A/N: Because that scream cut through my very core.
I own nothing.
~The Beast Within~
For the first time in four years, he takes a life.
There is one moment of hesitation, where he can see all and every instance of those years reflect back at him in the wide eyes of his enemy, can feel them shatter the illusion of contentment, of tranquility, that he's been building since he first arrived at the monastery.
In its wake, there is the awakening of something long thought forgotten, something carefully suppressed. It thrashes against the confines of false hope and misguided conceptions, lips pulled back into a vicious snarl, teeth flashing animalistic intent.
As far as thoughts go, there is only one.
Kill.
For the first time in four years, he unleashes the beast.
For the first time in four years, he kills.
It is like the first real breath after being submerged under water.
It is awakening from a confused, uneasy slumber: mind quiet, clear.
Finally at ease.
It is being able to see again, after what feels a lifetime of self-imposed delusion.
It is pain, not piercing the soul, but obliterating its every fragment.
It is dying and being reborn, not as something new and untarnished, but as something of old, polluted by the past.
It is relief.
He screams.
He screams, because this was not how it was supposed to be, because the only thing that surpasses the guilt and anguish is how good, how right, it feels.
It is wrong. It must be wrong.
But how, then, can it make him feel so alive?
He screams, because when the last wisp of air leaves the man's body, that small, minuscule part of him that had remained innocent, that was pure, dies with him.
He is a pious man.
He is a man of God.
He screams in anger, anger at this man who forced him to kill again, who took his peace away from him.
He could have raised his hands and admitted defeat, bowed in acceptance and await whatever judgement God saw fit to deliver.
But that is the way of priests and monks, of those who put their faith in God and God alone, never questioning His plan.
It is not the way of soldiers.
He screams, because being confronted with the reality of who you really are, is killing the existence of years already lived.
Childish ignorance.
Cowardice.
Selfish excuses his life elixir.
It burns away the carefully designed protection, tears at the seams of lies, scorches the warm, comfy wool of deception.
Standing in its ashes, there is only this ugly creature, more real than even life itself. A horrible reflection.
Of fangs gleaming. Claws dripping.
Of remorse never felt.
It watches.
Waits.
He screams.