to-face with the person on the other side of the bars.

They were much taller than this body was. They were much more powerful than Hartar could ever be, and he wondered if their power was similar to that of Ignar, or perhaps Kalla.

“Perhaps, but there are so many duels that you might fight; some of them you might survive; some of them might leave you without limbs to carry you; some of them might lead to your execution, and some of them might not. It all depends, my little doll.” The Angel of Death explained. Their voice had become solemn, and so far, it seemed more earnest and truthful than it had been since the first words that they had ever offered him.

“Then what is the point of serving this justice that wants me or doesn’t want me dead? Is it to remove others who have done bad things? Is it there to absolve me of the crimes that I have committed? What is it there for?”

The Angel of Death leaned back. A slow smile came to their face, one that was gentle and somehow sweet. “It is there for you. Each time you win a duel, you’re one step closer to freedom. Each duel brings you closer to justice.”

“This is hardly justice,” Kanrel muttered.

“Did you not announce on the day of your trial that you’re not guilty?” The Angel asked.

Kanrel nodded.

“Then there’s your answer, and this is the only way for you to receive absolution; this is how justice works here; this is how it has worked here for a thousand years. It won’t just change when one sees it as unfair, and sure, it might be unfair, but this is what our city has agreed upon; for us, this is justice. For us, justice is something one has to fight for.” The Angel explained, then they unlocked the door to the cell and said, “Come now; your next duel is about to begin.”

In the corridor, near the door where the corridor would meet the grounds of the arena, a light was cast upon the floor, an invasive force, a stark reminder of the spotlight under which he would fight another battle. The crowd was louder than it had been yesterday, and there was much anticipation for what was to come.

Kanrel wondered if he had suddenly gained fame based on yesterday's performance or if today just happened to be a day when many more could attend and witness justice in action.

But then again, Hartar Agna was known by all who read the Times of N’Sharan, so those who were there to watch came in anticipation of death—the death of a murderer—just so that there should be vengeance for the death of a beloved member of their community.

The Angel of Death walked beside him, and on his face there was that now all too familiar toothy smile, the one that had seemed so lustful and ever-wanting to witness the release of death—to even cause it for those who fell on the arena, unfit to continue another moment of combat. But now that smile, to him, seemed different; there was more to it than just lust, than just a psychotic gleam for death. There was, again, that perverted sense of justice—a call for it, as if their given name “the Angel of Death” was incorrect, as if they themselves would’ve wanted to carry the name “Angel of Justice.”

The gates opened once more, and the Angel placed their hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him forward. “Dazzle them, doll.” They whispered, and so he walked to the spotlight—the lights that descended from somewhere above, artificial creations of magic and technology that cast a great glow upon the sands of the arena. The already loud cheers again became louder, and as they saw him, they all changed to boos. Now it was clear what today’s audience wanted the most—not just any blood; they wanted his blood and his blood only.

And as he again looked around, he saw so many more faces than the day before, but the faces were blank, like they themselves were the dolls that the Angel of Death referred to; like they weren’t truly there, like there was no one alive in this arena; expect him, the Angel of Death, and whoever the poor soul was that would have to fight him.

Today would be no less easy than yesterday, but at least he was more confident, not in the process of things or where they would lead him, but in his own ability to at least fight back, to wield this magic that now called for him like the memory of one’s first love would—be it a memory of heartbreak or one of yearning and innocence now long lost...

“My dear Sharans!” A sudden shout could be heard as the Angel of Death emerged from the hallway, entering the lights and entering the shouts of those in demand of justice and blood: “Once more, I am bestowed this great honor of allowing justice to happen!”

“And no less to someone who seems rather famous already—someone not so beloved by the audience, I must say!” They continued and walked to the middle, taking their place at the center of it all, the place where it all would happen, under their guidance and watchful eyes.

“But it matters not! For even here, in the arena of our ancestors, is equality granted to even those shunned by the audience—no, shunned by all of society!” They walked around in the center, riling the audience and making contact with them, creating an ebb and flow, one with an entertainer and their audience.

“Yesterday we saw a murderer fight against a disturbed individual with fraud on their mind, and behold, justice was served!”

“But today is another day, another great duel to be seen and observed by you all so that you too might see justice in action! So here, tonight only, I give to you a spectacle! A murderer against a murderer!” They announced and pointed toward the other doors that now burst open, and all could see as this larger-than-life individual walked with great confidence to face their opponent.

Again, this person wasn’t someone who had a clear indication of great magical prowess, but even then, they were clearly more powerful than he was.

“You’re all familiar with Hartar, the winner of yesterday's spout, but have you heard of our other bastard? There are two types of murder, or so I believe our dear audience; one is like Hartar’s, a calculated act done in cold blood, one where one might suggest that there was not even an ounce of passion in their crime; and then there is the second kind, one more graphic than the other.”

“One can kill with a stab or two, or one can kill with a countless number of stabs until there is nothing left of the person that received those stabs; nothing more than a bag of blood and muscle, all spilled on the streets of our dear city of N’Sharan.”

“Meet Gama Vasco, our other contestant on this busy day! A Sharan, who once had a lover, and they claimed to love each other forevermore! But for Gama Vasco, there is no such thing as a gentle touch for a lover, for murder might be the crime for which he is judged here, but domestic abuse... hit after hit, long before the night of the murder, not even a drink did they have before or after each flailing.”

