Stars

by sophomoric genius

Type: Originally a one-shot. Now turned into an on-going short fic.

Disclaimer: Although the plot and characterizations are mine, Ragnarok and all other components of the game is copyright Gravity and Lee Myungjin. Any similarities with other fics are purely coincidental unless stated otherwise.

Rating: PG-13 for death themes and slight cussing.

PROLOGUE

She was not particularly beautiful. In fact, she was rather ordinary looking. Her chestnut colored hair and hazel brown eyes could easily be lost in a sea of faces that crowd the streets of Prontera. But there was something about her. Something that made her image a permanent fixture in my mind. Something that made me, an apathetic assassin, fall in love.

I first met her at a hunting party. We were both novices then on our first combat training. Their team leader invited me to join their party. I was actually more of a lone wolf, but knowing that crossing the Training Grounds filled with countless of monsters armed with only a novice blade would consume excessive time and effort, I decided to accept the invitation. Partying was the fastest and easiest way out of the Novice Academy, and I was eager to head back home and begin my training for assassinhood.

She was not one of those irritating girls who scream at the sight of a Roda Frog. Neither was she was one of those few power-hungry girls killing every monster their eyes catch. She was doing her fair share of fighting, occasionally wincing upon a Chon-Chon's sting, yet steadily thrusting her blade towards an enemy. Nothing out of the ordinary. She did not need my help, nor did I need hers. I barely even gave her a second look.

Several years later, we met again. I was a thief-turning-assassin by then, and she, an acolyte. I was passing the great desert on my way to Morroc City when I noticed a rather nasty sandstorm moving towards my route. I decided to stop over the nearby oasis and let the sandstorm pass. Besides, the sun was incredibly hot on my back, I was tired, and my water bottle needed refilling.

I was a stone's throw from the oasis when I saw an acolyte on the other side, holding what appeared to be a falchion.

Acolytes are not allowed to wield daggers, let alone swords.

I chuckled. I've been through this desert a hundred times, but it seemed I still was not immune to mirages.

And a weird one at that. An acolyte with a falchion. Heh.

Then I heard a scream. It was not of fear, but rather of an attack. The acolyte from my mirage suddenly jumped to life, her falchion high in the air.

What the…

I walked faster towards the palm trees, quite certain it was no mirage, and yet refusing to believe it was real. After barely a few seconds, the acolyte was thrown back, her real, shiny falchion landing a few steps from my boots. It was only then that I saw what it was that she was fighting. A Sandman.

I took out my fire stiletto with an excited grin. In an instant, I was in the air, staring at the hollow eyes of the desert ghost. With speed and accuracy to match an assassin's, I repeatedly plunged my weapon into the monster's body. Ordinary weapons would simply slide through the grains of sand that make up the Sandman's form. But the fire element in my stiletto ignores this mechanism and instead, slices directly through the monster spirit underneath the sand, causing grave damage. I had the Sandman down in a minute.

With a satisfied smirk, I walked back to the oasis, not even glancing at the girl acolyte as I passed her. I knelt by the water, scooped a handful and splashed it on my face. It felt good. I reached for my water bottle and lowered it to the spring.

"I know you."

I turned my head slightly and caught a glimpse of the girl. She had long, wavy chestnut hair. Her eyes were downcast. She stood up and walked to where her falchion was strewn and picked it up.

I turned back to my water bottle and brought it to my lips. After a few big gulps, I lowered it back to the water. She was now sitting beside me, her now-sheathed falchion between us. She lowered her hands and splashed a few handfuls of water on her face herself.

I looked at her and finally saw her hazel brown eyes. I knew I've seen her before but I didn't remember when and where. And I didn't really care.

"Acolytes are not allowed to carry swords," I muttered, standing up. I recapped my water bottle and placed it on its holder on my belt. I looked back towards my route. The sandstorm was showing no signs of easing up. I walked under one of the trees and sat down.

The acolyte remained silent for several minutes. She turned to me and repeated her statement earlier. "I know you."

