Magic to Make the Sanest Man Go Mad
It had been too late for the salesman.
He had avenged him of course – as his body lay on the grass, blood feeding the soil, so too did the blood of his murders. Fallen demons, remaining in a fallen world, making the guilty and innocent alike fall alongside them. Looking at their victim – with his strange yellowish skin, and his stranger, dagger-like ears – he reflected that only the victim would receive a grave this night.
"May the gods watch over you," Kharazim intoned. "May you find more peace in the hereafter than you did in life."
The words were hollow, as was the intent. Once, in a time that felt as distant as an age of the world, he had been a servant of the gods. A lapdog of the Patriarchs. A simple monk sent to observe the Fallen Star, not knowing then that his path would take him to Heaven itself, and stranger realms beyond. Not knowing of his latent power. The power shared by his companions, and the birthright of all mankind. Not knowing that he would become one with death, and declare, "no more." He was no servant of gods or Men. He was nephalem. He was the god now. So if lesser mortals fell before the dregs of Hell, then what of it? He had seen hundreds die at the hands of the Lord of Sin. Thousands die at the touch of the Reaper of Souls. What was one more death among all that? Even as the world grew darker, his flame burnt ever brighter.
Still, he would give the salesman due rites. He gingerly turned him over, blood staining his hands as surely as it did the man's clothes and wares. Wares that were carried on one large sack that Kharazim could scarce believe the salesman capable of carrying. Wares that decency demanded he leave aside, but practicality bid him investigate. He still needed to eat, to drink, to find comfort in the arms of women (a sin that he was fine with now). Opening the bag, he told himself that it was no issue. The dead had no use for the luxuries of the living. Luxuries even such as these.
"Masks," he murmured.
A lot of them. Masks, masks, more masks, and nothing but masks. Was this the salesman's trade, he wondered? A peddler of toys, of falsehoods, of shields for those who would hide their faces from the world? Kneeling down, he picked up one of the masks – it was like a child, albeit one whose face was made of wood, and painted as such. Another reminded him of a fish – smooth and sleek. A third, a jolly looking mask of a strange looking creature that conveyed a sense of strength. He recognised none of these creatures, nor the symbols of the mask that bore a red eye. Strange, yes, but exquisitely crafted. Almost as if the masks were living. Or rather, had been alive.
Then there was simply a pair of rabbit ears. Smiling, thinking of memories lost to distance and time, he put them on. For a moment, he felt like running across the fields of Westmarch, nay, the fields of the world. Across grass, across sand, across rock and soil…he wanted to run…run so fast…run away, to not look back, to outrn death itself, and-
No.
He took the ears off. It had been but a thought, he told himself, but he could scarce indulge it. He did not run from the problems of the world, he confronted them. Confrontations that always ended in blood and fury, but then, what else could solve the ills of the mortal realm? He was…had been…the fist of the gods, and by body and soul, he could fell those that wished this world harm. And wearing rabbit ears wasn't going to help that. Them, or any other mask. Even the purple-coloured one with golden eyes, spikes jutting out of its sides. The one which caught his gaze. The one he picked up. The one whose eyes looked back into his.
Do you want to play?
He blinked. Every instinct in his body, every untorn fragment of his soul bid him drop it. Depart. Leave the body of the salesman for the crows. Yet it was an urge he resisted. He had overcome the Lord of Terror himself, whatever ill ease a mask could give him was as nothing.
I am not a child.
Everyone is a child. Everyone wants to play.
The child inside him screamed. The man inside him bid him leave. The god within him kept his body and mind in this place. Gods did not run from their fear. Gods looked into the eyes of the demon and laughed.
You're a good man, the mask said. Words that came from no mouth nor soul, yet words that were heard all the same. I like good people.
I…Kharazim blinked. He was feeling tired all of a sudden. Tiredness that was affecting more than just his body. I am not a good man.
I don't think so.
Kharazim blinked again. Sleep, once so distant, once so fleeting, was now so near. The village of Ilfiri was but a mile away. Beds, women, wine…they could still provide that. If he left now, he would reach it before the setting of the sun.
Sleep, said the mask. You need it. You've earned it. You're a good guy, and good guys need rest.
Good guy…what? Kharazim yawned, and for a moment, lost all sense of control. No sense of his own body. "Good guys." That was the mindset of a child. 500 gods of chaos, 500 gods of order, one god of balance…tales that he had seen through. There was good, there was evil, but everything in between was grey. The world was grey.
The world was dark.
When he awoke, the mask was on his face.
He tried to scream, but he had no mouth. He clawed, as a mad animal would, trying to pry it off his face, but couldn't. He couldn't find where his face ended and the mask began. Mask and face were as one. Beneath the mask, he opened his mouth, before the mouth was subsumed. Wood and flesh became as one in unnatural union. Tendrils of the mask ripped his flesh asunder. Its eyes were his eyes. Its face was his face. He collapsed to the ground, trying to retch, but there was no recourse. Blood and bile remained within him, poisoning his body, host to a soul long since sullied. He did manage to scream, as tendrils of purple light extended from his back, but the scream was not his own. The scream was that of a child. Long forgotten. Long supressed. The child had died for the man, and so too did the man die for the mask. And the god?
Be quiet.
The god was now mortal. A puppet, one with wood. The puppet whose eyes, seeming through the vision of one whose gaze went beyond time, looked up at the sky. Towards the full moon, shining light over a world gone dark.
No way this time.
His gaze returned to the ground. His gaze, its thoughts.
What to do now?
Their thoughts. Their body. Its mind.
Majora.
It turned to a different source of light. Dozens of small ones, shining like candles in the dark. The lights of Ilfiri.
I know what game to play. They began walking. We're the good guys, and we're going to kill the bad guys.
Somewhere, within the puppet, there was but a whimper of protest. One that no ear would hear.
Don't worry, said the mask, as they departed the bodies of demon and man, destined to be taken by the soil of this dying world. It'll be fun.
The puppet kept walking. Mind and body were no longer its own.
Children love games…
A/N
Idea for this came from the Echoes of the Mask item for the Switch version of Diablo III. Not that Majora's Mask (as in, the actual mask) is as twisted as the Prime Evils, but hey, close enough.
Or even more, since genocide by moon isn't a nice way to go.