The Priesthood

A choir of cheers, of screams, of words, of which so many became something he could not understand. There was fear; oh, he felt fear. It was all that was on his mind at this moment. There was no calm before that which could kill him; there was no calm, as he could feel the eyes at the back of his head. The person, their words, how they watched him, and how they observed him so carefully. There is lust in those eyes—a lust no civilized person should have.

Yet, it was all around.

It wasn’t just in the eyes of a singular person; if it were so, then it would just be an outlier, something that barely existed. Something one could accept is that yes, there are people like that—people who are so broken on the inside that they would wish to see pain and that they’d wish to see more than just simple pain. Eyes that wish to see that, which is practically torture.

Those eyes of that one person weren’t an outlier. They were the norm. It wasn’t those eyes that were wrong; it was the target of those eyes that was wrong. He was wrong. He didn’t fit. Thus, he couldn’t help but wonder: What if Hartar would agree with something like this? If it were someone else than them here, would they have enjoyed watching such a show? Would such violence be a pleasure to them, too?

Their yells were deafening, and he could see as someone walked past him suddenly, someone who walked to the middle of it all. The same person who just moments ago proclaimed that they had smelled his fear.

And as they walked to the middle, the sight of him created more cheers than there had been the whole night, at least as far as Kanrel could tell.

“My fellow Sharan, rich and poor, tonight, here and as always, we are equal; for here we have gathered to once more see the glorious justice of our people, of our city.” He proclaimed and then pointed toward Kanrel, “Behold! Hartar Agna, a murderer most foul!”

In an instant, the choir of cheers became one of boos. And the smile on the face of the one who could be no other than an announcer for this establishment—a director, of sorts.

“Tonight, and perhaps many other nights, we shall see them in combat, be it glorious or pitiful, be it victorious or ending in bitter defeat! We shall see them, and we shall make ourselves heard!” They continued and then pointed toward the opposite side of the arena, where another door was open, and a person of slightly larger size than Hartar walked in, carrying a saber as clean and well-kept as was the one in Kanrel’s cell.

This person looked far more nervous than Kanrel felt; their steps were so uneven, and they seemed dazed as they looked around the arena, seeing all the people, and then at last the person in the middle. And in an instant, Kanrel could see something in the eyes of that person. It was the most profound form of fear, not toward Kanrel or perhaps even the thought of death, but at the sight of the announcer, the director of this show.

“I present to you the opposition; the other contestant for this grand battle: Kal Licht, a thief, and not just a simple thief for a petty penny, but a thief who stole many hearts! And through their crimes, many lonely souls have lost all they have had, some who then ended their lives in a tragic suicide, some who might never get back on their feet or off the streets... And as I narrate these crimes, I wonder: which is worse? Murder through direct action, or murder through indirect action?" The announcer introduced the nervous-looking person, whose expression shifted between guilt and fear, and from there to a simple frown, one knowing all too well what their future might behold, even if they survived this night.

“But our most beloved audience, I digress, for I’ve no say in such things, for justice is not in my hands! It is in their hands, is it not? So let me proclaim this with great excitement: Let the games begin!”

There was no time to hesitate, not even a moment, for the nervous thief’s demeanor changed, their eyes focused, and they rushed toward Kanrel with murder on their mind. Their saber was already out, and Kanrel was left running away, in his mind, figuring out the quickest way to get rid of this danger.

He didn’t want to kill, so he went for the hands, the arms, the legs, and the weapon in Kal’s hands, producing a quick, well-placed steel blade that materialized behind them, hurdling toward the exposed arm. It sliced at flesh, but there was no effect. A sudden deflection, a quick formation of stone around the arm, soon crumbled away after the steel struck.

The formed steel fell to the sands below, soon dissipating, becoming just more of it, another thin layer on which blood would be spilled.

