Chapter 43: A Blackened Requiem

Dreams were ever changing as they gripped her, holding her close in a lover's embrace. She saw faces dancing in front of her—laughing, smiling, crying, dying. They flickered in and out as if illuminated by a candle, dancing to a strange, unfelt rhythm. She could not recognize any of them, despite the intimate familiarity that she felt. It was as if they had been torn out of the pages of her memory, fire-blackened leaflets where there were once words.

She saw a girl smiling, blood trickling down her cheek and painting those white teeth red. She saw an old man laughing, black shadow crawling out of his open mouth. She saw another man staring in fear, thick hair obscuring all but his pleading eyes as they wept. She saw a monster, a tattooed creature with mismatched eyes that glinted with anger and strength. She saw them all, yet when she raised a hand to touch them, they merely rippled like images in a pond and scattered into dust.

She was alone then, surrounded by the creeping shadows that billowed with black smoke. They wrapped around her, obscuring her vision and numbing her senses until she realized suddenly that she could not breathe. While she had felt nothing before, the moment that she noticed her chest felt like it had burst into flame. She fought and writhed, trying to draw in a desperate breath to no avail. Her body burned, her limbs growing weak, and she was on the verge of collapse when the shadows peeled away.

Falling onto her knees with a coughing gasp, she felt her vision blur and her limbs tremble. Yet when they cleared and her strength returned, she looked up to see a dessicated figure upon a throne of shadows. The black curled and twisted itself around him, obscuring that withered flesh within its darkened grasp. They billowed around that greying skin, dancing around a golden collar. Two of its sockets were empty, yet in the center was a blackened gemstone that emanated tempestuous power.

Once more, you come into my service. The voice that spoke in her mind was not a single voice, but rather it echoed with the sounds of a thousand rasping throats. It was impossibly old, resonating with insurmountable power. She did not question who it was, for she knew already.

In her heart, she knew this living corpse to be Sin.

Truly your mind is strong to hold me twice. His voices were like ice in her mind, and she felt stabbing pain that shattered her thoughts. There was a presence in the mind, the sensation of something else worming into her thoughts. It was small at first, yet it grew and swelled until suddenly there was only throbbing pain that slowly numbed itself. There will not be a third.

Now wake, and deliver me my power.

Black shadow crept into her mouth, slipping down her throat with a chilling numbness. Mist billowed out of her eyes, pluming as the dreamscape around her fell away. Yet she was still dreaming, unable to wake, even when she opened her eyes to find herself in a Malifori tent. She was still dreaming as she gazed around, as she lifted her hands in front of her. She was still dreaming as she rose, her fingers unfeeling as they felt her body for a dagger. She was still dreaming as she turned and saw Moktoga sleeping on the ground nearby.

Her heart sank as she realized what would happen, and she realized she was powerless to do anything. Please, she begged silently, yet her hands still held that knife. Please, no. Yet her legs still took those steps closer. She wanted to weep, but even her tears were stolen away from her.

The scene flickered, and she saw a black shard. Wailing voices screamed in torment, and she knew them to be the dead. The third blackstone, the third gem of power that Sin needed. Her hands reached out slowly, enraptured by that impossibly deep surface. Her fingers stroked the chillingly cold stone, steam crackling from where she make contact. And the voices of the dead howled a raging tempest. That screaming drowned out all other sensation, the sound of a thousand voices wailing in eternal agony.

And then their thousand voices became one, a single voice screaming in death. Her eyes blinked, and she saw Moktoga before her, his throat slit. In her hands lay the bloodied knife, his fingers trembling helplessly. No, she mouthed silently, horror seizing her heart in icy hands. No, please. Not again. Yet he was dying before her, his eyes bulging in their sockets and disbelief written across all of his features. That screaming pierced her ears, sounded like it came from inside her skull. It continued even after the blood stopped bubbling in his throat, even after his eyes had stopped twitching and his chest had ceased all movement.

It was only then that she realized the screaming was her own.

Her hands moved of their own accord, numbing fingers prying open his blood-splattered mouth. They dug inside despite her horror, despite her protests, for she was merely a spectator inside her own body. That sensation of helpless dread only grew inside her as her hands came back out, and glittering in her fingers was a single black gem.

Bound on the precipice of death, between life and dreams. I thank you for your service. That voice—those chilling voices, they swept through her mind like a storm. She felt like an ant in their presence, like nothing more than a grain before the raw strength that they possessed.

Her screaming had yet to cease, only building in intensity as a cold pressure rose inside of her. The voice became garbled, strangled as she felt black mist begin to plume out of her mouth, as her terrified eyes saw twitching shadows begin to crawl out of her throat. They coiled and twisted in the air, stretching down her arm before wrapping themselves around the blackstone in her fingers. Lifting it out of her fingers with a whispering precision, they coiled themselves back inside her with a wordless crackling. When at last the final writhing shadow had disappeared and the black mist had dispersed, only then did her screaming cease.

Now sleep. Those voices of Sin echoed once more in her mind, and she found herself powerless to resist. Her eyes closed of their own volition, her legs growing weak, and then blissful sleep swallowed her whole.

