Special
They said that this morph was special.
Fiora said this morph was special because it was the strongest and most fearsome morph in the army that Nergal had teleported to Castle Ostia.
That was fair. This morph dodged with agility, and he moved speedily to snipe instead of standing stationary at one spot. That made him a difficult target to hit without retaliation. Furthermore, he was a sniper, a deadly enemy of all flying units like herself. A polished silver bow was poised in his right hand, while an ornate quiver of silver arrows with raven-black feathers was slung over his left shoulder. He looked the epitome of a scary sniper that she was advised at all costs to avoid.
Farina said that this morph was special because it was the only morph commander so far that wore 'cheap clothing' and carried nothing of value for her to filch.
That was fair too. Most of the morph commanders, such as Sonia and Ephidel, were decked out in elaborate robes with detailed embroidery and druidic patterns. Sometimes they even carried valuable baubles for stealing and other priceless items. Sonia, especially, had carried the Fell Contract, which became an object of fierce contention between the two thieves, Matthew and Legault. This morph, however, carried nothing more than his silver weapon and wore coarse linen robes dyed purple.
Lyn said this morph was special because it repeated the same two lines over and over again.
That was fair, but obvious. Anyone within a mile radius could hear the morph chanting the two lines over and over again. Lyn tended to state the obvious whenever she became stressed, and this dangerous predicament was certainly enough to induce her stress-linked problems.
But don't all morphs do the same thing over and over again, regardless of whether it be eat, kill, sleep or speak, unless Nergal programmed them otherwise or they were struck and killed? Oh course, there were those few different ones, like Sonia and Ephidel, who seemed to have a mind of their own at times…but weren't those the special ones instead?
Nino said this morph was special because it was ruthless and likely one of Nergal's last-minute creations.
That was fair too, although she suspected that Nino had learnt of all that from Jaffar. It certainly looked ruthless (the silver bow alone was enough to send a shiver down her spine) but last-minute creation? Nergal did have some pretty impressive last-minute creations in that case.
Serra said this morph was special because out of all the morphs, it had the worst dress sense.
She had wondered if she should point out that all morphs were technically dressed Nergal, and thus abhorrent dressing was not really the fault of the morphs at all. Nergal did not seem half as concerned about his morphs' attire as his quest for power and world domination. Furthermore, if she could decide who had the worst dress sense, it would likely be Sonia. She didn't really like that morph's clothes. They were a little too revealing.
Lord Hector said this morph was special because somehow it had managed to infiltrate Castle Ostia and breach their defenses.
Well…tons of other morphs had broken in as well. Did that make them all special in that case?
But of course, Lord Hector was caught up in his fury and that was why he made that remark. It was understandable, and she sympathized with him. If someone invaded her home, she too would hardly have a good word for that invader.
She thought this morph was special too, just that she could not understand her own observation. She agreed with all of the above that others had said, but she felt that these were not the main reasons why this morph was just so special. Thus, instead of the concentrating on the battle like the dutiful falconknight she was learning to become, she watched the morph from afar, trying to figure out her own bafflement.
He (it was a 'he', right?) repeated the same refrain over and over again like a piece of clockwork. He reminded her of a clockwork watch, where the slim hands ran in circles and circles and more circles infinitely. He was like one of those cog machinery that was jammed, and thus repeated the same action instead of carrying on. He was also like one of those gramophones with a broken needle, and thus it played a same tune over and over again.
Did that mean that his mind too was like clockwork, running in endless loops until someone stopped it by force?
Lyn had told her that morphs didn't have a mind; they couldn't think. Neither could they feel. And everyone had echoed Lyn's view unanimously, voting that morphs were zombie-like creatures of Nergal.
But she wasn't so sure; she hesitated to accept Lyn's point, even if they came from her best friend who was usually right. She was still fallible, right?
There was Ephidel, one of Nergal's morphs. He was sentient, and he had a perfect awareness of everything that happened around him. He made his own decisions, and he was fiercely loyal. But he too was haughty, timid and malevolent.
Another example was Sonia. She knew perfectly what she wanted. Her aim was to win Nergal's attention and become his most trusted aide, and thus she was scheming, proud, evil and cold. She killed without batting an eyelash, as Nino had once told her. But she too, made her own decisions.
If morphs were truly empty shells with a written sequence to support them, how could Ephidel and Sonia possess the above qualities? These were human traits, faults and virtues. How did you introduce abstract ideas, visionary concepts and personality traits as well as the ability to make decisions into an empty shell? How do you programme someone to make decisions and set objectives?
And what of Kishuna? His mysterious appearance in their path twice had posed as both aid and hindrance. The first time, he had aided them and protected them with a magic shield to block the magic attacks. The second time, however, he had forced them to fight with magical support, and without any aid from healers. One thing was for certain, though, that he was completely free from Nergal's clutches, and he moved at his own pleasure.
