The Priesthood

The door to the cell was without a handle, and the only light that entered the cell was through its keyhole. A bright light for he who waits for absolution, only to never receive it from those he wishes it the most.

He sat in the corner and looked at the door, for there was nothing else to look at. Everything else was veiled by that darkness; everything else was meaningless to he who wanted freedom; to he who wished to open that door and leave this place—this back of his mind that now lay claim to all of him.

It is dark in here, and only the finest amount of light is allowed to enter to brighten the vision of the one who begs forgiveness for the things that he cannot be forgiven for.

This door was one he never really wanted to enter. The memory behind one he never wanted to experience, the future that might be, was one like this: just this that conquered the edges of vision, cornered by a brave light, cornered by guilt and regret, the anger one has for himself, and the anger one has toward those who he believes to be the cause of his pain.

It is difficult to remember and to understand that not all dreams—visions—are real; it is difficult to shake yourself awake and to see that none of this is real, that all of this shall pass, and that none of this should affect you as much as it all does.

At least, there was solitude and silence. Oh, how he adorned this silence. It allowed this torture to be ever-present; it allowed him to remember who he was and what he had done. We all forget, but there are some things we wish we could but never can.

And as one's mind enters the circle from which it cannot run away and continues to pound you with its truths, judgments, and beliefs about who you are and what you deserve, if it finds that you deserve anything at all, or if men even deserve anything, things like love or peace, do such things exist as something a man deserves, or anyone, really?

But a circle, even if infinite in its sides, will have to end for a creature who knows nothing of infinite things. The mind of a man is finite, so is his blight, and so is his time, and there will be a point in time where we find ourselves empty, unable to find words to use against ourselves. Perhaps one could call this mercy, but it could never be so, for what is scarier than the emptiness that reaches from within, covers you with its pale touch, and surrounds your mind with a fog through which you can’t see? The light that serves as the cornerstone of this darkness might as well not exist. Not in moments like these.

In silence, there is solitude; in silence, there are just your thoughts, and I do not wish to be alone with just my thoughts.

It is like a trance, a sleepless state, one without rest, one without a moment of peace; there was just the in-between of these two feelings in a constant repetition: first, he’d enter his thoughts and find only regret and harsh words and judgments for himself, and when the circle would for a moment open and let him leave, he would find himself in another, one more harsh than the previous one; one where he was afraid of himself, one where he was just alone, and nothing else.

He didn’t want to be alone, but there was none to accompany him; there was no strength to call for anything, not even that Voice he now so dearly missed. If only there’d be someone to tell him lies, someone who would say that it all would be alright, someone who would promise to him that he deserved absolution and that he too deserved the things he now dreams of. That he too deserved to deserve things.

The door was slammed open, and the bright light that was produced by its keyhole was there, but now more magnificent than before; it encroached all, and in the middle of that light, there was a figure casting a shadow upon the young Hartar and the mind it carried within. The figure entered, soon followed by another.

It was too bright, and so he was unable to see who they were or what they were like, but by their touch and words, he could figure out what they wanted of him and what they felt about him.

“Get up!” It was all he heard: a rough voice followed by a pair of rough hands that forced him to stand, and then the coldness of chains that locked his arms together. On his head, they placed a bag to block his vision—to block the light that might be outside of his cell. Again, he entered darkness, but this one was more potent than the previous, for this one brought so many sounds with it.

He could hear his own breath as he exhaled and inhaled in quick succession, the sound of blood gushing in his head, the sound of steps as he was pulled out of the cell, almost carried; he couldn’t feel his own legs; they seldom touched the floor as they carried him out.

Then came the sounds of people; it was speech, many people who muttered somewhere, then the sound of doors opening, and that sound of speech became more apparent; it became a storm of voices, an assembly of different tones, low and high, but their words remained similar, their chants telling a simple story: “Death to the murderer!” “Murderer!” “Traitor!”

He could feel the mass of bodies around him as they carried him down the stairs. Then they came to a sudden halt, and he was forced to go into something that soon began to move—a sound of humming—they had entered a steel carriage they called an automobile. A somewhat impractical invention, but one that none would dare stand in front of lest they wish to be crushed.

