The hooded one took a breath and walked around the prayerful Faire. Her prayer was painful to hear. The sorrow, the desperation of a fearful mother. In her mind, she saw an image of her younger self lying in a bloodied white dress. She saw sweat pouring down her face and joining the pool of blood and piss beneath her.
Eliss, the name she eventually gave the boy, was naked and cold as he gasped for air with his collapsed lungs. He choked on his own young mother's blood, and she lay injured and powerless to save or comfort him. She saw the father, Korros, and once again felt her heart break as she watched him brutally terminate the life that they had created together, all in the name of Dura'Ana as he had explained. As Eliss' existence quickly and violently ended, Sarasin recalled losing consciousness. She was sung to sleep by the screams of her child.
She jerked violently and tried to avoid the image that had haunted both her dreams and consciousness for so many years. A cold sweat formed on her brow, and she gritted her teeth together and continued toward the door.
As she arrived at the door, the monks crossed their staves and blocked her entrance. She pulled back the sleeve of her robe and revealed a forearm scarred from many years of self-inflicted pain. The scars, however, were not what she was revealing to them. Tattooed on the underside of her wrist were five small five-pointed stars with the center being the largest of them. The monks looked at the tattoo, returned their staves to their sides, then bowed down on one knee, lowering their heads.
"Your devotion to our Lord and Savior Emperor Cidro is pleasing to the Goddess, Dura'Ana," she spoke softly with a tone of authority and piety. The monks remained silent and unmoving. She reached out her hand and gently touched one of their shoulders.
"Please clear out the temple and return to your quarters," she commanded. "High Father Korros and I have important matters to discuss. It is imperative that we are not disturbed." The monks obediently nodded their hooded heads and immediately set to the work of clearing out the room.
Her exterior was placid. Her milky skin was calm like the brilliant white sands of the Barusian Sea of the Fallen. This sort of demeanor was second nature to her. The many years of re-education and nearly mind-crippling training she had endured ensured that, among other abilities, she learned how to keep her body still and calm under high-stress situations. Among Govian officials like her, the appearance of control was vital to maintaining the confidence of their subordinates.
Her temples throbbed. She took a breath and focused once again on maintaining her composure. For a brief moment, her hand trembled as she reached for the door handle. She held her breath; her clenched fist forced the tremor from her arm. Despite the control she had over her body, she could not keep her mind from racing. With one final mental push, she forced her hand to turn the handle and pushed the heavy door open.
The sound of her steps echoing off the black enameled floor filled the massive sanctuary. She stood silently for a moment and took in her surroundings, noticing that not much had changed over the years.
The horseshoe-shaped auditorium was gigantic, large enough to seat nearly twenty thousand souls. It was dimly lit, save for the blue-carpeted stage opposite her, which shone brightly with white light. An illustrious gold trimmed tapestry hung behind it; a blue half-circle shaped crystal pulpit stood centered on the edge of the stage. Before the stage were rows upon rows of red-cushioned pews made of dark stained wood, she recalled being forced to sit in those pews nearly every day when she was a child; forced by him. Her eyes snapped to her target.
She could see the back of his bald head sitting in the front row of the center column of pews. He sat, unmoving, even to the sound of her entrance. She snarled at the sight of him, baring her teeth with rage at the idea of being anywhere near him again. She clenched her fists together and dug her pointed nails into her palms. She nearly stepped forward but stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of a long red haired head seated next to the bald man.
The top of the girl's head reached the balding man's shoulders. Her hair was blood red; he apparently had a type. The hooded female watched in disgust as memories rushed into her mind. She thought of the all the times she had spent with him, how her young mind had been warped and molded by his hands and words. Her stomach churned, and she took a step back, for she suddenly felt less sure of herself.
She felt blood on her hands. The feeling of her nails digging into her skin was, in a way, sobering. Over the years she had found comfort in the pain she inflicted upon herself; found an escape. In the self-induced physical pain, she felt truly in control, mindful of her mortality, able to escape from the history that haunted her dreams. She dug her nails in a little deeper and cringed, not from the pain in her hands, but the sight of the young girl seated next to the bald man. In that girl, she saw herself so many years ago, from the hair to the deplorable acts she imagined were being forced upon the girl. She heard her heart tell her that if she saved that girl, she would save herself.
She released her fists and stepped forward toward the bald man and the red-haired girl. She did not make a sound as she walked but something compelled the girl to turn her head and look toward the hooded one. Momentarily, their eyes locked. The girl smiled at her and snapped her head back forward toward the stage.
"She does not understand," the hooded one told herself, "she is blind to his lies.”
She remembered her time with him. He was much younger back then. Though many years her senior, she recalled how enamored she was with him. He was handsome and powerful, confident and loving. He made her feel older than she was, wanted in a way her family could not. In Korros presence she felt valuable. It had been a wonderful feeling for her, all until the loss of Eliss.
She could have barely been considered an adult when she birthed the boy when Korros murdered him. After that day he neither communicated with or allowed her to see him again. He sent her away with Govian officials who told her she was special, that she would be powerful. Her parents and most of her family had not had an opportunity to say goodbye. They had not seen her since she left, never learned the fate of her or the baby she had carried, never learning the identity of the father.