I shrugged. "I don't care."

She continued to stare at me, apparently unnerved by my stoicism. "You are going to become an assassin, right?"

Silence.

She looked at the sword beside her and bit her lip, deep in thought. She was quiet for a few minutes. Suddenly, her eyes returned to pierce mine. "Will you teach me? I'll pay."

I frowned. Teach her what? The ways of the assassin?

"You're an acolyte."

Her brows furrowed. "No. It was a mistake." She shook her head fervently. "A big mistake."

"You can't be an assassin," I told her simply. The sandstorm is moving away. In a few minutes, the route will become passable again. I stood up and prepared to leave. "You've already chosen your path. Go pray for world peace or conduct a mass or serve God or whatever it is that you do."

"There is no God," a fierce, bitter voice answered me. "I learned that the hard way," she followed with a whisper.

I scoffed. "You realized it too late." I turned around and started to walk away.

"I want to kill, Janus."

The quiet resolve in her voice and her mention of my name stopped me in my tracks.

"I want to kill people. I want to kill the people my parents swore to protect. I want to kill the people who killed them."

Slowly, I turned to face her. Her hazel eyes met my gray ones squarely.

I have met a lot of evil people in my life. People who enjoy killing. People whose eyes light up at the sight of suffering and death. Heck, I was raised by one. Until I killed him, that is. Their intent and manner of killing may differ, but they have one thing in common. Their eyes. No matter how some of them try to maintain a blank expression, to bottle up the joy death of another by their hands bring to them, their eyes betray them. Others hold only but a flicker, but most positively radiate with malevolence. Pure, unbound evil.

Hers held none of the sort.

Yet.

Yes, her eyes were cold and hard. No doubt, she could kill someone if she really wanted to. But it was not evil that compelled her. It was anger.

"How did you know my name?" I asked her indifferently, my eyes still locked on hers.

She shrugged, smiling lightly. "I told you I know you."

I frowned, trying to recall.

"The Novice Academy. We were partymates."

"Hmp."

She stood up and walked up to me and offered her hand. "My name's Elise. Elisabeth Marie Gatmaine."

Gatmaine. So that's why she's so mad.

I stared at her hand. "You can't be an assassin." I turned and started walking away again. "Too good."

My last two words seemed to enrage her. "Did you even hear my name? Do you know who I am? You have no right to tell me I'm 'too good'. My parents died because they were 'too good'. I've had enough of this bullshit!"

I snorted and continued walking.

"My parents were--"

I rolled my eyes. "Two of Midgard's finest Paladins. I know."

She was quite taken aback for a couple of seconds. Only for a couple of seconds. "They tried to protect those people! They risk their lives every single day to fight for them! And this is how they repay them! They--"

I cut her off in mid-sentence for the second time. "They? Don't you mean he? It is King Tristan III that you want to kill, right?"

I turned and looked back at her. It was not only her voice that was filled with rage. She was literally shaking with anger.

"They fought his battles for him. They carry with their bodies the battle scars that ought to be his." Her light brown eyes bore through mine. "And yet he shunned them when they needed him the most."

She stopped short. Slowly, she shook her head. "No, he didn't shun them," she corrected herself. "He killed them. He didn't even do it himself. He ordered his troops— including the very troops my father used to command—to kill them!"

"It was rumored that they faced Loki himself. That was how they became Undead. Instead of defending the city, they attacked it."

She shook her head furiously. "They could've been saved! There are ways to save the Undead…"

"I heard some tried to exorcise them, but it didn't do any good."

She fell silent. She closed her eyes and dropped to her knees, hugging herself.

I didn't know why I even bothered continuing the conversation. I could simply have walked away, as I originally intended to do. But there was something about her that made me stay.

Perhaps it was pain.

And the nagging memory of myself, aged seven, seeing the lifeless body of my mother, with my father holding a bloody katar.

"What kind of God would allow such a thing?" she whispered. "They had such strong faith in Him. Why did He fail them?"