Kal was quick, and their eyes were now keen as they rushed toward him, preparing a strike while forming defensive magic to take care of anything that might be sent their way. But even if there was some skill, some simple knowledge of what to do in such a situation, they were still nothing in comparison to the memories that Kanrel now lay claim to. Perhaps this body was weak; perhaps the magic it held was nothing in comparison to that of Ignar’s, but it was enough for this moment.

Kal was much weaker than Hartar. Somehow, such a Sharan existed among the many.

Kal reached him, striking down at him, preparing to leave him mortally wounded, or at least to force him to yield and let his life and future be determined by the audience and their bloodlust. It would hurt.

Midway through the strike, they froze, their eyes first filled with surprise, and then that fear that was there before returned once more; now it was so much greater than it had been, for their eyes quivered, and their hands fell to the sands beneath, and soon they fell to their knees; now their hands and feet were separate entities. Blood gushed out, and a chilling scream filled the air, piercing past the yells and cheers from the audience. It brought silence with it, as Kanrel had stopped running as well. Instead, he formed another spell, this one to force Kal's eyelids shut, unless he himself would allow them to open.

It all happened in just a few seconds. Even then, he found himself panting and his whole body shaking violently—the adrenaline that ran through his veins made him feel alive, yet he remained scared for his whole being.

Silence conquered the arena, and then it ruptured into magnificent cheers. They called for his name, and they pronounced him the winner, even when the battle had lasted for such a short time, and battles so short were rare, especially between contestants that seemed so fragile and useless.

Kanrel looked around at the many faces in the crowds, and in a way, it felt proper. Even when it was produced by violence, such cheers made sense. But he just couldn’t find a smile to form, not even a fake one.

The announcer casually walked to Kal and inspected him, soon proclaiming, “They are still alive!” On their face, there was a slight smile, one filled with amusement that was most profound.

“Dear spectators! It would seem that we have a winner, and in record time, no less!” They continued and stepped past the blinded thief.

"Thus, I must ask for your judgment! What is a proper reward for the defeated criminal, Kal Licht?” The announcer asked, and as they did so, the saber still in the severed hand of Kal rose from the sands and found its way to their hands.

They inspected the blade that was left untouched and unspoiled by blood or sand. “Is it life?” They asked, then let their finger run through the blade, leaving a streak of red blood that glistened in shades of gold on the blade. “Or is it death?” They almost whispered, yet it was all heard loud and clear, for the audience in an instant burst into screams heard hours before: “DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!”

These screams were louder than those during the battle or during the moment of victory; they were louder than the fear that Kanrel had felt on this day; they were louder than the doubts, the shame, or anything else that he had felt today.

“Silence!” The announcer commanded, and the crowds went silent; instead, they awaited in anticipation. They carefully observed as the announcer turned around and faced Kanrel and the body of Kal that lay upon the sands of the arena.

“Is justice not beautiful? Aren’t life and death the most precious things in our lives?” They asked and lifted the sword above their head. There was a grin on their face as they then commanded, “Open your eyes! Witness the end!” And as the sword came down, Kal’s eyes burst open, and they saw the blade coming down. Their scream filled the arena, but it was cut short, as in the truest form of violence, a life was stopped.

It was swift, it was efficient, and it was brutal. And the crowd erupted with cheers. “Justice!” They screamed, “Justice!” They demanded.

But the announcer was now silent, and they peered at Kanrel; there was no longer a need for them to use words, veiled threats, or anything the like. All could be seen on their face and in those eyes; in that grin that covered their face, that again showed their maw of sharp teeth.

They left the blade buried halfway into Kal’s head and stepped toward Kanrel; they lifted his head from the body and raised it to face their eyes; their grin faded, and a whisper was pronounced: “Be a good doll, and smile to the audience. They love you.” Then they grabbed his hand and lifted it up. “Applaud for our winner, Hartar Agna! Sing praise in their name! Sing praise, for they have allowed justice to happen on this glorious day!”

The crowds erupted once more, now singing his name, paired with “justice.”

It was no less than the reverence Ignar had received in Kalma’s court; it felt wrong all the same. Yet he smiled, for he dared not to...