Over the years she had used her power to protect them, despite their terrorist affiliations. Though it had been in her best interest to stay away from them, to keep her identity hidden and her life a secret from them, she still kept their activities out of the eye of the Empire and tried to keep them safe. It was her way of making amends, her attempt to justify the life she hated so much.
"I will fix this," she resolved as she approached the bald priest. She stopped walking just behind him and saw his shoulders raise and lower from a heavy sigh. Somehow he knew she was there. Blood slowly dripped to the floor from the wounds on her palms. Her chest felt heavy, her heart beating rapidly. Sweat streamed from her temples. Finally, Korros stood.
"My, how far you have come my child," his voice rang out, still facing the stage. His voice sent shivers down her spine. Though his Humaan body had grown old and his hair had whitened and mostly left him, his voice had remained the same.
She snarled and silently glared at the man.
"Bishop General Sarasin," he leered, "May I gaze upon your face and see the woman you have become?"
She felt as if she had been reduced to her child self once again. In the presence of Korros, she felt like everything she had experienced in the past twenty years, every nightmare, every drop of blood spilled, every gun barrel she held in her mouth, all culminated into one emotion. She was afraid. She felt vulnerable. It was as if her power had been drained from her, like he had retaken hold of her and was about to shape her according to his desires.
She felt herself moving backward like her fear had taken over, and her body was trying to save her from Korros. She took a step back, and the echo from her heel filled the silence. That was when Korros suddenly turned to face her.
At over sixty years of age, his face had lost many of the handsome features she had once admired. His skin had
become worn and leathery, and his cheeks sagged into jowls. Deep frown lines and crow's feet littered his face; his once blonde hair faded to white, which had receded to the back of his head. Sarasin was frozen.
He, in his blue and gold cassock, took a couple of slow steps forward, not taking his eyes off hers. He softly whistled as he approached her, stopping only feet in front of her. He broke eye contact to examine her body and shook his head with disapproval.
"A cloak is not befitting of a woman of your stature and beauty," he whispered, reaching his hand up and undoing the clasp at her throat. He gently lifted the hood from her head revealing her blood red hair beneath, which triggered a warm creepy smile. Her cloak fell to the ground, and as Korros' eyes migrated from her breasts to her face, he spoke.
"There's my girl," he purred. "Just as beautiful as I left you." He ran a leathery finger across her milky white cheek and sighed. She could not move, her entire body had tensed up, and all she could feel was the beating of her heart. She wanted to breathe but her chest was too heavy, all she could see were images of him hovering over her, his sweat dripping down on her body. They were images from the past, thoughts that tormented her daily
"What wonderful memories we share," Korros sighed, running his hand through her hair. "You are one of my favorites."
Sarasin mustered the strength to turn her head from Korros' hand and in doing so caught a glimpse of the young red-haired girl glaring at her. Their eyes locked and Sarasin realized the girl did not approve of her intrusion. Sarasin recalled her own violent feelings of obsessive possession for the man and immediately felt pity for the child.
"I assume you have some reason for coming today?" Korros asked, removing his hand from Sarasin's hair.
Sarasin, however, was not listening. She focused intensely on the girl, and could no longer hear him. He had become nothing more than background noise.
"…perhaps to say hello?" Korros pondered.
Sarasin's mind and heart raced; she questioned whether the strength truly existed in her to accomplish what she had set out to do. She continued to stare at the girl.
Korros spoke again"…perhaps you feel I owe you an apology?"
That did it. Sarasin's concentration broke, and she looked to Korros.
He wore a look that she had never seen on him before, something that resembled regret, albeit no less confident. He nodded his head and pursed his aged lips together.
"So be it, " he swallowed, momentarily looking down at the floor in front of him. He turned from Sarasin and faced the stage for a moment, perhaps to find the right words. She watched him curiously, intently, while waiting.
"I have long struggled with the… decision we made at our last encounter. I will not pretend to be something I am not. You are grown now and understand what I am. You understand my needs. But I am sure you know from the time we spent together that what I need does not make me a bad man. It is a priest's goddess-given right to choose whomever he wishes as his relief vessel as they are called. You too have that right as a bishop. I treated you fairly, loved you, and cherished you. I appreciated your sacrifice, the sacrifice of your youth, and I never took advantage of it. I would have kept you until your twentieth year had you not bore a child…" He paused and briefly looked away. A look of sick regret seemed to pass over his face, one that caused Sarasin's stomach to churn. He did not deserve to feel regret.
"I want you to know that I was deeply affected when I lost you when we had to... dispose of the child. I do not doubt that you would have been an excellent mother. But it is not the will of the Goddess that those in the priesthood parent children. You, of course, know this. Our decision to terminate the child is evidence of the amazing plan Dura'Ana has for us if we are willing to make the sacrifices. Why just look at you now!"
Sarasin looked at Korros and said nothing. He stood before her looking smugly at her as if he had just revealed some divine wisdom. She had begun to dig her fingernails into her palms again, causing more blood to flow. She thought about his words, at his sorry excuse of an apology. She thought of how he had said it was "their" decision, how he insisted that the death of her baby boy was the will of Dura'Ana. She realized then that Korros was nothing more than a fool and that she did have the strength to fulfill her self-appointed mission.
