"Welcome to where time stands still
No one ever leaves and no one ever will
Can't hold it
It burns
Each night I cry in pain
And blood tears I cry
Endless grief remained inside
And blood tears I cry
Endless grief remained inside" - Blood Tears by Blind Guardian from CD "Nightfall in Middle-Earth"
Screaming with deep blood thirst, he charged towards his hated foes. Arrows pierced him, blocking the flow of vile acidic chemicals in his body. One arrow pierced near his eye; blood spilled out almost as though he was crying the red liquid. He gasped in pain and snarled soundlessly. The vile acidic chemicals piled up, ready to burst his body with hate.
Suddenly, his body stiffened and numbed. The hatred within him formed a sinister bridge for him to escape from his current torture. He fled down the bridge. The hatred gave him power, hardening and hollowing his body. All memories and all emotions of his family coalesced into a vague, distant weakness. A youja in the netherworld did not rely on the good of humanity for strength.
"Uhn . . ." he groaned, flinging his left arm out onto the floor to pull himself up. He tried to remember what happened before returning to consciousness. A memory of his son excelling as a captain and a memory of his daughter writing poetry came sluggishly to his mind. Those memories usually filled him with joy and pride, yet now he felt nothing. The memories still existed, but he instead felt a strange sorrow at not reexperiencing those joys.
He stood up, hearing the clinks of metal as he did so. He pushed aside the dizziness. Where was he? He could not breathe, but that did not impair him. He recalled his talks and strolls with his wife, his parents' affection, and his schooldays. The memories came easily but seemed empty, devoid of any form of good emotion.
What happened to me? He wondered. He was right next to a putrid yellow river with a bridge connecting the two banks. A castle stood stolidly in the distance. The sky was a yellow-orangeish haze. The grass sounded crisp and brittle underneath his armor-feet. He stepped hesitantly closer to the castle and gasped, feeling nothing.
Then, he looked at his feet, at his hands, and at the rest of his body. He was in youja armor, doomed to be a creature of the netherworld. "How?" he inquired aloud to himself. For the majority of his life, he tried to follow the path of the nine virtues. He was respectful and just to his servants and peasants. He trusted people within good reason. He sought self-knowledge. He was loyal to the people and the causes to which he pledged himself. He tried to understand the feelings of others . . . the list continued. So why was he a youja?
How peculiar that he was able to contemplate his life and analyze his soul now that he was away from those who put hatred into his heart. Now he had no one upon whom to swear vengeance - No one for him to consider gutting and emasculating. He was new to this unusual world and ignorant of its inhabitants. He could not hate who he did not know.
"This cannot be right," he muttered to himself. He stared at the gigantic castle in the distance. For all he knew, that monstrosity probably belonged to Talpa. It certainly fit the descriptions.
Perturbed, he turned around and walked in the opposite direction.
He traveled for a complete day before encountering anyone. He felt nothing. He neither breathed nor felt a heart beating within the metaphysical armor that was now his body. He did not notice the wind blowing until he saw the sickenly orange leaves of the eternally drooping trees sway back and forth. No longer could he smile at a warm gentle breeze of spring or shiver at the cold winds of winter. A youja feels nothing, not even the most basic sensations. He also lacked a mouth. No smiles for a blissful day, no teeth to clench together in anger.
Alas! Beauty and sensations could not exist in a place of wickedness and numbness!
He tried to follow the path of the nine virtues, yet he was a youja. He did not understand why. For what reason should a man of virtue be condemned to suffering in the netherworld?
He began to hope for someone to tell him that he was mistaken, that this world was not the one of evil and treachery, that some beauty and kindness could exist in this place.
Suddenly, to his surprise he saw a human - a mortal boy around the age of eleven, arms chained up by numerous small metal spikes to a wooden beam in the middle of a rotten field. The legs dangled several feet from the ground, gravity and the chains tearing his arms. Rage immediately filled the young youja, elating him and filling him with power. How dare someone torture a child this way and leave that child to bleed to death! Infuriated, he ran towards the boy and started to unwrap the spiky chains from the child's arms. Then, he set the boy down and tried to calm himself.
A violent rage was all that the young youja could feel. He knew he should be worried and concerned for the human boy's safety. After all, he once worried frightfully about the well-being of his sons when they encountered danger. Instead, he felt rage and this boy's terror. Strange yet familiar thoughts bubbled to his mind. His enemies . . . he wanted to slaughter them, to see their blood splatter across the ground, to have them cower and tremble with terror at his presence . . . This boy's intense fear towards him tantalized him; he could experience the power that he dreamed of!