"I don't believe in God."

Slowly, her eyes traveled upwards to meet mine. The hazel brown orbs that were filled with wrath seconds ago were now sad and pleading.

They were pleading for me take away all the hurt and anger; they were emotions so foreign to the girl that prolonged exposure to them was bound to turn her into some sort of psychotic killer—like my father.

They were pleading for me to shake her back to her old self: a cheerful, optimistic acolyte pursuing her childhood dream of becoming a priestess.

They were pleading for me to restore the faith this young acolyte girl used to have with her God.

But how was I supposed to do that when I don't even believe in God myself?

Subconsciously, my hand went to one of the small compartments fastened on my belt. I opened it and took out an old rosary with silver beads and a small, silver cross. I stared at it for a while, memories of the past I have long forgotten flooded in my head. I walked back to the girl kneeling weakly on the sand. I sat beside her and handed her the rosary. She eyed it warily.

I sighed.

"When I was young, a High Priestess gave this to me. She told me that things happen for a reason, even the bad ones. We might not understand why it should happen, and we may never will, but God intended it to ultimately make us a better person. What to make out of it, and how we would emerge from these trials is entirely up to us. We become who we choose to be. If we choose to wallow and drown ourselves in sorrow and bitterness, then we become just that: sad and bitter. But if we choose to swim instead of drown, to stand up and continue on after a bad fall, then we become stronger with the experience. If we choose not to loose ourselves in the midst of the crisis, then we come out of it with our soul intact and our faith stronger than ever."

She was gaping at me, drinking every single word I said. I reached for her hand and placed the silver chain in it.

"I don't believe in God," I told her, standing up. "But I do believe that our choices determine our destiny. You could choose to kill the King of Midgard. It's your choice. But remember that the battle is not between him and you. It is between good and evil. Between mankind and the rising forces of Loki." I started walking towards Morroc City. "You are a good person. Don't let it destroy who you are."

I was walking for around thirty minutes when suddenly arms flung around my torso, clutching at my shirt. I felt her tear-stained cheek press against my back, muffled sobs erupting from the bowed head. I looked down and saw my silver rosary on her right hand.

"Thank you," I heard her whisper in between hiccups. "Thank you."

We've met several times after that incident. She became a priestess, and I, an assassin. She sometimes helped me with my missions from the assassin guild. She has saved me from certain death more than once, but she brushes this off, simply declaring that II/I was the one who saved her.

Maybe she's right. Maybe I did save her life that day in the great Morroc desert. But she did even more for me. She gave me back my life.

I became an assassin partly because it was in my blood, and partly because no other job could maximize my abilities of stealth and speed. But most importantly, I became an assassin to isolate myself from others. I always kept my distance from people. I was careful not to let anybody get too close. I was afraid of caring, of loving someone. I was afraid of becoming vulnerable. Of having the possibility of getting hurt. Or worse. That I would turn into my father and hurt the very people I love.

But she changed all that.

That day in the desert, she made me realize that I am not just some inanimate object made up of flesh and bones. That I have feelings just like everyone else does. And that it was okay to feel. To become angry. To cry.

I fell in love without meaning to do so. It felt nice and warm. It made me feel human again. She became my star, guiding me in my darkest hours and making me believe in heaven.

Of course, she could never know how I feel. Nor could I expect her to return my love.

Irony of ironies! All my life I have been shielding myself from situations wherein I could be emotionally hurt. Yet here I am now, loving someone with all that I am, knowing she could never love me back. And, it was actually me who brought her back to her faith!

But I would never have it any other way. Not if it means her sacrificing her beliefs for me. For she would not be the woman that I love if she wasn't Mother Elisabeth Marie Gatmaine.

I would never give up loving her, though. Not in a million years.

o0o

Author's notes: Made this in one sitting. I don't know if it's any good, so please leave a comment, whether it be good or bad. Please tell me if I made some grammatical errors, or if you found it hard to read and understand. I really want to improve my writing. Thanks for reading and hope you liked it!