The sounds of people were still around, but as the carriage continued on its way, the voices were left behind, and soon there were just the sounds of that machine as it bumped around on the cobblestone streets and made its way toward a place Kanrel could already imagine. The center of all entertainment in N’Sharan, the Anandam Colosseum, commonly known in the city as the Offices of Joy and Suffering.

It was a grand creation yet a relic of the past, a homage to the times during the Empire of the Dragon, made for great sorcerors and duelists to show their skills and to entertain the masses so that the people of N’Sharan could always be happy. At first, it was something quite popular with the Sharan, as many would enter and showcase their talents to the world, but as time went by and there were fewer and fewer Sharan with significant amounts of magical talent, the games began to die out, becoming far and few.

So, to revitalize this near-ancient tradition, the Offices of Joy and Suffering made a deal with the Office of Justice to provide them with criminals—thieves, murderers, and worse—so that they might fight for the entertainment of the masses while also, hopefully, dying for their crimes.

There’d then be both entertainment and justice.

The vehicle stopped, at last, and he was soon pulled out, forced to the streets once more, and then escorted, or rather dragged, at least a flight of stairs up, and soon through perhaps a corridor to the right, and then at last, multiple flights of stairs down, all the while a cheer could be heard. A great cascade of sounds, of cheers, of joyful laughter, and of screams more vile than those that demand death for a murderer... “Kill!” They screamed… “Kill!” They demanded…

That sound became muffled for a moment but soon returned, almost as clear as it had been just moments ago. But instead of getting thrown in front of such an audience, he was thrown into another cell, the bag covering his head was removed, and so were the chains keeping his hands together.

All he could first see was a dim light that came from somewhere behind him as he faced the cell wall next to which a few simple things were located: a bed without a blanket or even a pillow, and a weapon rack that stood proudly at the end of the bed; it was far better kept than the bed or anything in this cell. And on it, there hung a sword, one whose shape was far too familiar to him by now—not through memories of his own but through memories of another.

A saber. A curved blade that once was the very symbol of nobility, strength, and destructive aptitude. How he yearned to wield it, to once more duel a friend or foe, to let that which was akin to dancing take him somewhere else... The two who had brought him here had already left, not muttering a word to him and just leaving him here with such a piece of art. How could he not touch it? So he did.

He approached the weapon, and with a gentle pull, he released this weapon and its blade out of its scabbard. It was as it was supposed to be. Sharp and well kept, a blade worthy of a general, but in his hands it felt... wrong. It felt heavy. Why would something he had wielded so many times before, and with ease, suddenly become so heavy?

His hands. His arms. This body. It was all wrong. None of it belonged to him. Nothing of it. Just this mind that tried to hold a memory of another as his own... Either way, he tried to get used to the weight he would soon have to carry. But it just felt so awkward. There was barely enough muscle—or technique, even—to wield such a weapon.

Then he stopped, and it dawned on him. The reality of this situation and what had happened to Hartar so long ago. This was death. These were the last moments before death. It would all end here. Someone who was nothing more than a child would face people who would be much stronger than they were, and then that child would die.

His grip tightened around the hilt. But he could not change his fate. Why would he be unable to do so? But then again, he had tried before, and still, the things that were supposed to happen came to fruition. All he was doing here was experiencing a predetermined set of events, all of which would lead to the death of innocence.

He couldn’t help but scoff. It was all just so bitter and useless. The Angels? The Sharan? Kalma? Kalla? All of them... All of these things were the cause. They all tried to bring a solution of their own; they all had their greed and beliefs, yet the destination was like this. This is what they wanted? No, this was just the product of their faults.

And sure. It was all doomed from the very beginning of this useless expedition—this fever dream that refused to end—this nightmare forced to the very core of his existence. It would all end soon. But he would not give up like the rest did. He would not drift into the awaiting darkness that so allured him, that so awaited for him to enter, to return to that beckoning void.

He smiled. A smile without any other emotion than these bitter feelings—these things he would try to do out of spite and nothing more.

Hartar Agna was as good as dead, and perhaps he would die with them. He would die as a man who had lived the lives of Kanrel and Ignar, just to die as Hartar. He would die in a body that was innocent—that, at least, was something.

