They call them the bad-faithed ones. The unfaithful. They say that they could not be trusted. They accuse them of wickedness, dishonesty, foul play. And every one of these accusations is justified. They're not the right sort. They're not the heroes in the story. They are who they are.
And their name is a name they bear proudly, as is the skin they wear, as often as they shed it. Bad faith is what defines them. Because you should never put your faith in them. Because they never put their faith in anyone. Because they only ever have faith in ideas and people of the bad kind: their own kind. Because all they truly believe in is themselves.
And that is not admirable in the slightest. Or at least so they say… those who don't know their story, and they never will, because they – the wicked ones – don't let anyone on the outside in.
And here is what you don't know about them.
Once upon a time, they too believed. And, naturally, theirs was a bad faith. Their first – and far from only – crime was standing by the wrong belief. In a time when holy wars were fought daily, they refused to denounce their beliefs and embrace religion. Unlike most, they could not be forced into submission by the gods – and they would not allow to be done so unto by people. They were shunned, persecuted, slaughtered and burned. Their unique gift, the very thing that defined them, was treated as heresy and punished accordingly. Their power was seen as a curse, their existence – a plague. And they had no choice but to fight back, by means most foul. They didn't have the chance to fight for what was right, because they were too busy fighting for survival. They didn't fight for the god they believed in, because no god believed in them. No god heard their cries in the fires; no god lent a helping hand in their battle. No god ever heard their prayers. Perhaps because they were too proud to pray. They were people acquainted with the forces of nature, and they were aware nature was seldom stirred by prayers.
And, age by age, they grew hard and spiteful, cynical and distrusting, determined to go any lengths not to let their kind be extinguished, to preserve what the world around them tried to uproot, to ensure their blood, often as it was spilled, ran on along the pages of history. Because flesh and bone turn to dust and forget, but the blood remembers. Blood has memory, and they know it better than anyone. The blood of the family constantly changes its owner, but through it all it remains the same. It is not a problem if it is frequently shed: all the more marks to leave in history. Because, in the end, they endure. And this is their legacy; not riches, not wisdom, not works of art: blood. Blood is spilled today so that blood gets to flow in someone's veins tomorrow. And it carries the memory of all the battles of yesterday won. Oh, this blood is not in essence pure, no; it contains, as war tends to be a chaotic, messy thing, the blood of the enemy, for a battle counts as won if most of the blood you're soaked in isn't your own. And this makes their bloodline one-of-a-kind. They have blood in the blood. The blood of their enemies. And it whispers, it reminds, it tells its tale even to the children; even the youngest blood boils with a simple blood-curdling message: "They tried to kill us because we were different. They wanted to annihilate us because we had the wrong faith. We refused to kneel before their gods, so they decided to dispose of our heads. And yet, in the course of trying to destroy us, they gave us a power greater than the one we were born with. Hatred. Venom. Resourcefulness. Resilience. Determination. And a vicious, ruthless, sinful, unbreakable will to live. We've been tortured, raped and butchered through the ages – but we were never broken, and the blood still flows… This is what made us who we are, and we take pride in it with every drop. We were given a unique power – no, not by the gods; it's ours, damn it, and we'll keep shedding blood – ours and yours – to protect what belongs to us."
This is the legacy of the blood. It tells a thousand dark tales in a crimson language. It never forgets, and it never forgives. And, most importantly, it never stops flowing – because they fight for what they believe in. And they believe with a fierce, fierce fire. They believe in the staff and the sword, in the blood given and blood taken in battle, in the darkness that makes you run towards the light. One person's sacrifice means nothing to history. But the blood that carries the spell must flow on. It's precious. So, today, when torn between choosing to spill their own blood and someone else's, they go with the latter. Better you than them, right?
Many would claim this to be obscenely selfish. But it's their blood they're out to save, not their skin. Blood is thicker than water… and, in some ways, thicker than the thickest of skins.
And so, believe it or not, they look out for each other. Their inner bloody circle runs both ways: they never let anyone on the outside in… and they never let anyone on the inside out. Yes, throw all the blame and judgment and accusation you can muster their way, and they won't ask of you to drop the charges. Is it not better to be judged for survival than applauded for death? They don't believe in the afterlife, only in blood. It carries a bad faith, the worst one of them all: faith in life. The kind no god can profit from. The greatest treasure you possess is the one no one can steal from you.
So go and throw the first stone. Prepare the torches. Tie the knots of the nooses. You're dealing with the greatest escape artists in history. And, indeed, think twice before you put your faith in the likes of them. They're not like the rest of us, and they're definitely not like any of you. They're more than the eye could see. They're legacy. They're ancestry. They've got blood running in their blood. They're a never-ending story: a story written in blood. And if you try to take away what's theirs, they'll write the next chapter in your blood.
They'll never be remembered as the heroes – but they will be remembered. And some – few, but enough – will remember the beginning of their story, when they fought not merely to spill blood, but to defend what they believed in. Their lives. Their loved ones. Their honor. Their freedom.
So be careful not to put too much faith in them, but do not make the mistake of underestimating them. They're a dangerous paradox. They would bleed to defend their blood. They would kill to kill another day. They'd stop at nothing to protect their own from harm. And, once you're in their hardened, tainted, bloodstained, bleeding fortress of a heart…
…nothing can touch you.
It's the most wicked faith to put your faith in.
But I believe.