Chapter 6: Anger, Sin, Discord

He lay expectantly on a queer altar in a melancholy serenity, affectionately caressed by the cold drafts of the solemn night. His gentle sighs echoed in the massive and warmth-deprived chamber whose round stone walls supported no roof to shadow the temple. The only object in the room was the altar. It was a smooth grey boulder, curved so his body slanted and his head hung, his chest thrust upward in forfeit to the heavens. His hands pleasantly rested upon his belly as he gazed up at the realm's only light -- the full moon, unaccompanied by its brethren. The moon reached past his obscure crimson eyes and slowly consumed the submitting soul within.

There was a magnificent, almost imperial bliss in being devoured by a black and hallowed sky. It was a ritual found to dwell in the sacred bowels of one's darkest natures, to be freed by being imprisoned again, to be worshipped by being slain. By being vulnerable he felt immortal. Here was his heaven, his paradise. It was a loneliness that spared him fear and sorrow. There would be no anger, nor agony, to afflict this content body.

Here came a figure from the shadows ringing the temple. Its features were vague, for it was a faded existence overlapping a plane of nothingness that this dream could not conjure. But it wore a familiar king's armor with a left pauldron bearing spikes and a red cape lined with white furs hung from his shoulders. In one hand, a steel torch was raised to the pauldron on his shoulder, and atop it burned a blue and white flame. In the other was a massive and wicked fang around which the fingers could hardly wind.

This man stopped by the altar and seemed to maliciously inspect the boy's torso. The boy's grey cape draped down the rock and his unhindered locks of black-tail hair swayed from the sides.

A deep voice smothered in avarice asked, "Whither?"

The boy's eyes had not budged from the beckoning moon. An adolescent voice, soaked in somber yearning, answered, "Eternity."

The blue torch rose to its highest point in the man's grasp. His right fist, clutching the yellow fang, approached the sancutary of the boy's beating heart. The curved fang pressed against his chest, creasing the clothing. Peacefully, a smile came upon the pale lips of the sacrifice, whose eyes closed and whose soul began to howl in ecstasy, soon to embrace heritage.

Then he lost control. The bliss of silent, eager joy malformed into panic and fear as the fang bit down. His eyes pulled open, his hands slammed against the sides of the rock, and his smile became a gape through which air was inhaled. He lost conception and comprehension of the thieving powers that had almost robbed him blind. The boy thrashed to escape, pulling at the hand forcing the object into his heart, his face riddled with fright and shame. A shriek split the chamber as he fought. It was a female scream, certainly not his, and the reverberations mingled with the cackling of the man trying to murder Soren.

The feminine scream vanished as his lungs pulled in air through his lips and he brought himself back into mortal wake with widened eyes. Soren discovered he lay on his side, facing the opposite wall in a dark square room. An elbow was trapped beneath his body though both hands rested in front of him. He slowly breathed out, relaxing his eyes and gulping on a dry throat. The sun was not shining in his room, for it dwelt in a western hallway as the sun mounted the eastern horizon.

Soren sat up, feeling exceptionally exhausted. As he rubbed his eyes he led his attention out the window. The sun had barely penetrated night's shield, scarcely indicating that it was morn. Soren was still in his purple robes and his hair was a frightful mess. The strap around the wide collar had pressed against his hip, which he could notice sooner or later in the form of a reddish mark. The young man's face was pallid, so that his flushed cheeks and brow's mark were temporarily more prominent. Soren was still recovering from the sinister vision after falling dead asleep the previous night.

He could drop back to idle slumber, but that was against Soren's nature. He threw the tan blanket aside and slipped onto the floor with his robes and strap trailing off. The sage felt unsteady on his legs. Trapped in the realistic shriek from his nightmare, Soren waddled out with a mild stagger into the cold corridor, wondering how he could've been drowsy enough to forget about closing the door. No bands in his hair stopped its strands from whipping around him.

Days, almost a week, had gone by since the rendezvous of the laguz nobles. It was uneventful afterwards. They did, however, encounter a food crisis, so Soren mentally informed his hunger that they would not be eating that morning. Soren's stomach was loyally silent. There was no point in waiting for the others to awaken anymore, for now Soren could go out scouting on his own before everyone else.

He would do just that. Without tidying his hair, without checking that his robes were in order, the sage walked straight out to the forest. Soren felt that this had become an everyday procedure. The grass was misted with dew and the sun had hardly risen. The open air was cool and a rejuvenating atmosphere, colder in the shade provided by the exterior walls, but as he briskly proceeded toward the Gallian forests he could sense a very meager rise in humidity and temperature. There was more darkness between the lush trees, and a small gap in the woods indicated where the meadow's path was located.