She sighed heavily as she slew an approaching druid (also a morph) who had been trying to sneak up on Lord Hector's back and wound him with Luna. She had the problem of letting her mind wander in the midst of battle, putting herself and her companions in danger.
An arrow grazed past Lord Hector's ear, missing his earlobe by merely an inch. Waving her slim lance, she broke the arrow in mid-air as it approached her, preventing it from hitting any of her comrades.
The broken pieces of the arrow fell silently to the ground, silver-tipped, with raven-black feathers.
She looked up, startled.
Lord Hector was still smashing his Wolf Beil at a general, too occupied to care about anything else around him. He probably had not realized he had very nearly lost his ear.
But the morph noticed. He looked expressionlessly at her, and without tearing his gaze away, drew another arrow from his quiver.
She had two choices: run away, or plant herself next to him. It was common knowledge that snipers could not attack when their targets were less than two arms' length away from them.
But she could not run away. Mark had entrusted her with the task of covering Lord Hector's back, and it would terrible if some druid or sniper wounded Lord Hector because she could not make judicious decisions in the middle of battle.
Huey flinched at the sight of a silver bow and quiver of arrows, especially at such close proximity.
The morph stared at her. His gaze met hers.
She flinched. His eyes were twin pools of molten gold, but they did not have the shine and luster normal eyes had. There was no sign, no hint of any emotion or awareness. They looked like two endless pits of golden yellow, only that they were filled with nothing, not even air. They were emptier than empty; it was vacuum.
Very slowly, he opened his mouth. "This is a message from Lord Nergal," he repeated monotonously. "I await you on the Dread Isle."
She watched as his lips moved to form each word, listened as each word fell from his lips perfectly enunciated. She stared as he closed his mouth tightly again after delivering the message, as though nothing happened.
Was that all he could ever say?
She felt a gush of pity for the morph. She had so many words to say sometimes, but her inherent shyness inhibited her abilities to voice her opinions. Yet, this morph before her, he could only say what Nergal had programmed into him, never his own thoughts.
Her eyes misted slightly with tears, and she hurriedly brushed the moistness away with the back of her hand.
She remembered Nino had once told her that morphs were made of people who were once alive.
Did that mean that each morph once had a soul and a beating heart beneath their emotionless exterior? Did they once experience life like she was, and feel the complete human spectrum of emotions?
If you pricked them, didn't they bleed? If you poisoned them, didn't they die? Only if you tickled them, perhaps they would not laugh.
But what difference was there that distinguished morphs from people like Jaffar? Would Jaffar laugh if you tickled him?
So why were morphs considered lifeless and unworthy of continued existence, while some people who seemed even less alive than morphs were still considered flesh and blood?
As proven, some of them could feel, could think and could decide. Perhaps they were pawns, but they were pawns that may have feelings deep down within them. Why was there this brutal rush to kill them when things perhaps could be resolved?
She winced as she stabbed her lance into a morph thief who had been trying to steal vulneraries from her pouch. Now that she had the full emotional conflict raging within her, she felt very much less justified in her senseless killing of morphs.
Who were these people? Were they civilians once upon a time? Had they been their own fallen soldiers?
The morph still had not moved. Lord Hector had warned her explicitly that this morph was special because he was mobile, but he was not moving. Less than two arms' length away from her, he had plenty of space to move into to try and kill her, but he chose to stare at her, hands clutching at his silver bow and arrow.
Did he…just make a choice?
She noticed a long white scar on his hand, running from his thumb all the way up the back of his hand before it disappeared under his long sleeve of his robe. It looked painful, and she could not help but wonder whether he had acquired the scar when he was still a human, or when he had been changed into a morph by Nergal.
Did he…possess anything else of time before he became a morph? He was, according to Nino, newly-created, so perhaps he would still retain some memories of the past? Was there still any hidden corner that contained the recesses of his awareness and consciousness?
If someone would one day break his exterior, would they find that deep down, the morph had a heart, a soul and a life just like every one of them all?
Was that how Kishuna freed himself? When he came to terms with himself, he reconciled the two facets of himself and broke free of Nergal's control? What was the trigger that broke his façade and awoke his consciousness?
And…what of Sonia and Ephidel? They were a flicker of their former selves; perhaps their personalities…they were the last vestiges of the humanity that they once possessed and cherished.
She nodded vaguely to herself. It seemed plausible.
By absorbing their quintessence, Nergal managed to suppress the characters and willpower of those he killed, whom he then brought back to life as his servants. However, some of them, the stronger ones probably, still retained shattered fragments of their former humanity. It could be merely a sliver, nothing more than a broken shard, but if it was awakened in them, perhaps it could just create a beautiful miracle.
She looked into the tawny golden eyes of the morph. He returned the favour steadily, but there was not a hint of emotion in his gaze.
But he could shot her a long while ago. Instead, he stood still, scrutinizing her, the bow forever poised in his hand and the arrow still between his fingers.