Perplexed at the changes within his mind, the young youja merely stared ruefully as the boy gained courage and ran off.
"Thief!" a voice screamed out.
The young youja jolted out of his reverie, and reflex took over. He pulled a short sword out of his side (he hadn't noticed that before) and blocked the blow of an incoming blade. He tried to parry the blade away, but his opponent hissed and pressed it closer. Two glowing red eyes of evil filled his vision. Had the young youja still been human, he would have felt fear. Instead, his rage once again swelled up and he desired to kill this stranger.
Suddenly, two sharp and long katanas intervened and separated the quarreling youja. "Cease this fighting!" a firm noble voice commanded them.
The challenger stepped back and snarled, "and what is your business here?"
"I come on behalf of the Only World Order," said the tall muscular youja with the two katanas. He had a narrow angular helmet with a white faceplate. The rest of the helmet was yellow, coming at sharp points on the sides. A red plume flowed out of the middle of the helmet. A bright yellow triangular breastplate formed his torso. From the top of the breastplate was a long grayish-silver cape with red trimmings around the sides. The cape seemed to serve as shoulder pads, judging by its thickness.
"My leader!" respectfully exclaimed the challenger who had attacked the young youja. "I serve the Only World Order," he bowed down, surprised at having business from the Order.
The tall and muscular swordsman reprimanded the other firmly, "I came to remind you of the meeting, and that all new youja are also required. Did you not realize that this youja is new to our world? Did your nether spirits not fly in frenzy at the sensation of a new arrival? Did your pool of nether energy not bubble and rave?"
"They did as you have said, my leader," the challenger was suddenly humbled; business for the Order was being discussed.
The young youja's mind reeled dizzily as he tried to control the evil desire for slaughter and battle ebbing and swelling back and forth. He fell to the ground and clutched his helmet. "I will give you power! I will give you victory!" the desire seemed to say silently. Remembering what the Ancient had tried to teach him, the young youja attempted a chant of virtue. Unfortunately, the chant of virtue made him feel nauseous.
The one with the two katanas said calmly, "I will take him to the meeting of the Order. All youja will be needed for the Only World Order to defeat Talpa and regain its lands."
"Yes, my leader."
The tall and muscular youja with the two katanas waited calmly yet impatiently for the youngling's nausea to pass. He did not want to waste time, but he understood and remembered the difficulties of accustoming oneself to existence as a nether creature. Once the new arrival started to regain his ability to stand, he commanded the youngling to follow and walked off.
The young youja hurried quickly after his protector who had sheathed his katanas onto the armored back of a deep black tiger. The new arrival stared at the animal curiously and at the animal's sentient eyes. As far as he knew only the Ancient One traveled with a tiger that also possessed intelligence. Nervous, the youngling quickly changed his attention from the animal to his protector. "Thank you for saving me," he said gratefully and finally introduced himself, "My name is Arden. May I know your name?"
The tall and muscular youja answered in a disgruntled tone, "My name is Saberstryke."
Arden, the new arrival, nodded. Saberstryke had saved his life and (judging from the tone and contents of the conversation) had insisted that no young youja should be attacked; Saberstryke also wanted to unite the nether world against Talpa, the most abhorred and evil of all demons. Arden, the young youja, dared to hope. Perhaps Saberstryke contained a little bit of virtue within him. Arden ventured to test the swordsman's virtue and admitted, "I . . . I used to follow the path of the Ancient One. I was his student."
Saberstryke paused in his step, startled. He regained his composure in an instant and continued walking. "An ill fate will befall to you if you tell every youja about your history," the swordsman advised the youngling.
"May you please explain why?" Arden inquired. If some virtue existed . . .
"Because we are the Ancient One's forsaken."
Then, they passed a river, and Arden the new youja finally saw himself in the reflection. His armor, perfectly conforming to his short and muscular now dead human body, was an ashen gray with reds and yellowed melding together the pieces of armor. His round helmet was a pale blue like a frozen corpse with ridges and small numerous round bulges spreading across the back and top from where the ears should have been. Empty sockets replaced where his eyes should have been. Underneath the right socket was a giant tear of blood.
As Arden stared at his blood tear, Saberstryke's words forever haunted him: "We are the Ancient One's forsaken."
