Peace For The Faithful (A Study Of Scar)
It hurts.
Life after life, blood after blood, and still it hurts.
He does not understand this, this torment that has been poured out upon his people like the apocalyptic wrath of some pagan god. All he understands is the form in which it came, with guns and bayonets and blue-clothed men who made the world burn, and what he must do to stop it.
The 'war' has ended. But his battle still continues.
It still hurts, from his very bones to the tips of his graying hair, centering in the cross-scar that is his popular namesake. Somewhere in the depths of his pain-drunk mind he remembers having another name, yet he does not recall it, nor had he any inclination to. The strong warrior monk he was,
-the pride of the Ishvara Templars-
-everything he had been had vanished-
-purged in the wrath of those heathens, who shall burn in despair for ever and ever-
-and his world fallen anew.
His skills, meant to protect, now turned to slaughtering, and he feels no amusement at the irony of it all. Laughter, even cynical humor, turns to ashes in his mouth, bitter and inhospitable. There is no solace in that, just as there is no solace in any of the refuges he has sought over the course of his long hunt.
The skills he now uses, the twisted perversions of the very ones who had brought unwonted death to his beloved land, have tainted his soul, but he is long past caring. The devout man he had once been, the righteous monk, would have fought against having to kill with such a weapon. The man he is now, silently shouting his rage to every body yielding under the pressure of his self-taught alchemy, cares not for such naïve niceties.
Yet still every night he dredges up the courage to pray to Ishvara, a god he barely even retains any sort of hope of faith for. He has learnt that Ishvara's hand can be as heavy on His own chosen people as on the bleeding heads of the infidels who dared to desecrate His lands. But do not the ancient books say, "He is our guardian, our Father, our sanctuary"? So he prays, though he knows his blood-stained flesh must lower him in the Almighty's estimation.
He prays, not for his hunt, or even for his safety, but for each soul of his clan who did not outlive him. Every night a new soul, as is the Ishvarite ritual, and when all the souls have been prayed to heaven, he will join them of his own accord.
Thousands died in the war. It will take him a very long time to leave this world.
-and he will make for us cool springs of water, and name each one of his children,
and the faithful shall have peace, shall have rest-
Time enough to bring those arrogant killers down.
Time enough to earn peace for Ishvara's faithful.
Time enough for him to scrape out his own redemption.
If only he had been so inclined.
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Author's notes: I HATE THE NEW EDITING SYSTEM! I had to re-upload this chapter and the tags are driving me crazy. why couldn't they have kept their original upload/edit system? compare chapter 1 to this chapter... I much prefer the earlier chapters myself, in terms of formatting...