"And if my fate is sealed and my mind stumbles over the shadow of my thoughts, then, I shall be a weapon.
To those who dare light my soul and fill it with joy,
to those whom I shall deem worthy,
I shall lend the power of my death and the resolve of my life.
I shall be your blade and I shall be your shield.
I shall be your victory and I shall be your doom.
And now more than ever, I wish it was never so."
I am a weapon. I always have been. As far as I can remember, as deep as I can reach in my mind, the only certainty I have is this one. Even when I was human, even when I was still innocent, young and foolish, even when I didn't know the fate that awaited me, even then, I was a weapon. A pure blade to slay the enemy of my peer, a pure fire to burn them down and scatter their ashes to the wind so no one would ever know they even existed.
I was happy then, when I was human. At first… when all I knew was my mother's embrace and my father's voice, when all I cherished was my sister's smile. It didn't last though. It never does. That kind of happiness is often ripped away, bit by bit, piece by piece, tear by tear.
I didn't know then that we were special, my sister and I. I didn't know then that we brought good fortune to those we loved and bad luck to those we despised. It was the year 790 after Christ and I was eight. It was at that time that I first realized I was the stuff of nightmare, that my twin sister and I were no mere human to be trifled with.
My family was nor the richest nor the poorest, and we did not lack comfort, but it was a harsh time none the less. War was not far behind us and the peace was tenuous at best, more of a reprieve really. The Vikings were invading our country and more and more of our lands were falling to their barbaric deeds. We were not of a Noble House and had no castle to protect ourselves; so the people, in those times of need, were more often than not looking up to God for help. Religion was thought to be our salvation. The only thing keeping death at bay, the only thing that would keep our soul safe and grant us passage to the afterlife, to the paradise we could not know on earth.
It was deep in the night when I woke up to my mother's scream. Her voice, supposed to bring comfort and soothe our pain, so soft, music to our ears, was distorted in an ugly plea for help. More harsh voices, demanding and unyielding, were cutting through the silence of the night. I did not understand what they were saying, for I was still in the grip of sleep, but the more I listen, the more fear was sizing my young heart. My sister was jerked awake beside me, as the voices grew louder and louder, and a soft whimper escaped her lips when cruel laugher was heard in the room next door. My heart beat faster and all I could do was keep myself from voicing my own fear. Nor my sister nor I dared to move, and so we listened, silent in our distress. The voices were quieter now, and among the unknown men that invaded our home, I could now hear our father pleading in a soft but desperate voice. I could feel my twin sister trembling slightly beside me and trying to bury herself in my side, maybe trying to become invisible. And even if we were the same age, I could not help but think of myself her big brother, the one meant to protect her. In a way, I knew and I still know that she thought and still think she was the one protecting me. And sometimes she did. But not this night, not in our home, in our bed and the sanctuary it had always brought us.
It is a strange thing really to have a twin. A being so close to you, so attune to your feelings and your Self that it is hard sometimes, to remember when one begin and the other end, to know that no matter what, that being will understand you, maybe more than you understand yourself, to want to protect and be protected and simply… to belong. I was as much a big brother to her as she was my big sister.
But this night, the night when I learn pain and sorrow, the night our lives began to fall apart, that night I was the one trying to protect, to be strong for the both of us.
The voices, more subdue, were still arguing, still thrown into the heat of an argument, softer, but swifter, our parents pleading, almost begging, the outsiders' speech brisk and unforgiving. And it is then, when this false sense of suspending stillness wrapped itself around the house that I dared to move. Prying my sister's hand off my arm, kissing her cheek softly as I strode over her, I made my way over to the wooden door leading to the main area of our humble home. My bare foot did not make a sound as I crept toward what I would come to know as the end of my innocence.
As my hand slid over the handle of the door, ready to open it, I glanced one last time at my twin, trying to diffuse the tension with a smile, as much for her sake as for mine, and with a last shiver of dread and fear, I slid the door open slightly, just a crack. I was not prepared for what I saw. I was young and sheltered, I had known tears and to some extend sorrow, but I had never contemplated the utter grief baring my mother's face for all to see. She was being restrained by a man I did not know, her arms locked from behind by his rigid grip, tears falling freely, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream. At first I did not understand what was happening, I did not understand why the center of my life was so torn open. I gasped, and for a minute I forgot how to breathe. But the worst was yet to come. As my eye surveyed the scene before me, I came to see the state my father was in. Kneeling before another man, his mouth parted in a silent plea, blood falling down his chin from a cut on his lip, eyes wide and dull, glazing over slowly, pain etching down his entire face. And I could not bear my mind to understand, to comprehend what had befallen our peaceful home. And when I finally saw what had caused such a distasteful look on my father's face, when I finally saw the sword piercing his heart, when I finally saw his eye beginning to close, did I fall to my knees, weak with a pain so great I could not support myself anymore. At that moment, I was ripped apart by a torment my soul had never bore before, nor would ever bore again, for in that moment, my innocence was gone.
