The Priesthood

I’m in a house where every door leads to the same room, where every mistake is the same one I’ve already made before. I try to run away and open a door I haven’t tried before. But the end result is the disappointment I’ve already experienced.

There is a mirror in that room. And in that mirror is me, but someone else. Not me, but someone who is like me. Someone grotesque, a face covered with scales that I cannot recognize. I am certain that I’ve seen that face before, perhaps many times by now. In the eyes of that someone, there is defeat—like they wanted to do something but never quite could.

They look at me with those tired eyes, and they wait. I don’t know what, but I feel that I will soon know the truth about what they await. I wait for them, but nothing happens. I give up and look for another door to open. Just to enter the same room that I was already in. In that room, I await.

It’s lonely in that room, even though it’s certainly me in that mirror. I have felt so lost for a long time, but only now can I recognize just how lost I’ve become.

Tired eyes meet mine, and I wonder, “Why does it just stare? Why doesn’t it move or run away from the mirror? Why is it so stuck? Why are we so stuck?” I must be crazy to think such thoughts. A mirror image can’t move by itself, now can it?

So I raise my hand, and the image in the mirror stays in place. I reach for it and touch the surface of the mirror. Nothing happens, so I go and find another door. I open the door and step back into the room, where its mirror is waiting.

That room is without lights, but it’s still bright. That room is devoid of darkness, yet it is dim. I can’t tell which is which. I don’t even know if there is any difference between the two, or is everything just the same? Like an image in a mirror, but only the opposite, which pursues the same cause as the other.

I stood quietly in the middle of that house, the doors of which each led to the same place and time. There is no front door to reach, for even that takes me here—into this room, in front of this mirror, with a man covered by scales that stares at me with their tired eyes. Reaching toward me, touching the surface of the mirror.

I sigh and look for the next door; that too I open and soon enter.

There is a mirror in that room. And in that mirror is you. But someone else—not you, but someone other than you. That someone who is ultimately the same as me. The same one that reaches out of the mirror with your dull eyes. The one who tries to break this mirage; who tries to save me from the darkness and bring me to your light.

That someone who reaches towards me, towards the door. Towards the route out of this house, its rooms are each the same; its doors each lead here. Each of its mistakes is its own mistake but carved from the same wood.

I try to run away and open the door, but you catch me; you pull me into your reflection.

“Ah… You’re finally awake, my dearest doll.” Kanrel heard a familiar voice; this one came from far too close to his liking. His eyes burst open in that instant, and he could see with his own eyes a toothy smile that stared at him from above and a hand that caressed his head like the hand of a loving mother.

He didn’t dare to move; it wasn’t like he could either way. The rest of his body refused to follow his commands. Why could he not move? Then a sharp pain struck his left arm, and he could feel a barrage hitting him from so many directions. His scream filled the small cell where he lay on the lap of the Angel of Death.

“Shh… My dearest doll, save those screams for the arena; the audience loves a good screamer.” Their voice was sweet as they hushed the so-called doll with their hands. “I will take your pain away; I will bring back your powers; I will allow you to finish what you started for as long as you win; I will help you; I will take care of you.”

“You can trust me, my sweet, sweet doll.” They finished and conjured another toothy smile to make Kanrel doubt the words even more than he already did. But then, the pain just stopped. It went away. It was taken from him. It was cut out. It was as if the sun were covered by the moon, for the pain was eclipsed, and instead, there was this sense of numbness, an odd sensation, as if this body knew that something was missing—something vital to survival was gone. One needs pain to feel alive.

He felt more dead than ever before. But at least he felt like he could move, so he hurried away from the Angel’s arms, breaking apart from them and sitting as far away from them as he could.

The self-proclaimed Angel of Death laughed the brightest of laughs: “You were practically dead, and I brought you back, yet this is how you pay my kindness?”

“Doll, I never thought you would be so ungrateful.” They faked a frown but soon continued their bright laughter: “Forgive me for the unwanted closeness—I only needed your head close to me so that I might bring it back to life. You wouldn’t want to remain braindead or in a coma, would you? Especially now when there is such an important duel today!” They declared and got up from the bed, "Soon, my dear doll, soon you shall once more show how little mercy you truly have within! Soon, my love, shall you spill justice upon the sands of history...”

Their grin was wide and vile, their words worse than that, their face grotesque, and their beauty long spoiled. A face that reminded him more of the many paintings on the walls of cathedrals and temples around the Kingdom, but it wasn’t quite there yet. It was like that face, in that very moment, was on its way toward that form—showing the world, truly, what lay within an Angel of their caliber.

“Tell me, oh great Angel, when I lose a duel, will you be merciful? Will you bring down your saber, not giving me a moment of fear or pain as my life gets sliced away? Could you do such a thing for me? Are you able to do so?” Kanrel asked suddenly, looking up at the much taller creature.

The Angel tilted their head and stared back; their grin had faded, and for a moment, the beauty of a true Sharan could be seen on their face. Their scales slightly reflected the light that came from somewhere outside of the cell, and the sweet smile that found its way on their lips was like one received from a friend you had not seen for a long time.

