Mirrors, a ronin warriors fanfic

Mirrors

disclaimer at the end.

It's really quite an odd concept, mused Dais, the Dark Warlord of Illusion. Quite odd . . . that the Nether Realm, the Kingdom of the Dead, should be held under the rule of Immortal Mortals . . .

Or were they immortal? He and his peers, Kale, Sekhmet, and Kayura, had been granted immunity to Time when each had given themselves to Talpa. Time could not harm them.

But they could still be killed.

Yet what right have we, those granted a chance for eternal life, to reign over those who have died?

The Warlord calmly strode through the Palace, the one which had seen so much darkness during the reign of Talpa's Dynasty. Little had changed from the appearance . . . the servants, undaunted by the dramatic shift of power in the Nether Realms, had continued the duties they'd performed ever since dying.

All except for the throne room, which had been sternly avoided by nearly everyone since Talpa's defeat.

It was into this room that Dais now found himself – standing before that throne as he had so many times in the past. But this time there was no demon present, there was no spell upon him, and, unlike all that time during Talpa's rule, there was fear in his heart.

Fear.

Talpa's Warlords had no concept of fear. Fear was an abstract concept used to exploit the weaknesses of others.

They were Warlords of the Dynasty. They ruled the Dead. Why should they ever feel fear? What was left that could possibly frighten them?

For their service, they were granted power. Immortality. Unimaginable strength. Virtually anything they desired. And all that Talpa had required of them were success and obedience.

Obedience.

When we were first entered into Talpa's service, it was because he offered us exactly what we wanted. Strength. Power. Immortality. He granted us all that. More. But in order to ensure our obedience, our minds were shadowed. Impressed upon. Even controlled, at times, by the Nether Spirits. All to ensure that our hearts still belonged to him. That we didn't ever open our eyes and see what we had become.

The immortals being controlled by the Dead. It just didn't seem right to him now, now that the shadows placed upon him were lifted.

He gave us strength. He gave us immortality. And to keep us, he made us continue that lust for power. We never realized how easily we were manipulated. But now . . .

Dais sighed, dropping his torch absently, not paying attention as it burned out on the floor beside him.

Now that their wills were free and their minds unclouded, fear returned.

Fear of the unknown.

Their purpose was no longer determined for them.

The unknown.

What were they to do? What purpose had the Warlords left? To rebuild the Nether Kingdoms after Talpa's brutal reign?

To what end? How could the living rule the Dead?

None of us were pure or innocent when we joined Talpa. For some reason or another, each of us was already bent on evil, twisted to darkness and cruelty. But none of us ever even imagine things to the extent to which Talpa brought us.

The shock of being released from that dark power had taken time to set in on the Warlord. At first, there had only been anger at having been manipulated, having been used by the Demon in such manners.

It had been very slow to come to realization.

It took time to grasp that hundreds of years had flown by, each bent on destruction, greed, anger, vengeance, and that infernal lust for power.

So many years . . . so many years completely gone, gone forever . . .

In all those years, the Nether Spirits had been little more than pawns in his eyes, and those of his peers and companions. They'd seemed as soulless zombie forms, useful for their life-draining powers and the menial tasks they performed so uncomplainingly. When a soul entered the Nether Realms, it was placed to a task – a task which it carried out unthinking for eternity. A soul couldn't be killed – it was already dead. Those sent into battle, even against the Ronin Warriors, had not been killed again. Their forms had been destroyed, and they'd simply returned here, to the Nether Realm. The Kingdom of the Dead.

Now, though, Dais saw these Spirits roaming through eternity, and a wave of emotions he couldn't understand in the least blasted through him. The Living and the Dead could not communicate – but because the Warlords were in power here, the Dead could obey. Not question, not speak – simply obey.

Death is supposed to be the end of the sufferings inflicted in life. What right have we to intervene?

Each of those blank faces had a name, a story, a memory. Yet they could not speak of them, not to those still living. And as long as there were Living in the Nether Realms, these souls would be doomed to obedience.

Obedience.

As Talpa was to us, so we are to them. Except that they had no choice but to come here. No one is truly immortal. Not even us.