Soren trod down the hill towards this path. At this point in life, loneliness was a mere melancholic nuisance. He did not hesitate to push past the twigs obscuring his vision of the grassy passage winding to the meadow. His ruby eyes adjusted to the absence of light, their pupils steadily expanding. Twigs scratched at his robes and clawed at his hair. The shadows dulled all colors. Soon, Soren felt just as dull.

All week he had avoided the others and eluded their eyes. Like in his unspoken childhood, Soren was being lured to his sepulcher of fear. He scolded himself for being so weak, so cowardly, and scolded himself for dwelling on these thoughts rather than on his duty, but he couldn't help it. Soren was unsettled, tipping over into instability. The boy couldn't see why he was so anxious.

What an insult to describe him a boy, for Soren's appearance betrayed his age and mind. No, rather titles of sage and tactician were more preferable.

Soren stopped upon reaching the meadow. This was the gathering point of the occasional scouting or hunting party and was also his meditation spot. Now was the time to cease wading through thoughts. Each direction was equally tempting to explore, though his eyes rested near the southwest. Soren turned a slight right and headed southwest.

Abruptly, Soren halted. His clothing and hair momentarily swayed past and around him. His breathing slowed as his eyes shifted about, seeking a mysterious hint in the darkened foliage, listening intently through the silence to the whispering wind spirits. Leaves began to rustle.

"...Inan?" quietly inquired Soren as the breeze faded. The wind paused. It then spoke again, gently but ominously, telling the mage to beware a diabolical but silent intruder. Hollow dread perched in his bosom while it expanded and withdrew beneath his robe's torso.

Not a single bird chirped. Shadows were difficult to distinguish. Soren suddenly felt quite lonely, and was somewhat cross over it. But he advanced into the forest with an undaunted stride.

The pupils of his eyes further dilated. Grass was soft in the darkness of the thick forests, muffling his now small and cautious footsteps. His ears probed the silence as he crouched through the bushes, glancing here and here, his spirit sampling the atmosphere for traces of a foreign presence. Naturally, the wind was silent. But even with such concentration, he did not sense any intruder of sorts. Soren stepped over a thin mossy tree that had fallen times ago from a blow.

It was a vague thought that was not complete in the least, dwelling in the farthest reaches of his mind. This thought was a word. That word was "Gallia". Somehow it surfaced to conscience like a paper in murky waters. Soren slowed to a stop and fell onto his hands and knees. The tactician was avoiding outside eyes, surveying the shadows around him. He began to remember all of the pain of his dim childhood, how the beast laguz stared right through him as if he didn't exist, how the beorcs chased him right out of their Gallian settlement, and those who didn't recognize the 'abominable spawn' didn't bother to look at him anyway. When he was dying of no food and fortune, he crawled on those very hands on knees.

Soren soon rose. He was certain the forest was empty. Even so, he had to traverse deeper.

He wrapped his arms around himself, cold and suddenly insecure. Perhaps going out today was a mistake. A new gloom coated the air and no one was in the forest. It was a waste of time. The mage's steps grew wearier with progress, and though the sun rose, the forest grew darker. Uneasily, he glanced up, glimpsing the late gibbous moon in the violet sky. It was always there to bear witness of the world's wrongs.

On went the mage, forcing his hands down once more. The tranquil forests were disturbed by the silence. This meant something was awry. Soren could not see what the source could be though, as he felt completely certain no one was present.

The trees drew close. Soren was the only shadow which moved. The forest was empty, as was the entire world. The birds and crickets must have died, for none sang in this ephemeral unity of night and day. Now it seemed as if night had reclaimed its throne. But there were no eyes to watch him, no ears to hear him breathe. It was as eerie as the emptiness of a corpse. Surely, he too had died.

Soren stalked through the trees, traipsing amongst the soundless void. Nothing was there to hint at anything except fear. Soren became more aware of his own breaths, which was the lone thing occupying the lack of noise.

He stopped at a tree, puzzled by it all. His brow pressed inward as his eyes drifted down, his head hung. The confounded mage sighed. It had to be true -- no one was about, and he was growing paranoid. Soren turned with resolve to organize his own issues.

A strike of pain -- a gasp of the throat -- a frightened confusion -- a fleck of blood -- Soren's hand shot across his chest to four extremely lengthy needles connecting the darkness to his left shoulder, and his fingers closed around the talons impaling him to the tree. His head had snapped up and the lips had parted in a rigid manner. The eyes were wide, the bosom pulsed desperately for air, and blood seeped into his robe where the slender needles had struck.