“There are some things that even I am not allowed to do. But I will see what I can do, yet I cannot promise you a thing.” They leaned closer and said, “Don’t be too saddened, doll, if that which remains for you after is just torture. The pain is only passing; and even this, you might survive.” They brought their hand to Kanrel's face, and with their longer fingers, they caressed the tiniest spot of scales that could be found on that face.

And when they stopped at last, noticing the uncomfortable expression on Kanrel's face, they scoffed again, “Forgive me, your face is just... so alien to me? In my long life, I’ve never seen a Sharan quite like you. One with so little magical heritage to showcase; you almost look like you are from another species." They pulled their hand away and promptly left the cell, closing and locking the door as they went, not even muttering another word.

Leaving behind only anticipation for what is to come. Fear, for he didn’t know when he’d have to fight again. How many hours, or minutes, did he have time to find his strength again? He still felt no pain; he felt nothing. Now, without the pain, everything felt wrong. He wanted his pain back. Even pain is better than nothing.

Now, he was more than aware that he should be dead right now. And this made him wonder if such a thing might’ve happened to the real Hartar as well. Did they go through a similar experience? Did they, too, have to be brought back from the awaiting mists of death? Or was this experience unique to him?

He had no idea. In a way, he wished it were unique to him. Because he could imagine how afraid they would be when held by the Angel of Death. Would they be able to break apart from their touch? He hoped that they could. He hoped that none of this might’ve ever truly happened to someone as innocent as Hartar.

But again, time was running out. So he tried not to let this feeling of nothingness bother him as he closed his eyes and looked for answers within. A solution for the next duel—a trick he could use to swiftly win before he is again ripped apart and left basically dead. He had no wish to wake up in that angel's arms again, even if they had brought him back to life.

The reality was just that he was running out of ideas, out of skill, and out of sheer magical ability in this body. He glanced to the right of him, and a familiar item lay on a weapon rack, untouched and clean. Beautiful and powerful. Kanrel got up from the bed and went to it. He grabbed it, the whole thing—the scabbard and all.

In his hands, it felt so right. Even if this body lacked the strength or talent needed to wield it, to him, it felt just right. He could remember how he used to smile while dueling with such a weapon. Those were better days. Those days were long past. And they weren’t even his own days; they were someone else's.

He didn’t need to pull the blade out to know that it was pristine and perfect. It would be sharp enough; it would be able to cut clean through a man’s hand if needed. Bringing it out there wouldn’t win him anything; it wouldn’t give him an advantage; on the contrary, it would be clumsy and most likely in his way.

Yet he still wanted to bring it out with him. He wanted to go out with it in his hands; he wanted to hold it and face death as it would take him, perhaps for good this time, and fight to the bitter end. Oh, how bitter it would be!

How many years had he wasted here? A lifetime was wasted on something he should’ve never even come close to. If only... if only he could see the ones he loved before it all ended.

He attached the scabbard to his belt, making sure that it would not fall or be too much in the way of his movement. Then he began taking steps around the room as if dancing to a rhythm only he could feel. A memory, to be precise, a waltz he once shared with a woman far too beautiful for someone like him. If only he could’ve had that one last dance...

In the face of death, it was better to try to remember all of the good there had ever been instead of brooding on all the bad and all of the regrets that he had had. But those regrets, even though they were so great, even though they weighed heavily on him, were still outweighed by the memories of those that he loved, that he missed so dearly that within the nothing that he had, within this feeling of nothingness, there was at least that pain of yearning for someone you love.

He danced for who knows how long, not feeling exhausted even once. Not stopping until he could hear that cursed and far too familiar voice, “I see that you’re ready; let us go now, my dearest doll,” followed by the screech of an opening cell door.

Kanrel stopped his waltz and faced the open cell door. He walked out, knowing all too well how each step that he now took would be closer and closer to the last step that he would ever take. He didn't think he could win this duel. He could feel it. He could feel death in the air. He could feel the coming end to it all.

The Angel of Death walked beside him; they too were somehow solemn. They, too, were so quiet in this moment. But they must already know whom Hartar will face in the arena. They too knew that there’d be no hope for the young Sharan or the mind that habited the soon-dead body.

Cheers coming closer and closer, a cold embrace within that that grabbed him like the cold hand of a dying soldier, a hand that grabs anyone that might walk past them, only to beg that they could once more see their loved one’s or that someone would tell their family that they would not be coming back. It was cold, and there was fear, but soon there’d be acceptance. Death is for all.

They didn’t even stop where they usually did; they just entered the arena through the hallway, out the doors, and onto the sands of the arena, the roaring audience, one greater than the last one. Who wouldn’t want to see such a spectacle? A public execution; entertainment for the masses.

He refused to look at that audience; they might as well not be there; they weren’t there, not tonight. His eyes were already set on the door that was on the other side.

“My dearest Sharan!” The Angel of Death shouted, soaking in all the eyes of the audience, and began luring them into the narrative that they wanted to construct: “We’ve seen many duels on this arena throughout the years. We’ve seen those who try their utmost to prove to the world that they are innocent of the crimes that they are accused of! We’ve seen those who go further than most, winning many but ultimately succumbing under the immense weight of justice and becoming one with the sands of our arena!”