No one ever leaves and no one ever will
Can't hold it
It burns
Each night I cry in pain
And blood tears I cry
Endless grief remained inside
And blood tears I cry
Endless grief remained inside" - Blood Tears by Blind Guardian from CD "Nightfall in Middle-Earth"
Screaming with deep blood thirst, he charged towards his hated foes. Arrows pierced him, blocking the flow of vile acidic chemicals in his body. One arrow pierced near his eye; blood spilled out almost as though he was crying the red liquid. He gasped in pain and snarled soundlessly. The vile acidic chemicals piled up, ready to burst his body with hate.
Suddenly, his body stiffened and numbed. The hatred within him formed a sinister bridge for him to escape from his current torture. He fled down the bridge. The hatred gave him power, hardening and hollowing his body. All memories and all emotions of his family coalesced into a vague, distant weakness. A youja in the netherworld did not rely on the good of humanity for strength.
"Uhn . . ." he groaned, flinging his left arm out onto the floor to pull himself up. He tried to remember what happened before returning to consciousness. A memory of his son excelling as a captain and a memory of his daughter writing poetry came sluggishly to his mind. Those memories usually filled him with joy and pride, yet now he felt nothing. The memories still existed, but he instead felt a strange sorrow at not reexperiencing those joys.
He stood up, hearing the clinks of metal as he did so. He pushed aside the dizziness. Where was he? He could not breathe, but that did not impair him. He recalled his talks and strolls with his wife, his parents' affection, and his schooldays. The memories came easily but seemed empty, devoid of any form of good emotion.
What happened to me? He wondered. He was right next to a putrid yellow river with a bridge connecting the two banks. A castle stood stolidly in the distance. The sky was a yellow-orangeish haze. The grass sounded crisp and brittle underneath his armor-feet. He stepped hesitantly closer to the castle and gasped, feeling nothing.
Then, he looked at his feet, at his hands, and at the rest of his body. He was in youja armor, doomed to be a creature of the netherworld. "How?" he inquired aloud to himself. For the majority of his life, he tried to follow the path of the nine virtues. He was respectful and just to his servants and peasants. He trusted people within good reason. He sought self-knowledge. He was loyal to the people and the causes to which he pledged himself. He tried to understand the feelings of others . . . the list continued. So why was he a youja?
How peculiar that he was able to contemplate his life and analyze his soul now that he was away from those who put hatred into his heart. Now he had no one upon whom to swear vengeance - No one for him to consider gutting and emasculating. He was new to this unusual world and ignorant of its inhabitants. He could not hate who he did not know.
"This cannot be right," he muttered to himself. He stared at the gigantic castle in the distance. For all he knew, that monstrosity probably belonged to Talpa. It certainly fit the descriptions.
Perturbed, he turned around and walked in the opposite direction.
He traveled for a complete day before encountering anyone. He felt nothing. He neither breathed nor felt a heart beating within the metaphysical armor that was now his body. He did not notice the wind blowing until he saw the sickenly orange leaves of the eternally drooping trees sway back and forth. No longer could he smile at a warm gentle breeze of spring or shiver at the cold winds of winter. A youja feels nothing, not even the most basic sensations. He also lacked a mouth. No smiles for a blissful day, no teeth to clench together in anger.
Alas! Beauty and sensations could not exist in a place of wickedness and numbness!
He tried to follow the path of the nine virtues, yet he was a youja. He did not understand why. For what reason should a man of virtue be condemned to suffering in the netherworld?
He began to hope for someone to tell him that he was mistaken, that this world was not the one of evil and treachery, that some beauty and kindness could exist in this place.
Suddenly, to his surprise he saw a human - a mortal boy around the age of eleven, arms chained up by numerous small metal spikes to a wooden beam in the middle of a rotten field. The legs dangled several feet from the ground, gravity and the chains tearing his arms. Rage immediately filled the young youja, elating him and filling him with power. How dare someone torture a child this way and leave that child to bleed to death! Infuriated, he ran towards the boy and started to unwrap the spiky chains from the child's arms. Then, he set the boy down and tried to calm himself.
A violent rage was all that the young youja could feel. He knew he should be worried and concerned for the human boy's safety. After all, he once worried frightfully about the well-being of his sons when they encountered danger. Instead, he felt rage and this boy's terror. Strange yet familiar thoughts bubbled to his mind. His enemies . . . he wanted to slaughter them, to see their blood splatter across the ground, to have them cower and tremble with terror at his presence . . . This boy's intense fear towards him tantalized him; he could experience the power that he dreamed of!