Kanrel returned the blade to where it belonged. It was clear that Hartar had no aptitude for the blade, but they had something else—something that was perhaps barely there, but still, it was something at least. So he sought from within a familiar feeling, one that he could now recognize easily.

Power. Magic. This is the destructive aptitude one needs to wield a sword in the Empire of the Dragon, but this aptitude was barely there. It was so minuscule, yet somehow Kanrel could tell that it dwarfed that which he had for himself.

What the Angels had given to humanity, to their baptized priests, was nothing; it was just a speck in an endless ocean.

He formed a flame as easily as he could breathe. All the while, he wondered: when would he deplete, and for how long could he burn? And would it be enough to survive even a singular battle out of the many that he might have to fight?

He had knowledge. That is all he needed. Practice? He had had practice as Ignar, even the knowledge of the blade, but this body just wasn’t enough to carry a saber. So all he needed was just this, a moment in which he could enter his mind with a different thought than he had had earlier today. This mind wanted to survive, or at least show the Voice that had brought him here that he would not just simply die; he should at least show how much roaches and humans have in common.

He let the flame dwindle and sat on the bed. He closed his eyes and began to think. He had no clue how much time he had or if he would have any at all, but each precious moment that he could harness was more helpful than a moment in despair.

He could still hear the crowd outside, but at this moment, it was all meaningless. They did not exist. They did not matter, and the storm within engulfed his insides as he meticulously went through memories—so many of them, so many that were painful—that made him more bitter and more spiteful. But even if such emotions were among that storm, he relived them, harnessed them, and found what he was looking for. He found the last spiteful acts of a dying man.

He only opened his eyes as the cell doors were forced open and an unfamiliar person walked in. Their face was nearly fully covered with scales, and they were built like a warrior, lean and strong. From their careful mannerism, Kanrel knew that if he made a mistake or one action too fast, he would lose his head, and this chance to vent his spite. So he stayed still, and they soon just stared at each other.

The person scoffed, their eyes scanning the small frame that sat on the bed. “You seem calm for someone who might die tonight.” They said, their voice deep and surprisingly gentle, but then a sudden grin came to their face, and one could see teeth as sharp as those that were in the jaws of Kalma.

“Perhaps tonight will be more fun than I had anticipated.” It was a purr. An excited exclamation of someone who yearned to see violence and blood; someone who yearned to commit such acts...

He felt so cold all of a sudden. And he could not move; he could not say a word, yet in his head, there was a scream; there was recognition. This person… He had heard of people like them. There were many men who were like they were. Lustful in the most perverted way a man could be.

If Kanrel was a murderer, then this person was an evil incarnate.

The grin deepened on the face of this person. “Curious. Just a moment ago, you were so brave, but now..." They said and came closer, leaning in to whisper, “I can smell your fear.”

Kanrel stayed as still as he could and just stared ahead. The person was so close that he could smell them—a normal fragrance, as normal as any Sharan that he had ever smelled.

They chuckled and backed off. “Get up now, will you? It would not do good for you to miss the show.” They ever so gracefully offered their hand toward Kanrel.

The arm that was reaching toward him was smooth and scaled—just a hand and nothing more—so he grabbed it, even though his fear had been found out. And as he was led out of the cell, the grin on the face of that person deepened and deepened after each step taken; they were now like a predator, leading their unassuming victim to be slaughtered.

Down the hallway, the light became brighter, and the cobblestone soon changed into sand and dirt. He could now see the doorway out; it was larger than a double door and arched into a semicircle. The doors were open, and before going out, they came to a sudden halt. They stood side by side, and the grip that was around Kanrel’s hand became stronger as they leaned closer and whispered, “Survive this, and we might meet many times more; survive and entertain me; then I might offer you a wish, a gift for one who is bound to die sooner rather than later.” The voice was sweet like honey, thick like syrup, and the eyes he could feel upon himself were disgusting, and heavy, and saw only the things they wanted to see: blood, pain, and death.

Cold shivers ran down his whole existence as he was pushed forward, out to the bright lights, and the booming sounds of the crowds that became greater by each moment, by each step that he had taken toward that doorway; this choir of sounds at last reached climax as they saw him for the first time.

It was joy; it was pure bliss.