For some crazy reason she could hardly fathom, she smiled at him.
There were just too many reasons why her smile was crazy: it was a battlefield and they were supposed to be killing each other; he was a morph who would likely never smile back; you do not smile at enemies in a general rule; in another general rule, you were supposed to scowl at enemies and show your teeth to scare them; and last but not least, no one smiled at enemies unless you were drunk, or your name was Wil, you came from Pherae and you cannot control your overflowing happiness for having survived the past second.
The morph blinked.
She gasped. When he blinked, just for one second, she saw this flicker of light pass into his eyes. It was just a flicker, but it seemed to awaken something in him, almost like an epiphany.
Was it because of her smile? Was that the trigger?
Then as though the clockwork in his body opposed the deviation from routine, his entire body convulsed and shuddered. "This is a message from Lord Nergal," he chanted. "I await you on the Dread Isle…This is a…message from…Lord Nergal…I…await…you…on…the…Dread Isle…"
She watched, transfixed, as he lifted his bow in jerky moments. Every fibre in her body was screaming at her to defend herself, to drive her lance through his chest before he drove his arrow into her chest, but she could not bring herself to lift her lance.
His unsteady movements looked as though he was resisting some invisible force that was propelling his bow upwards. He continued his chant, but the words became disconnected, the sentences disjointed. It was as though he was fighting a battle with himself.
Was it just her imagination, or was there a tremble in his voice?
There was a growing light in his eyes, which dimmed and flickered, but the light always came back, like a candle in the strong wind.
Was he…freeing himself? She wondered, clutching her lance tightly.
His face had lost some of its marble-like qualities, but it convulsed like a tortured man's expression. It was as though two opposing forces where attempting to tear him asunder.
She watched helplessly. She could hardly do anything to aid his internal battle, but she did silently root for the man within his morph body. She could not do anything to help him directly, but she would give him the due encouragement.
She continued to smile at him.
The tip of the arrow shifted, like the knot in a match of tug-of-war, an indicator of the struggle between outer coercion and inner awareness. Initially, it shifted upwards, but gradually, it halted in its path and went the other direction. Slowly but surely, the tip was moving downwards.
Her eyes followed the tip on its journey downwards. The light was returning to his eyes, and there now seemed to be twin spots of brown in the middle of his golden pupils. His face twitched, as though breaking free of a mask.
Her smile broadened. He was nearly there! Two more inches! One more inch…
Warm liquid splattered across her face. Hurriedly, she wiped her face against her sleeve, bewildered.
Red.
It was blood.
He still stood before her, but now his arms hung limply by his side. His silver bow had fallen to the ground, the arrow snapped into two. He turned his gaze to her one last time.
He smiled.
It was a beautiful, gratified smile.
Then he crumpled to the ground like a marionette without strings, bleeding from a gaping hole in his chest. The light had gone from his eyes.
She stared aghast, as Lord Hector marched up to her, his Wolf Beil still dripping with fresh blood.
"Florina! You should be more careful! He could have killed you!" Lord Hector boomed.
She wanted to protest, to tell him that she had been trying to save the morph, but Lord Hector shushed her, brushing his hand on her cheek.
She blushed.
Sometimes, she really wished she could be less shy.
"Let's go up front, I see some more morphs," Lord Hector said.
Turning, she cast a last, almost furtive glance at the morph that now lay lifeless on the ground. She knew that somewhere deep within him, there had been a man awaiting someone to rescue him by giving him that human connection and she had very nearly done it.
Bending, she retrieved the two halves of the broken arrow and hid them in her pocket. She now knew why she felt that this morph was special. He had given her a smile; they had felt this special affinity between them, this bridge that allowed them to see each other's hearts and reach out to each other.
But the feeling was gone, and she would probably never meet anther morph like him again. She felt as though a part of her had died with him as the light extinguished from his eyes.
Very slowly, she turned around, leaving the corpse on the Ostian Castle ground.
He was special, and she knew it.
And he was special in a way that only she knew.
Even if she didn't even know his name.
Author's Note:
I always though that Denning was unusual, and that morphs are zombies is not a valid statement. So I penned this in an attempt to clear my thoughts.
This is not romance, however. Not insinuating anything between Florina and Denning. I chose Florina only because she speaks less, but empty vessels make the most noise, and thus she probably does quite a lot of thinking by herself, only that she doesn't tell anyone. Furthermore, she is kind and not brash, so she would actually consider everything before she goes to attack Denning, and she would be patient.
As for why I chose Denning...I think he is very poignant. To repeat two lines over and over again, and the purpose of his existence being to be killed...it is tragic, and demeaning for him. There must be some vestige of humanity still in him, in all morphs. Like all the morphs, they are fiercely loyal. And loyalty is something that is really hard to find nowadays, even if it is blind misguided loyalty.
Tired ~ snowylavendermist