Disclaimer: I own nothing. All of it belongs to Nintendo and Intelligent Systems.
I was meant to be so much more.
I was meant to be a companion to my creator, an intelligent being capable of thought, emotion, and reason. I was meant to possess powerful magic beyond any other morphs' capabilities.
But something went wrong. And instead of being loved, from the moment I was created, I was hated. Despised, even, by my own creator.
For during my creation, he had slipped. Regained control of himself, fought back the dark that had been so all-consuming. And in his temporary consciousness, he skipped five words of the incantation. Then, he had slipped away, lost once more within the darkness.
Those missing five words were the world.
They were what endowed me with muteness, deafness, and blindness. They were what drained the magical power he was going to gift me and converted it into a magic seal. And in his flash of consciousness, a few of his memories were transferred to me.
And I felt.
Felt emotions.
Felt his anger at the men who had taken her away. Felt his sorrow at his inability to save her. Saw his determination to master the dark to get her back. And saw his descent into madness, losing his identity, losing his mind, and eventually, losing sight of his goal.
And then I felt more.
I felt his anger at himself for allowing this to happen. I felt his sorrow as he realized that it was too late for him to retreat, to pull away from the darkness. I saw his horror of what he had become, of how he had abandoned his own children. I felt his anger, his sorrow, his horror.
When he had finished, he hadn't realized that anything had gone wrong. The hood of my cloak obscured my malformed face, and thus prevented him from immediately learning of his failure. He still had a shred of humanity left within him, had not completely been lost to the dark, though it would only be a matter of time. He named me Kishuna. I was the only morph he had named, out of the many he had created. For I had emotions, and referring to me as simply a number would not do my nature justice. He paused, marveling at the feat he had accomplished – he had created a living, breathing, being from his own hands. A creature capable of thought, of reason, of emotion, and of power beyond belief. He cherished me and treated me humanely until that terrible moment when he pushed back my hood to gaze upon his work.
His face contorted with anger and disbelief. I remember fearing for my life, and even now, I marvel that he didn't strike me down immediately.
But everything changed. I went from being everything to being trash.
He looked upon me with disdain and resentment now. I had no magic or strength, and my potential as a magic seal could only serve to endanger his powers.
I disgusted him. My deformed appearance only served to remind him of his failure, and every time he saw me, the true him remembered his humanity, and tried to fight back, simultaneously ashamed and repulsed by what he had become.
He could not bear to look upon my face any longer.
So he exiled me.
It's a funny feeling, being despised by one's own creator. For what purpose was I brought into the world, if only to be loathed and scorned by the very person who constructed me?
He called me a monster, nothing but a powerless and frail false puppet of humanity. I felt anger and sorrow, for weren't his newest creations the true imitations of humanity? Incapable of feeling emotions, selfish and cruel, they were the real insults to humanity.
Still he persisted. I was a worthless fool, his blunder, his failed morph. I was of no use to him, in fact, I was a burden.
He sent me away, telling me to rot into dust.
"Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return," he had quoted. "As you are a mere puppet, you will be incapable of a true death. Your body will crumble to nothing, and nobody shall remember you. No mark of you shall remain on this earth."
I resented his words. I was no puppet. I had what all the others lacked, had the only thing that made me different. And now, he was sending me off to die. But while he spoke, I realized that something within him remained, some shred of humanity that wanted to see me survive. In it, I saw the druid he had been before he had been overwhelmed by the dark, the one who marveled at the beauty of the world and the nature of the beings he created. He did not want me to die, but the dark did. So he sent me away with a retinue of morphs without names, ones that would protect and serve me well. But they had no emotion, no capabilities of reason, so in reality, I was completely alone.
And so I dwelled, surrounded by beings, yet still in solitude.
The first time I met them I was filled with anger. Anger at Lord Nergal for having exiled me, anger at the meaninglessness of my existence. My anger spread throughout my seal, and created a distorted atmosphere of my emotion. Tense and stressful, it put all the morphs near me on an edge.
They defeated Aion, and I was forced to flee. Weaponless, powerless, and weak as I was, I would have died immediately.
The second time I met them I was also filled with anger.
They had everything I wanted. Companionship, love, and trust. But my very nature would prevent me from ever gaining those, and I was resigned to my bitter fate. I wanted to make them suffer.
Instead, I was gravely wounded, and I fled once more.
The final time I met them, I was filled with sorrow.
I understood that they were going to kill my creator.
I did not know what to feel. Although my creator hated me, I could not find it within me to wish death upon him. If I stood in their way, they would destroy me, for all the morphs they met were enemies, and they would assume no different in my case.
The more I thought, the more resigned I became to my death.
What is the meaning of life in a world of monotony and loneliness? What is the point of living when one's very own creator wishes destruction upon his creation? For I am only a puppet, and my life comes from the stolen quintessence of another.
My being has no value.
So when they came for me, I had already accepted it. I would be destroyed, and Nergal would join me shortly after. Would there be an afterlife for me? Or would I merely cease to exist?
The javelin came at me, and I had no weapons to defend myself with. On the girl's face, I saw fear and sadness. Fear of my identity as a morph, and sadness for the friends she had lost to other morphs.
Would Nergal, had he not been lost to the darkness, have felt sadness at my passing?
As the world faded around me, I did something that I never should have been able to do.
In my loneliness, fear, and sadness, I cried out. The voice that I had never known escaped my throat, and I called for my creator, though deep in my fabricated heart I knew there would be no reply.
I turn to dust.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
A/N: Edited and reposted :) some of the little pieces didn't make sense in the context of the whole, so I fixed it up so that I didn't keep contradicting myself.