Heart & Soul, part X

Mortuus Anima's ancestral machete bisected the raider's skull neatly. The blade, propelled by the force of the dead soul's swing, cleanly split the hemispheres of the man's brain. Mortuus let the blade linger for only a moment, before sliding it out slowly and cruelly. He released the man, who he had held by the throat, to fall limp to the ground. A bullet struck the ground only a foot away from the dead soul's feet.

He snarled and followed the sound of the rifle's retort up to the raider who fired it. He sheathed his blade and scrambled up the rocks while the panicking raider fired again. The bullet whizzed past Mortuus' ear, so close he could feel it. He wasn't scared. He knew he couldn't die. Not yet. He reached the raider just as the man's gun jammed, and threw him to the ground. He held him there, beating his face again and again until it was red pulp. The rest of the raiders fled or fell to the dead souls.

Mortuus knew he couldn't die because he had to find his sister. He had to find her and protect her and be a family again. She needed him. He knew that. After he received Caesar's 'gift', she was the first thing that came to his mind when he could think again. He knew she was still alive, even though the rest of his tribe was gone. He knew that until he found her he couldn't fall in battle. The purpose gave him strength. His purpose shielded him from harm.

It kept him alive for more than eleven years. Eleven long years, full of more bloodshed and battle than any tribal had ever seen in the badlands. Despite his wasteland-spanning reputation as a vicious killer and terrifying beast, Mortuus Anima was seen as a liability to the Legion for most of his life. He was too talented a warrior to execute, but as the years went on he became more and more defiant, resulting in orders that became more and more dangerous.

When his commanders could no longer bear the insult of his contubernia's continued existence he was sent on scouting missions, where he could not shame the Legion by being seen among them. Although he relished battle, he didn't mind the long trips away. He and his men knew how to be self-sufficient, and when they were deep in the wasteland it meant less harassment from their peers. When they were out in uncharted territory, they were given more autonomy, and they took advantage of it. They kept things from their commanders, left out times they slaughtered settlements for fun or recovered valuable goods. Once they were at least seven miles from Legion territory, they had free reign.

Not that they weren't loyal to the Legion. They were, and fanatically so. Anything less meant death. When the rest of the centuriae met up with the contubernia and discovered that Mortuus had taken to wearing an enormous white stetson, it wasn't insubordination so much as it was doubt, the seed of which had been planted in Mortuus' mind when he was made decanus. He knew he was unqualified, and Mandelay didn't. Despite the rhetoric towards the contrary, the centurion was wrong, and Mortuus would always doubt Legion leadership because of it. Who knew what else the centurions didn't know? They certainly didn't know the value of ghoul soldiers. Mortuus liked his hat, and even though it meant more whippings, he continued to wear it.

Out of all his superiors, Mortuus had the best relationship with Graham. He and the legate shared similar sensibilities. Both men were quiet, but extremely dangerous, and neither were prone to theatrics and grandstanding like Caesar and some of his centurions. They lived to fight, and let nothing stand in the way. Neither of them cared if Mortuus wore a cowboy hat, but both of them expressed approval to see the brim stained with blood.

Mortuus spent much of his career under the legate's command, although very rarely directly. Most of the time he was passed around amongst the Malpais' centurions. For eleven years his loyal service and prowess in battle was rewarded with scorn and increasingly dangerous orders. He relished all of it. Never once was he disappointed to find himself marching at the front of the Legion, the first into fire.

After he reconnected with his sister, however briefly, his invincibility waned. He never stopped searching for her, but it no longer drove him forward, and his purpose no longer protected him. He knew, even without really knowing, that his sister was safe, and the drive to protect her no longer fueled him like it once did.

He was getting older, too. The things that were easy for him when he was twenty years old were harder when he was twenty-nine. In the Legion men with records half as impressive as him were promoted to positions of power. Centurions and praetorians were still held to a standard of physical excellence, but they didn't have to risk their bodies like Mortuus did. The constant warfare took its toll on his body. He would wake up in the mornings completely sore all over, and he'd strain his muscles and hurt himself more and more often.

After sixteen years of distinguished service on the front lines of the Legion, he came the closest he'd ever come to falling in battle. As the Legion conquered more territory, they fought more dangerous foes. Tribes that had heard of the Legion and joined forces to oppose Caesar. In battle against one such tribe, the dead soul cut down swathes of men, but as the battle raged on he grew slower, his attacks grew weaker. A tribal warrior got the jump on him, and as the man's blade swung down, he thought it was the end. The weapon sliced open the left side of his head, starting at the eyebrow and going all the way back. It was too blunt to cut bone, though, and after a moment Mortuus realized he wasn't dead and grabbed the tribal's arm. He broke it in two places and ripped off the tribal's mandible in anger. He killed two more tribals with blood dripping down the side of his face, but he had to retreat when he couldn't see straight. Afterwards he was almost totally blind in his left eye.

The wound only served to grow his legacy in the greater wasteland, but every time he felt the scar he was reminded that his time as a great warrior was swiftly coming to an end. He couldn't move as fast as he used to, he couldn't cut as deep, and he couldn't think as clearly. Through sheer force of will he kept his dwindling strength a secret, but when Reave killed himself at Twin Mothers, Mortuus Anima was losing hope. He woke most days with gritted teeth, thinking please let me die strong.

Please let me die a warrior.