This was the Nether Realm. The Kingdom of the Dead.

Dais sank to a sitting position on the floor in the abandoned room.

All those years under Talpa's control, he'd never noticed that so many of the faces seen in the endless masses of Spirits were familiar to him.

Now, though, everywhere he turned he saw the shade of a person who seemed vaguely familiar to him – but he couldn't quite draw on the memory.

Because the memory was of a time when his mind was controlled, and his will suppressed. Everything was vaguely hazy – nothing ever came clearly from those centuries of obedience. He was thankful that he'd never encountered a Spirit of one he knew well. He wasn't certain he could bear it.

Until today.

We're not immortal. Although we're the overlords of the Nether Kingdoms, each of us is doomed to someday become nothing but another faceless servant in this Realm. We'll be once again held on a strangling leash of obedience to the Rulers of this Realm. Talpa or not – it doesn't matter anymore . . . it will happen to all of us . . .

Not even an hour ago, he'd been walking outside the Castle, looking vaguely at some of the Spirits recently assigned to the Nether Armies. The souls who, in life, had been accustomed to fighting, and would now face an eternity of it as long as the Living ruled the Nether Realm.

And he'd seen him.

I didn't recognize him at first. The Spirits are all so dark, so gray, so hazy. They all share such a blankness, such an ambiguousness that it's hard, very hard, to recognize anyone . . . but it was him.

Anubis. His former comrade, his former leader, his former adversary.

A Warlord of the Nether Realm – killed, and thus forced to reside himself among the Spirits he once manipulated.

He didn't recognize me. He couldn't. I'm alive . . . and he's not. I was only a voice to command. Nothing more.

Dais had stood, riveted, shocked by the meeting.

" - - - Anubis?" he'd finally choked out.

But the Nether Spirit had only stared that eyeless stare right through him.

Empty.

Obedient.

A mirror of a face that had once held such character – whether it was a nasty grin or a snarl of rage, a taunt or a seething vow of vengeance . . . then, of course, Anubis had been freed from that controlling shadow of Talpa's before he himself – had he perhaps been happy? Actually happy for those brief days of freedom and life?

Those brief days of freedom between Talpa's control and the one he now endured?

A mirror. A mirror of all those things – perhaps happiness, perhaps rage – it didn't matter which. Because although the mirror could reflect all these things, it had no image of its own. In itself, it was empty. Devoid of everything. Simply being.

And for the first time, the enormity of the Living presence in the Nether Kingdoms began to dawn upon Dais.

As long as we're here, they'll all be nothing but slaves. Mindless slaves. And after us are certain to come others. No one will ever be truly free. Not unless we leave now, we leave the Kingdom of the Dead to be ruled by the Dead.

The Warlord sighed deeply, tormented deeply by his own thoughts.

Fear.

Of the unknown.

Of the inevitable.

For, as he realized, by leaving the Nether Realms, by leaving this haven of power and strength and living among the Living, the Warlords would be relinquishing the immortality granted by the Nether Spirits.

By leaving these people and setting them free, they would be dooming themselves to return very soon – very soon, but not as the rulers they were now, but as subjects.

Subject to the whim of any Mortal who might find the gateway between Realms.

Subject to be as blindly obedient to another as the Spirits were to him, now.

Either they continued ruling the Dead, or they joined them. Either they continued exploiting the Dead, or they took the chance of being exploited with them.

Fear.

Dais stood slowly, brushed himself off, and turned to leave the abandoned chamber.

He was a Warlord of the Nether Realm. And such he would stay.

He didn't dare do otherwise.

And yet . . . it doesn't seem right that the Living should rule the Dead . . .

* * *

The end! Disclaimer:

I don't own anybody. J

Please – don't hold this story against me. It's Independent – takes no role in my other series', and was thrown together when I realized that I don't want to go to class tomorrow. J Lack of sleep does strange things to people. I hope you enjoyed reading it half as much as I enjoyed writing it . . . because then I've had twice as much fun as you. Please – let me know what you thought of this! It's the first fic of this sort that I've attempted. Gimme a break. I'm lazy.

Completed: September 30, 2001.