Soon the announcer escorted him away from the arena, back to the small cell where he had prepared for this duel, and even if he had expected that he would have to witness death today, he had not expected it to happen how it came into fruition.

He stood still for a long time and tried to process the things that had transpired but could not. All he could find was this emptiness that besieged him—this emptiness that refused to let him truly face what had happened.

All he knew was that he would not make it. He would die either way, but along the way, he would lose something that was more precious than life itself. He would lose himself once and for all. There was no absolution; there was only transformation—the metamorphosis of the once-moral landscape. He had to believe that the things that he had done thus far, the things that he would have to do, the things that he would have to witness, and the things that he had witnessed were all not at all as wrong or disgusting as his mind first perceived them to be.

The thin line; the darkness in which he had walked; to enter this city of regrets; and these visions... It had always been there, and the darkness that lay on both sides was not there to beckon or wait for him, but instead, it would grab him, it would cover him, and it would swallow all that there was of him. And it looked at him, and it had become so difficult to separate him from that which had swallowed him.

Could he still find a speck of humanity—of something else, somewhere, anywhere else? Within or out there. Or was this just what being a man was like? A ship at open sea, drifting in the stormy weather, always doing its best not to sink, but it always would sink; it would always be submerged and merged with the deeps; always sinking deeper and deeper, yet never reaching the pinnacle of those depths; never finding the bed of the ocean, the seafloor where one might at least rest. Always suffocating, always drowning, but never truly dead... When would he die? When would it all end? When will the sinking stop?

He collapsed at last. Reaching not the depths of the ocean or that abyss, but the floor of this cell. The cold embrace that it gave him and the restless dreams—or were they just thoughts—that were forced into his mind. Whose were they? Were they his? Were they Hartar’s? Were they Ignar’s? Were they Kanrel’s? Whose were they?

He woke up as cold water hit his whole body, entering his mouth, and forcing him to gag for air and cough violently. It was as if he had been thrown into the ocean, as salty sweat mixed with the taste of fresh water. He began to shiver and tremble as he soon found the cause of this sudden downpour: the ever-smiling announcer, with their twisted smile and their cruel curiosity for violence and brutality that remained in their eyes.

“Good morning, my dearest doll. I see that you’ve slept well—better than one would expect for anyone to sleep after such a thrill, but I do understand... The lights, the cheers, the ecstasy of that moment, the release, the end of a life... It was all so beautiful, yet so... tiring. Yes, tiring… Wasn’t it just brilliant?” They spoke, their tone hovering between excitement and what seemed like confusion but was more like poetry, words uttered by someone inspired by what they deemed beautiful.

Kanrel remained silent, not finding any words to return to this sadist. So instead, he just got up, walked to his bed, and sat down, still facing the creature that had drenched him just now.

The announcer peered at him for a moment, then smiled as if knowing what thoughts ran through his head: “Aren’t I quite rude?” They said, “It would seem that something most important has slipped my mind.”

“You see, dear doll, I haven’t even introduced myself properly! No wonder you daren’t utter a word as a reply!” They said and produced a sweet smile to veil their sharp teeth and twisted grin.

“But I can’t really give you my true name, now can I? That would spoil some of the fun I am having with you, so let me use an artist name of sorts or something, as some people sometimes call me.”

“You see, even if I work here, in the Anandam Colloseum, I still don’t work for the Offices of Joy and Suffering, nor the Office of Justice; instead, as in my work, I sometimes must execute a Sharan or two; so I must, by law, work at the Offices of Life and Death, for no other bureau of our sweetest city may legally put another Sharan to death.”

“Thus, here, they call me the Sharan of Death; but I promise you, I am much worse than they could ever be.” The Sharan of Death proclaimed as if it were just a matter of fact and nothing else; thus, they concluded their introduction, even bowing rather deeply and showing once more their sharp teeth.

As they straightened up and faced Kanrel with a rather keen expression, they asked a simple question: “Aren’t you excited to serve justice once more?”