I can't remember what happens afterward. I can't remember what mockery of a peace the outsiders left behind when they exited our home, leaving my father dead, my mother sobbing and my twin and me in shock. I don't know what exactly transpired that day, even now, I don't know why they so deliberately kill my father, nor do I care. Nor did I care then, for all I knew was that he was dead, gone, and that he wouldn't be coming back. I remember thinking of heaven, thinking that perhaps he had earned a place among God's Angels. I remember the pain and I remember the grief, I remember the hate in my sister's eyes and I remember the rage filling her soul. She was never the same again. But most of all I remember the numb feeling of nothingness that crept through my soul, trying to steal my heart and offer me peace. And as for this moment, I knew that those two men, those two men who had so blatantly torn apart my family, would not see the end of the week. And when I looked in my sister's eyes, I knew that she understood, that she knew as well as I that such deed would not go unpunished.
We were eight then, and we did not know the world as adults do, but we knew that justice, our justice would be served. That night, or was it the day or the night afterward, I honestly can't remember, we did not leave our house, we cry ourselves to sleep, intertwined with each other, praying to God to avenge our dead father. Our mother, so far gone from grief, could barely stand on her own and could no more appease our anguish that we could appease her own.
Two weeks later, the outsiders who I had come to hate, were found dead by the river, their guts spilling from their bodies, their hearts ripped and their eyes gone. And no one but us knew how it comes to pass, knew that somehow our prayers had been answered and retribution was dealt to the sinful men.
And from that day, I knew we had been avenged, and I realized we were no ordinary twins, for God himself, I believed, had answered our prayers.
I realized it, maybe, but I did not yet understand.
Time passed and lives begun anew, yet, our father's ghost was still haunting us all. I began to withdraw into myself, my sister and my mother the only one I could bear to talk to for long. And my sister… my sister let her rage poured from her as water from a fountain, my mother and I the only one spared by her anger. We had not yet become pariah, but the villagers became somehow weary of us, and tended to avoid our company. Our mother, ruined by grief and sorrow, could not find the strength to stand up again and life began to be harsher and filled with day after day of ungrateful work to try to go by and live another day. Mother had some skill as a needlewoman but we were forced none the less, my sister and I, to go to the field every day and earn our keep. For what was an only woman to do in those times of need? With two children to care for and no husband to protect and care for them… it was a miracle we manage to survive at all. Though, at first, some of the villagers were greatly disturbed by our father death and were screaming for justice to be done. The sympathy did not last, not after the mangle bodies of our tormentors were found by the river. Even though no love was felt for those men, the scene by the water was such an atrocity that fear soon replaced the empathy the villagers were feeling. We were, then and there, slowly and irremediably shunned. Our answer to isolation was simple; we ignored them as best we could, though the constant murmurs of superstition were hard to silence. We were tolerated then, but barely. If not for the need of every hand to harvest and work the land, we would have been driven away, left to the mercy of the forest and the rage of the sky. But sometimes, still, an act of kindness was shown, a smile, hidden, but bright, some meager food left to our doorstep during the harsh winter and flowers glittering in the sunlight at the foot of our father's tomb... To those few who still helped us, to those few that were compassionate, fate was merciful and they were kept healthy.
And it was with that state of affair that sometime during the next year, three strangers came to pass by our village. It was not too odd to see strangers stopping by for we were not far from the Great Road and if I remember them clearly and somehow dearly, it has more to do with how they would come to change our lives forever that their strange clothing and beautiful faces.
God, it seems, despite the terrible fate that had befallen our household, was still smiling on us. For who, other than Him, could have sent such ethereal creatures to watch over us and care for us. Who could have allowed such things to happen? Who could have whispered in the Devil's ears and bring us under his malicious eyes? If He was not the mastermind of our fate, what was the meaning of our lives?
No, I'm sure of it, we were meant to be. We were meant to survive. We were meant to carry on His will. We were meant to be what we are now.
After all, God had not forsaken us, for we were meant to become, with time, the Devil's own weapons.