Perplexed at the changes within his mind, the young youja merely stared ruefully as the boy gained courage and ran off.
"Thief!" a voice screamed out.
The young youja jolted out of his reverie, and reflex took over. He pulled a short sword out of his side (he hadn't noticed that before) and blocked the blow of an incoming blade. He tried to parry the blade away, but his opponent hissed and pressed it closer. Two glowing red eyes of evil filled his vision. Had the young youja still been human, he would have felt fear. Instead, his rage once again swelled up and he desired to kill this stranger.
Suddenly, two sharp and long katanas intervened and separated the quarreling youja. "Cease this fighting!" a firm noble voice commanded them.
The challenger stepped back and snarled, "and what is your business here?"
"I come on behalf of the Only World Order," said the tall muscular youja with the two katanas. He had a narrow angular helmet with a white faceplate. The rest of the helmet was yellow, coming at sharp points on the sides. A red plume flowed out of the middle of the helmet. A bright yellow triangular breastplate formed his torso. From the top of the breastplate was a long grayish-silver cape with red trimmings around the sides. The cape seemed to serve as shoulder pads, judging by its thickness.
"My leader!" respectfully exclaimed the challenger who had attacked the young youja. "I serve the Only World Order," he bowed down, surprised at having business from the Order.
The tall and muscular swordsman reprimanded the other firmly, "I came to remind you of the meeting, and that all new youja are also required. Did you not realize that this youja is new to our world? Did your nether spirits not fly in frenzy at the sensation of a new arrival? Did your pool of nether energy not bubble and rave?"
"They did as you have said, my leader," the challenger was suddenly humbled; business for the Order was being discussed.
The young youja's mind reeled dizzily as he tried to control the evil desire for slaughter and battle ebbing and swelling back and forth. He fell to the ground and clutched his helmet. "I will give you power! I will give you victory!" the desire seemed to say silently. Remembering what the Ancient had tried to teach him, the young youja attempted a chant of virtue. Unfortunately, the chant of virtue made him feel nauseous.
The one with the two katanas said calmly, "I will take him to the meeting of the Order. All youja will be needed for the Only World Order to defeat Talpa and regain its lands."
"Yes, my leader."
The tall and muscular youja with the two katanas waited calmly yet impatiently for the youngling's nausea to pass. He did not want to waste time, but he understood and remembered the difficulties of accustoming oneself to existence as a nether creature. Once the new arrival started to regain his ability to stand, he commanded the youngling to follow and walked off.
The young youja hurried quickly after his protector who had sheathed his katanas onto the armored back of a deep black tiger. The new arrival stared at the animal curiously and at the animal's sentient eyes. As far as he knew only the Ancient One traveled with a tiger that also possessed intelligence. Nervous, the youngling quickly changed his attention from the animal to his protector. "Thank you for saving me," he said gratefully and finally introduced himself, "My name is Arden. May I know your name?"
The tall and muscular youja answered in a disgruntled tone, "My name is Saberstryke."
Arden, the new arrival, nodded. Saberstryke had saved his life and (judging from the tone and contents of the conversation) had insisted that no young youja should be attacked; Saberstryke also wanted to unite the nether world against Talpa, the most abhorred and evil of all demons. Arden, the young youja, dared to hope. Perhaps Saberstryke contained a little bit of virtue within him. Arden ventured to test the swordsman's virtue and admitted, "I . . . I used to follow the path of the Ancient One. I was his student."
Saberstryke paused in his step, startled. He regained his composure in an instant and continued walking. "An ill fate will befall to you if you tell every youja about your history," the swordsman advised the youngling.
"May you please explain why?" Arden inquired. If some virtue existed . . .
"Because we are the Ancient One's forsaken."
Then, they passed a river, and Arden the new youja finally saw himself in the reflection. His armor, perfectly conforming to his short and muscular now dead human body, was an ashen gray with reds and yellowed melding together the pieces of armor. His round helmet was a pale blue like a frozen corpse with ridges and small numerous round bulges spreading across the back and top from where the ears should have been. Empty sockets replaced where his eyes should have been. Underneath the right socket was a giant tear of blood.
As Arden stared at his blood tear, Saberstryke's words forever haunted him: "We are the Ancient One's forsaken."