With that realization, she spoke. "Eliss," she hissed. He cocked his head out of confusion, and she took an angry step forward. She snapped her bloodied hand out and grabbed the old man's neck, digging her sharp nails into his throat. For a moment they looked at each other, his face twisted with confusion and hers intense, aflame with rage.
He flailed his arms at the sudden attack and jerked backward, wriggling himself free but leaving deep lacerations behind. He grabbed his own bleeding throat and gasped, trembling before his former relief vessel.
"You do not get to apologize," she spat. "You do not get to regret… You do not get to kill Eliss and continue living." At that, she raised her hand and called upon her abilities, the Ancient abilities that most only knew as magic. With this magic, she was able to lift his body off the ground without touching him. Hanging in the air, he waved his arms and legs wildly trying to find balance but had neither hope of it nor time before Sarasin used her abilities again to throw him into the crystal pulpit on the stage. Korros' back wrapped around the pulpit and Sarasin heard a crack. She did not immediately know whether it was the pulpit or his back that cracked but when she heard the noise, her rage grew and she let out a deep growl for she yearned to hurt him more. She did not smile, did not laugh; she was content either way. He screamed and crashed to the floor.
"I was a child," Sarasin screamed as she angrily marched toward the stage… "A fucking child. I did not owe you or Dura'Ana my youth." She jumped onto the stage and stomped her heel into his chest, producing more cracking noises that echoed throughout the room.
Korros groaned and spat blood, holding his arms out to keep her from doing any more harm.
"You killed Ellis," she snarled ferociously. She lifted her hands and once again his broken body rose into the air. With her power she hurled his body across the room toward the pews, he crashed through the backrest of one of them and onto the floor behind it, wood splintering in all directions. She jumped off the stage and hurried toward him, eager to cause him more pain.
Her body was surging with adrenaline. She had been waiting for this for twenty years, and she wanted to savor it. She wanted to replace the memories of her childhood with the memories of the brutal murder of High Priest Korros in his own sanctuary. As she neared his twisted and bloodied body, she snarled and stood over him. Once she could see his face, she knelt and spat in his eyes.
"Eliss could not move, Eliss could not protect himself." She grabbed a thick piece of the wooden pew and held it tightly in her hand.
He fearfully looked up at her as she held the makeshift club for him to see.
"Go to fucking Humaan hell," she shouted, crashing the club into his face.
Korros gasped, trying to scream, but instead choked on his own blood. He reached a trembling hand up to stop her, but he could ultimately do nothing. She brought the club down again, and he felt his nose crack and turn sideways. His forehead broke open with an audible popping sound, and the club struck one final time. Korros felt his teeth break out of his gums.
That was when she tossed the club aside and knelt to look at him. "That's what Eliss felt," she sighed, placing her bloody splintered palm on his cracked forehead. "Goodbye."
Before she could do anymore, Korros spoke, "S…see y…you… in your dreams."
Sarasin snarled with fury and released a blast from her palm that blew through his skull and into the floor beneath him.
At long last, Korros was dead, and all Sarasin could manage to do was cry. She fell backward and looked up at the ceiling. Tears streamed down each side of her face as Sarasin bitterly wept for it was finally over. She felt relief for the first time in twenty years, something which she had yearned for so deeply. With her ey
es closed, she held her temples with her hands and tried to breathe.
As she lay on the floor, her head began to ache like she was having a migraine, but a blinding white light enveloped her senses. She saw an image of a person, a male pale skinned half-blood with dark brown hair and a black vertical stripe tattooed on his lower lip. She groaned for a moment, concerned about what was happening.
As if they were her own thoughts, she heard a female voice speak inside her head. "Crinnan Jamiso, Demon, terrorist conspirator under influence of the Lord of The Hells, Ashwraith, wanted dead or alive. Last known location: Belhaasi Weald. Report whereabouts or deliver the body to local Inquisitors. Praise Dura'Ana. Praise Cidro."
The white light and migraine faded, leaving Sarasin behind laying next to Korros' mutilated body. She sat up, confused by what she had seen and concerned about what it meant.
"Crinnan Jamiso…" she said to herself. She knew the name, "Demon…"
Standing, Sarasin looked around and found that the little red-haired girl was gone. She cursed and hurried to collect her cloak. She knew she had to get out of there before anyone showed up. She was sure that the little red-haired girl had reported her by then. Quickly, she snatched up her cloak and hurried toward the backstage exit. Before she left though, she turned and looked at Korros' body one last time. She spat in his direction and walked out the door.
Chapter Three
Crinnan II
22nd of Ramlia – 346AG
11:30 – Belhaasi Weald
The deep, rolling sound of roaring, crackling fire filled their pointed ears. The wind created by the release of the immense power surging around them blew their hair in all directions. Everything glowed in an orange or yellow hue from the abundant soul-consuming flames, yet they somehow found themselves standing calmly in the middle of it all. They were safe only because they had each other.
The Black Knight Box Set Page 3