“But what we’ve not seen for ourselves—not in a long time, I say—is the possibility of someone doing their time here on the arena—someone finishing what they had started and then proving to the world that they were innocent all this time! Tonight, we’re gathered here to see the holiest moment in our temple of violent justice!”

“My dear Sharan! I give to you a legend of our arena, fighting against a mere murderer in this battle of wits and swords, of magic and will! You all know Hartar Agna, but tonight their name is nothing next to the one that will face them!”

“They’ve won seventeen duels so far! And the other has won only two—and what is a murderer to someone who has killed many? Nothing, I say!”

“Thus, I give to you the joy and pride of our colosseum: Quale Peirce, their crimes countless and drenched in the blood of innocents; murder upon murder. Witness, for Quale, carries within the very essence of murder, of that which takes lives!”

“Let the battle commence!” They announced at last, stepping away from the line of sight, not looking at either of them, not daring to witness what was to happen.

The Sharan, known as Quale, was relaxed through and through. Their expression said nothing, and they hadn’t brought a weapon with them. And just looking at their face, it was clear why. They weren’t fully covered by them, but there were significant patches of scales all around their face, and they observed that which seemed like nothing more than a child that had been brought as the final challenge in their quest for freedom.

Kanrel pulled the saber out of its scabbard; it felt heavy in his hand as he began to walk toward death. And soon he sprinted, running as fast as he could, forming responsive codes all around himself, ready to deflect anything that might be thrown his way, but also forming a few offensive ones aimed at Quale from different angles.

But they did nothing; they just stood there and stared, and on their face remained that relaxed expression; they too knew how this would go. Kanrel lifted the saber, ready to strike, as he soon reached the Sharan, who still did nothing.

The blade went toward their head in a violent downward motion, soon touching metal on flesh.

A loud boom was heard as Kanrel was flung backward. At first, he had been in front of the person he needed to win against, and then he lay on his back on the other side of the arena. Yet he lived, so he did all he could do and got up; he prepared another charge, another desperate attempt to win while forming and releasing more and more codes to break past the defenses of this creature known as Quale.

But the Sharan moved not an inch. It was all futile. He would charge at them, but then he’d be flung a hundred feet away, and he’d get up again and again, always trying to reach them, always getting so close, but never once even drawing blood from them.

He did it countless times until he couldn’t get up again. So he lay there, his eyes toward the lights that descended from far above. His heart beat like a drum, and his body was sweaty and in need of a long bath. But there’d be no bath like that for him. Only two remained: a bath of dirt as he was laid to his grave and a bath of his own blood, drawn by the talented Quale, who refused to do anything else.

All the while, the crowd cheered and laughed in excitement. Who would not enjoy the futile actions of the most hated person in the city?

Minutes went by, and nothing happened. Kanrel was unable to get up; he was unable to fight. He was useless; he had always been useless. This was his end; he would die a useless man. How exciting was that? If he had had the strength, Kanrel would’ve given his best fake smile to the world, but even that was not allowed of him.

The duel ended just like that. A familiar voice announced it as such: “What a thrilling duel! We all could see all too well just how much more powerful Quale is than Hartar!”

Kanrel could hear them getting closer until they reached them and looked down. The Angel of Death, all in their glory, looked at him and smiled their toothy smile. “And for there to be justice, death must be served!” They announced, and another excited wave of cheers ran through the audience.

Kanrel’s saber parted ways with his hands as it floated into the hands of the Angel of Death, who now seemed so magnificent with that weapon in hand. Somehow it fit so well; like they were made for using such a blade; like they had used one all their life. They lifted it far above their head, “I declare our winner to be Quale Peirce, and I declare that Hartar Agna was defeated on this day and that justice has been twice served on this day!”

They brought the blade down, and Kanrel closed their eyes, anticipating pain and blood, but the blade did not come fully down. “My fellow Sharan! Forgive me, for I am not allowed to execute this vile murderer!”

Kanrel’s eyes burst open for the second time that day. They looked up at the tall angel and the sword that was just barely above Kanrel’s head.

The crowd quickly filled with boos as they showcased their unhappiness.

“But wait, my dear audience... You might want Hartar’s death, but the Offices of Suffering... wish to only cause torment.”

“Do not worry, my dear audience; they will be in good hands!” They announced, and the crowds erupted in cheers, accepting this new outcome for the person they most wanted dead.

The Angel of Death suddenly lifted him, a fragile body in the hands of death. “You will see me later, and then you will recognize who I am.” The angel whispered to Kanrel’s ears, and suddenly, the lights went out, the cheers were gone, everything was gone, the angel was no more, and his hands and feet were strapped to a bed.

Then, one by one, he could see as they approached him. Faceless men with their rapiers. His breath quickened. He could not move; he could not yell—not for help, at least.

He had wished for there to be at least some pain instead of that nothingness. Such a wish, he soon learned to regret as well.