“Seventy-four stabs was the end of their lover's life… So I wonder: How many might Hartar survive?”

"Thus, with great honor, I proclaim once again! Let the games begin!”

There was no time for a moment of hesitation, as this time it was Kanrel who jumped into action, forming a powerful lance of steel to pierce through the chest of his competition; it didn’t matter if he would kill... Now all rules were off—it was kill or be killed, and even in this damned false life he had to live, there remained the wish to live. Somehow, through all of this, through every single bad experience and encounter, even through the Ritual, he still wanted to live. Why? He wasn’t sure if it was something that was within, a human call for life, the yearning to live, as many called it, or if it was because of the sense of duty, the vows that he had made, and the loved ones that he still had to return to.

It whirled, creating a loud whistling sound, forcing many of the audience members to cover their ears or to feel the pain that it caused. Then it flew, and in an instant, it pierced the chest of his enemy.

Gama cared not. They felt no pain; instead, there was still a smile that promised a death most painful, one with more stabs than with which they had mauled and tortured their lover's warm body.

If there had been any hair at the back of his neck, he would’ve felt them rise, in fear and anticipation, as powerful shivers ran through his whole existence. The danger he felt had never felt so great—not even in the home forest of Kalla and Ignar while surrounded by the Knights of the Order of the Dragon.

All he knew was that the Sharan—no—the creature known as Gama was someone who had never in their life felt pain; never in their life felt mercy; never in their life felt even love. Violence was their language, and it was the only language they were fluent in. And the most bone-chilling of things wasn’t the hulking creature running at him but the many points of magic that formed around Kanrel: small spikes the size of a knife, readying hundreds of stabs to pierce through him one by one.

How could something so large and muscled be capable of forming so many things at once? Why were they allowed to do so? What the fuck was wrong with this sheer imbalance of power that he had to experience again and again? How could he, a mere human, ever comprehend the true power of the Angels?

With sheer will to survive, he did all he could; he formed shields—metal, stone, ice—whatever he could to protect himself from the impact that he could not dodge and that he could not individually react to in full. If only he had stayed prepared if only he hadn’t been so greedy and tried to finish it in one go... If he only knew what he was doing and what he was against.

A glass-like crackle could be heard around the arena, and for a moment the audience went silent; it was like the breaking of a thousand mirrors—a thousand windows that now lay shattered on the sands below. In the arena, two people were left standing, surrounded by a cloud of sand.

A tall Sharan with a lance piercing their chest, gulping in air, and eerily waiting for the sands to shift and subdue out of their way; and a small frame that stood in place, as if lifeless, not taking any action, not even breathing.

Gama scoffed, and with a wave of their hand, the sand cloud was forced back to the ground; it stuck down like iron dust would to a magnet.

Now they all could see the small Sharan looking ahead with their eyes glossy, them breathing in only slightly, some of their body pierced with small knives, most of the knives sent down were nowhere to be seen, some lay on the ground broken, some intact.

They were alive, yet.

Gama ceremonially pulled their sword from their scabbard, a beautiful saber that glistened in the lights that descended upon the two duelists in the arena. They walked to the small, framed Sharan and, with a wide grin on their face, announced, “You remind me of them... So I shall take you as well.”

A wide swing sent toward Kanrel’s head, one that would go through skin and flesh, shattering the bone of his skull, ending all sense of vision and all sense of life that he knew there to be; it would end. Here. Now. Release!

No.

Gama faltered, their saber went past Kanrel, and they screamed with such furious confusion that the cheering audience was again left silent, as confused as was the hulking creature that fell on top of Kanrel, and began to twitch and shiver violently. Blood began running from the wound in their chest, as something happened that none could see.

Only Kanrel knew what was happening, and only he knew how difficult it was to do it. The lance had begun breaking apart, forming smaller, yet sharper spikes that now bore into flesh, to any direction that they might go; what they were looking for was the heart, the brain, the lungs, anything and all that might be vital to life, all things that even the Sharan had.

He could feel the warm blood touch him, soiling his already bloodied clothes. Gama was so heavy, and Kanrel fell to his knees, under the Sharan that was dying and unable to do anything about it, for within them there were more than a hundred stabs, slithering around, finding and destroying them from within.

Kanrel just laid still because he, too, could do nothing. He had no strength left in this body; there were too many knives that had hit him; there was too much weight on top of him; and he was in too much pain. It was an ache that could be felt everywhere; it was like the vile shiver that the sheer presence of Gama’s magic had forced him to experience, but it was greater; it was real.

It was as if he were laying, again, in a simulation chamber in that damn hospital, going through the pain of dying while waiting for one of his fellow students to find a way to save his life, sometimes failing and sometimes succeeding... He couldn’t help but smile—a fake smile at last, one that he could muster with all the strength that he had left.

Perhaps it was funny, or ironic, that he would miss those days. He’d rather be on that cursed bed than anywhere near here. His sight began to fade, so he gave up on trying to even keep his eyes open. He let darkness take him to another place, wherever that may be, even if that place was nothing more than a form of death.