Soren's hand tightened then relaxed around the objects whilst he calmed himself. The mage's head fell forward and he blinked a few times, pacing his breaths to a slower rate. Then he saw the needles were stretching quite far from the distance blackness. They were so ridiculously long that it baffled him, and his face turned entirely pallid. Soren's breathing became irregular. His racing heart generated the adrenaline of panic, but he refused to lose control of himself.

A figure upon the edge of his sight compelled Soren to look up.

There was nothing human, nothing beorc nor laguz, about the ethereal nightmare standing several paces in front of him. Soren's breath froze in his lungs. He gawked, locks of hair scattering across his almost colorless face and concealing the mark of the brow, his eyes barely distinguishing a horrendous creature supporting grey flesh that practically dripped off of ribs and a spine. There were no organs present in the absent flesh of the monster's torso. The needles attached to a grey carcass hand without a thumb. White bloodshot eyes with silver irises shone upon a woman's dead face, peering at its prey beneath curving hairs of a translucent and precious gold. If it weren't for the grim, rotting appearance of the skin, her face could have almost been attractive.

What truly made this emaciated, bodiless skeleton so spiritual was that curling threads of odorless smoke emanated from her figure. Soren now had his two hands around the talons trapping him, and he thrashed madly while trying to keep his eyes away from the demon.

"Nn -- ah -- "

She began to approach him. Her stride was more graceful than the wings of a heron. The creature's waist-reaching hair fluttered around six sharply jointed arachnid limbs sprouting from her back. When Soren saw this, he was overcome with anger and terror, yelling as he writhed and struggled for freedom. His heart was beating feverishly and he sweated from all the effort. The sage started to lose focus of his own thoughts.

Now the creature was uncomfortably close. Soren stopped, panting hard, eyes wide. Her right hand settled upon his left shoulder, her claws still pinning through his flesh. The monster came so close that her ribs surrounded his arm and torso. Soren's hands had nothing to grab since her hand replaced the length of the needles, so they merely suspended themselves away from the injury.

Forth drew her head. Soren uselessly twisted against the tree, though he could not go far without widening the gash. At this time, the monster was too close, and Soren grabbed the cold grey arm pinning him to attempt at pulling it off.

Then his heart and frantic thoughts slowed. His panic was quelled by a mysterious serenade of presence. Soren hesitantly shifted his eyes from the rotting arm to the thing's face, meeting eyes with her divine gaze. She was almost an inch taller than him, with flesh completing her face down to the hands and collarbone, but below the collarbone was a walking skeleton layered with moist dead skin. The arachnid limbs sprouted from the spine as three per side and menacingly lifted above the two.

It was the eyes which captivated Soren's attention. They were large and shaped like almonds. The silver mirrored the red in Soren's own eyes, visibly reflecting his own emotions in subtle and delicate tide. Soren first witnessed anger as rage ignited within him, blinking as anger was replaced by confusion, then substituted with fear of a myriad of thoughts. His hands loosened their grip upon the arm and timidly crept inward to his chest. A new sensation possessed the sage -- beauty. As he beheld a celestial sorrow in that gaze, as her hand rested along his cheek with motherly tenderness, Soren's knees grew weak and his weight depended upon the tree to support it. Her claws retracted though the palm remained upon his shoulder. The temptress seduced Soren with his own sadness whilst he suspected nothing.

Soren was slowly falling against the tree as his focus blurred and throbbed towards darkness. The creature's soft lips approached his. She had no breath as they nearly lighted upon them, taming Soren's insecurity.

His eyes floated downward. Soren then suddenly remembered...

...she was a freak.

Soren's left hand thrust through the ribs he had seen into the spine of the monster, shoving her away. Her golden bangs flew from his pale face as she stumbled back. His heart quickly awoke, his blood racing in his veins and his eyes pulling open. Violently he swung his flattened right hand across to over his other side, screaming, "Ezakoo!" as he slashed his arm out. The same arm pulsed a green light and drained energy from his own spirit. Soren winced as his heart powerfully throbbed once, ejecting a fair amount of energy impelling the wind spirits into a frenzy, conjuring a furious swarm of slashing wind blades cutting across the monster. Soren whirled around and fled as she staggered.

The creature blankly gazed after the mage. She stood, looking rather lost and devastated, yet she shed no blood. Soon she was dashing after him with the agility of an experienced predator, crouched with her head thrust forward, pumping her legs into the earth as her arms and back limbs trailed behind. Occasionally one limb would cut through stray twigs or smack into a tree. Faint threads of smoke were left in her pursuit.

Soren was desperately stumbling around, panting deeply, turning to whatever his laguz side or magic class could offer. One thing was certain -- Soren could not sense the monster. The forest was difficult to see though, and any obstacle lagging him would ensure death or possibly worse. A root snagged the tail of his robes as he fled. He dashed straight into a tree and bounced off behind another. Bushes barricaded him, forcing the mage to race elsewhere. He trembled in every bone, his eyes frantically sought reprieve or sanctuary, his lungs burned in the humid forest air, and his own body temperature had risen to a level of panic. Soren halted at more bushes, turned his head right, and darted there but crashed into another tree. Though he was agile, his hunter surely was quicker.