It was a dreamless sleep, a thoughtless sleep. For that, she was grateful, for she did not wish to think about what she had done. She did not want to think about the blood on her hands, nor the blade they had held. She did not want to think about the look of betrayal that had been on his face, nor the helplessness that had seized as her body was no longer her own. Dreamless sleep was a wonderful retreat from consequence, and when she woke it came an eternity too soon.

When her eyes opened, she found herself on her cot, the scene before her terrifyingly familiar. Yet she was not dreaming as she found herself in a Malifori tent. She was not dreaming as she lifted her hands in front of her, shocked to find clean fingers. She was not dreaming as she rose, pulling out her dagger to find the blade unstained.

A sneaking hope slithered into her heart then, hideous and beautiful. She dared not to hope, not to hope that it had all been a horrific dream. Yet when she turned, she saw with unbelieving eyes a whole Moktoga, sleeping soundly on the ground. His throat was unharmed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Tears filled her eyes helplessly, and she blinked vigorously in the hopes that the scene before her was not a lie. The hope that had been seeded inside of her began to grow into a flower.

Hope is such a fickle thing. It was all a crow-cursed lie.

When her vision cleared, her heart felt strangled in an icy vise. She saw the man with his throat sliced open, dried blood caking his chest and pooling onto the ground around him. His eyes were open in that familiar expression of disbelief and confusion. She looked away hastily, unable to face what lay before her. Desperately, she peeked out of the corner of her eye, hoping beyond hope that it would be a lie. Yet the blurred image of blood and ruin that greeted her dashed that hope to the ground, and she fell to her knees with a sob.

"Sister!" screamed a gurgling voice, blood bubbling in its throat. "Sister, please!" It screamed from behind her, from outside the tent, and she threw the flap open in hasty confusion. Yet there was nothing that greeted her, merely the few Malifori that had already woken and were preparing for today's march.

Her heart pumped, her mind racing. Her breathing grew ragged and her thoughts flew past, too quickly to be understood. One stood out, struck her across the jaw harder than a punch:

What was her name?

My god is the truth and the light. His word is mine, and his will is my own. He had refashioned me in his image, as a tool to better serve him. My old body is no more, useless and abandoned. I have only the one he has given me, to bear him a thousand children. My old name is forgotten, discarded, vestigial. I know only the name that my god has given me, the name of Skal. Glory to my god.

Forever may he reign.

The girl without a name worked quickly, panic and hysteria clamping her heart in a painful vise. Her memories evaded her no matter how hard she tried to recall them; they had been burned into ash and smoke, gone forever. No name, she thought herself with a maddened giggle. How could I forget my own name?

The words were there to distract her from the task at hand. With her knife, she hacked at the corpse's neck. His name, too eluded her, although she was more grateful for it. Everything around her felt foreign, felt like a lie. Was it because of Sin's possession? Was it a consequence of burning vahma? She did not know, she was not certain if she wanted to know. All she knew was that madness had her in its grips, and that her sanity was perched precariously on the edge.

With a final crack, she broke through the bone and sinew that still held the head. Wiping the knife before returning it to its sheath, she picked up the head in trembling hands. Those terrified eyes winked at her, and she giggled maddeningly before standing up. She could not stay here, she knew. The Malifori would burn her or fill her with arrows once they found out what had happened. Her only chance was to make the most of the situation, and use the man's head to get into the Capital. While few would believe a lunatic, surely some would be convinced by the head of an invader as proof.

Throwing the flap open, she hurriedly made her way through the camp to Irris. The name came suddenly to her, unbidden, and she had to resist a scream at the notion that of all the things to remember, she remembered a crow-cursed horse. The roan was sleeping in the field, yet it woke as she appeared. Irris seemed nervous as she approached with the head still dripping blood, yet she managed to stow it away into a pack on the side before putting a foot in the stirrup. Yet as she she prepared to ride, two boys ran through the tents, shouting out, "Hurry! We'll miss it!" She furrowed her brows in confusion, wondering what kind of event could take place in the camp before the sun even rose. Smoke billowed from a collection of tents, pluming into the unlit sky, and she suddenly was filled with an urge to see.

Bolting through the tents, the sounds of voices grew louder until she reached a gathering of perhaps twenty. They had built a pyre in the dirt, wind blowing the smoke into her face. As she coughed, she managed to make out what looked like entrails on stakes. They burned as the fire ate away at them, bursting into flame and crumbling into ash. Around the pyre, Malifori were chanting what sounded like a dirge in their tongue. Hurriedly, she murmured to one of the children watching, "What happened here?"

The child flinched before responding, muttering, "Ahtoka died last night. They were fighting his killer."

His killer? She was about to ask when the crowd turned and she saw them bring forth a beast. Its black body was bound by rope and chains, and four men handled it with caution as it tossed and bucked. Its claws were bloodied yet sharp, the scales on its chest torn and wounded. Arrowheads littered its body, far too many for just one creature, yet it still fought with the vigor of two men. Clearly, however, its strength was greatly spent, and its roar was more one of desperation than power.

"What are they doing?" she whispered hurriedly to the boy.

"They'll burn it." came the excited reply.