Chapter 2: A View of the Lake

He had dragged himself after her. Once his strong arm had become useless, he used his weak one. He followed her like a snake in the grass; separated from his sword, he was but a shadow of the proud warrior that had first fought the swordswoman. His only hope was to find her and steal the sword back before his life left him. He dragged himself after the distant glow of power, blazing in the distance.

Soul Edge… He thought.

But his strength ran out. To drag himself so far… after a query that was on foot… it was hopeless. Slowly, the distant glow of power grew fainter, until it was gone. It was hopeless; without the ability to sense her, he could not catch her. The sword was beyond his reach, and he was dead. He let his face fall. Nothing to do now but wait for the end…

Just as the world was beginning to fade, he felt someone grab him under the armpits and drag him forward. He was too weak to look up, but he figured that it must be quite a strong man to haul a six foot tall, muscle-bound knight in full armor. A brave man, too touch the warrior Nightmare. His leg-stumps dragged along the ground painfully, but he was too far gone to care.

The ground beneath him changed from tan soil to leafy forest. His knees occasionally bumped roots, jolting him with pain. He wondered again, who was strong and persistent enough to drag him this far? And why was he still alive?

Finally, he was deposited on the sand of a beach. He stared at the ground through his visor. He could hear birds singing, the wind rustling through the trees Suddenly, a hand cupped his chin and lifted his face.

He saw the faceof a naked woman. A beautiful woman, he thought. She had a sharp expression, and long blonde hair, slicked back from her forehead. "Who… who?" rasped Nightmare.

"My name is Ophelia," she said, softly. Slowly, she release the leather straps that kept his helmet in place. He tried to stop her with his good arm, but he was too weak. He was at this woman's mercy.

She lifted his helm and saw his terrible visage. He waited for the sudden terror, revulsion. She was totally unafraid, as if she were used to this type of horror. "You're Nightmare," she said.

He nodded, weakly.

"You're the one I've been looking for," she said. "The one with the sword."

She touched his cheek, and he felt his body surge with power; death was suddenly far away. She had revived him with a touch. This woman was strong. Stronger then him, but still weaker than the sword. He looked around. He was on the shore of a halcyon lake, in between green hills covered with trees. The lake shimmered gloriously in the morning sun.

"You're the one who killed all those people," the woman broke in. "A shame; they deified me. They left me offerings." She grinned, devilishly. "Still, they were only people, nothing that beings such as I should be concerned with."

"What…want?" groaned Nightmare.

"What do I want? I want to save you," she said. "I want to possess you. I want to sleep with you. I want to give you what you need… and I want you to bring back my sword."

"My sword," Nightmare said, insistently.

"Our sword," she corrected. "Our sword, or I'll take everything I just gave you."

Nightmare fell silent. He felt stronger. "Do you want more?" asked Ophelia. "I can give it to you. I can even let you leave… but you will belong to me. Don't forget."

"I belong to myself," he said, rising into a sitting position. His legs were beginning to grow back, stronger than ever. The woman had filled him with power… like the sword. The power he needed to subsist.

"No," she said. "I think you belong to the sword. You'll find that I am a more benevolent mistress than that blade. What is it… the Soul Edge?"

Nightmare stared at her. "Yes," he said, "Soul Edge."

"I thought so," she said. Suddenly, a long gash appeared in her arm, as if an invisible knife had been dragged across her skin. From the wound she pulled a silvery metal fragment and offered it to him. Nightmare stared at it, intently. It was a Soul Edge fragment. It shimmered in the sun, innocently. He wanted it desperately. He wanted it so badly; he wanted to reach up and throttle the woman, split her in half and take the fragment.

But he could not. His muscles would not obey him. He looked at her, gut churning with the realization.

"You took my power," she said, lightly.

But that did not make it his power. That made it borrowed power. And as long as that power coursed through his body, she would still control that power. She would control him.

"Now you see," she said, smiling ghoulishly.

-

Clare traveled the dusty path, thinking of the dead warrior behind her. She had crushed his skull and cut off his legs at the knee… he would die of blood loss, if his brains had not been split open. She shook her head. There was no way that the yoma, or whatever it was, was stalking her. She was just being paranoid.

Still, she looked over shoulder, every now and then.

The next town was up ahead. She dearly hoped that this one had not been destroyed. It was unfortunate that the entire town had been wiped out before they could pay. As Clare walked, she examined the landscape; sloping hills, green trees… the south was a green land in full bloom.

After several hours of walking, she came over the crest of the hill and looked at the town below. There were people, albeit frightened ones. She could also detect yoma energy… seven of the beasts were in the town, their auras suppressed. She wondered why the demons had disguised themselves so poorly that they could not even conceal the Organization's number forty-seven.

She descended into the town, entering through the main street. She heard the whispers of the people, whispers of suspicion and fear. She felt slight twinge of anger. She was their savior, the one who was going to save them from the predators that stalked among them. Why did they hate her so? What had she done to earn their distrust, aside from having different eyes and hair?

She looked around. The village headman approached her, nervously. "I… we have the money," he began. "When…"

"If I kill the yoma," interrupted Clare, "a man in black will come to collect the fee. If I am killed, you need not pay anything."

The people had formed a knot around her, looking on nervously. She scanned them; any one of them could be a yoma.

"I see," said the headman. "And-"

Clare drew and severed his head. Purple blood sprayed from the stump. The villagers began to scream, yelling warnings to their friends. Clare leapt over the scattering villagers, picking out the demons. She landed in front of one and slew him, drawing and sheathing her blade faster than any could see. She jumped onto rooftops, slicing down yoma as they tried to jump or fly away. One desperately lashed out at her with claws; she ducked and slashed, and it fell dead. She jumped down into an alley and cut down two more.

Only the seventh remained. With a great leap she tackled him from behind and sent him careening into a corner. He fell there, unmoving. Clare stood over it, sword high over her head. The quizzical eye of her sword gazed down at the yoma like a child seeing a butterfly for the first time. But something made Clare hesitate. The beast… was afraid. It cowered in its pitiful human form, the form of a little girl. It was afraid, just as any human would be.

Kill it, something said to her. Her arm awakened, almost of its own accord, and the blade cut through the air. The yoma was split into dozens of pieces, the blade making killing fast cuts. It felt good.

When Clare regained control of her bloodlust, she was drenched with purple blood. The dissected yoma lay before her, savaged beyond recognition. The villagers had gathered around, at a great distance. Clare looked at them, the sword still drawn. They were still afraid of her. They should be praising her, showering her with adulation! Had she not saved them from being consumed by these shape-shifting monstrosities?! Had she harmed any of their number? No! She had killed the very things that would have killed them all, and it would not given it a second thought.

The urge to give take vengeance upon them began to rise. It would be easy to kill them all, no more difficult than a child pulling the wings off a butterfly. She thought of the way they would scream, having only a few seconds to regret their ingratitude.

Do it, said the voice. Clare raised the sword, staring ahead intently. The people began to step away, frightened.

What am I thinking? The voice of reason pierced her bloodlust. Suddenly, she was Clare again, gazing into the terrified faces of innocent faces. What was this? Had she begun to awaken? "I apologize," she said, softly, and swept off into the darkness.