And he did hear her coming. The shudders of distant bushes caught his ear. Soren scrambled behind the tree, sitting with his hands placed at his sides and his legs drawn up. He tried to quiet his frightened breaths, attempting to see some distinct path through the woods. His heart pounding, he let out a shuddering sigh at the familiar landmark which was the fallen tree. Soren quickly recognized his mistake.

He heard a loud rip as if a thin object had drilled right through bark. Soren twisted around, saw the creature behind the tree, then glanced up and lost his breath at the sight of the tree falling aside. Some sort of blade had cleanly sliced through its trunk inches above him.

Soren tried to breathe as he scurried for his landmark, hardly bothering to stand. The sage's feet were so close to the small fallen tree when he thrust down against the earth to launch over it. However, the monster reached out and her talons elongated from the nails of her left hand, shooting into the back of Soren's left ankle. He dropped upon the tree and grunted.

"Erf! Aaow...!"

He clawed clumsily at the dirt ahead, attempting to move. Soren stopped and winced, realizing in terror that her talons still hooked him in the left leg. He dared to turn his head, watching as her claws withdrew and sprouted once more in the form of blades as flexible as whips. In a panic, Soren thrashed over the tree and bolted off again. The trees were clearing up. The black shadows were driven away by the orange light of dawn. Surging with hope and desperation, Soren continued his relentless dash, having only one destination in mind as he darted around trees, immersed in the rhythmic beat of his pounding feet, his lashing robes, and his pulsating heart in the heat of the chase. So many questions occupied his mind alongside self-preservation.

What is that?

Why is it here?

How did it come to be?

Just my luck!

Is this a futile run?

A black figure with whipping locks of golden hair suddenly glided in front of him, its silver eyes lustfully fixed upon him.

"No!" exhaled Soren as he skidded to a halt.

The arachnid appendages swiftly closed around him. Soren fell onto his back, twisting and shouting with all of his effort, now bound to the fleshy skeletal body by the limbs, sprawled out with the demon's hands trapping his wrists to spread his arms apart and the thing's jagged jaws clutching his neck. Its ribs surrounded his torso and its legs were drawn up onto his loins.

Teeth bit down. Soren shut his eyes, yanked his head back in a feral scream, and a recessive strength flooded his limbs in the guise of heat. He wrestled with demon's own divine strength, managing to strenuously lift his wrists. Her teeth were biting down too hard. Soren had no room for thoughts that concerned whichever veins were penetrated.

The dawn-lit world was turning black again. No! No! "GODDESS ASHERA!" he shrieked as memories of the name surfaced, memories that could not possibly be his own.

An arrow fired into the scene, embedding itself in the demon's cheek. Her face flew up in a fury toward the darkness before she angrily darted away. She made not a sound, leaving Soren as proof she ever existed.

Soren didn't know why she fled. But he snatched this opportunity to rise and run, his legs almost failing on him. Still, the figures in the forest were not clear, for there were only trickles of light streaming from the canopy. A voice was calling after Soren, but he could not distinguish it past his rushing blood and the thumps of his boots against the earth.

Trees blurred by. Twigs scratched at him again. Bushes were shadows and distant light was his safeguard. Soren dared not to falter in his dash. He was almost in the open, almost out of this newfound hell.

Soren burst out of the trees into the meadow. He screamed, almost shrilly for himself, flailing against a figure before falling to his side and staring up in panic. Realization slowly descended upon bedraggled, bloody Soren.

Ike was standing in that spot. He was hunched over with Ragnell gleaming over his head, his other hand cast out, and his sapphire eyes gazing upon Soren with shock, horror, and halted breath. Soren's eyes were wide and his lungs struggled to compose. Ike's arm fell and he dropped to his knees, clearly shocked at the gashes in his throat and the blood and dirt ruining various parts of the robe.

"Soren!" exclaimed the warrior as he dropped down.

"I...Ike..." Soren panted, never gladder than now to see his friend's face, to see the sky and be able to lay down. He sprawled there in almost a curl. Soren's eyelids relaxed, then his sight lost focus. The world ceased existence around him as his mind shut down. He collapsed into the state of unconsciousness, whether because of the overpowering adrenaline, the very experience itself, or the injuries he had hardly felt through the heat that numbed him.

Shinon stepped into the meadow with a bow in hand and a quiver slung over his back as Ike gazed at Soren's pallid face, cursing.