Obidaan and the others enjoyed the treatment of the first day, lavish baths, massages, and all manner of pampering. He was told that he and his group would have a great feast prepared for them tomorrow and they were looking forward to it. This feast, however, was a bit different than most. When they cast their eyes upon it, instead of seeing exotic meats, vegetables, and fruits, this was rather simple: meatloaf; chicken, fish, mashed potatoes with gravy, macaroni and cheese, greens, turkey and dressing, and apple pie with ice cream; comfort foods. Zarinthis explained it was part of the ritual, it was necessary to eat comfort foods to help the soul with the trauma it was about to face. It is also necessary for the others to eat as sympathetic helpers. The more food consumed the better for the soul. It would not ease the physical pain, just the emotional pain, some, and prevented insanity.
They ate for over 3 hours and still plates were brought out. Belches and bad behavior began to take over as people stuffed food down their full throats. Belts loosed, buttons nearly popped; still they ate. Finally, stuffed beyond their capacity, the group passed out from the shear volume of it all. Zarinthis smiled satisfactorily as he continued to eat.
The next day, the crew awoke in fine beds with fresh linen. They had been disrobed and put into pajamas. It was late in the morning when Obidaan, the most stuffed, finally awoke. His belly ached from all the food and he immediately went to the bathroom, spending over an hour there.
When he finally emerged, still belching, he was taken once again to the dinning room, where they were treated to a breakfast of eggs, sausage, bacon, grits, hash browns, coffee, hot chocolate, waffles, pancakes, biscuits with gravy and honey.
“Please,” Obidaan said, “I can not eat any more. I have never been so stuffed in my life, I can’t any more!”
“Understood, but do eat something.” Zarinthis said, he had no trouble shoveling the food in, “it’s necessary to continue the enchantment on you.”
Reluctantly, Obidaan picked up a spoon, scooped some scrambled eggs, and placed them in his mouth. He chewed diligently and deliberately and swallowed hard. A huge sigh came out of him. “No more.”
“That is fine; we can proceed whenever you are ready. Please, take your time.” Zarinthis was serious about not rushing and strongly implied it in his voice, “The trial and pain you are about to endure is unlike anything you have every experienced, nor will it be like anything you will ever experience again. The ritual is extremely painful. There is no way to counter it. You will scream, cry, and pass out. Because of this, we rush no one. Some have sat here for weeks before finally deciding, other days. Still no one has left without a tattoo.”
The others were around the table picking at bits of food. The only one who seemed to have an appetite was Alister and even he couldn’t go beyond one helping of food. The others stuck to coffee, biscuits, or a few eggs.
“Thank you for this honor,” Obidaan said. “By the way, could I see the weapon that will be tattooed to me?”
“Of course, right this way.”
He escorted Obidaan, with the others close on his heels, through a hallway and down a flight of stairs to an armory. Across from the armory was a surgical room with a table, straps, wooden pegs, and tattooing instruments.
“You may choose any weapon you like. All of these are capable of bonding with you.” They were exquisite in nature, they had no equal in design. “However, here is the one we feel suits you best.”
Zarinthis reached into the array of swords and pulled out a finely polished long sword. It was finely polished. The guard was rounded, ornately designed with the symbol of the seer on one side and the symbol of the paladin on the other. Though it looked delicate, when touched it was stronger than it appeared. The detailed carving was exquisite a lot of man—hours went into this sword.
The hilt was heavy, perfectly balancing the sword. Wrapped in aged leather, it gave a soft feel and molded to the wearers hand, giving a sure unflappable grip. At end of the hilt, a silver circle with a ruby was embedded, giving it the look of an “eye”. The perfect cut of the ruby added to the beauty and balance, allowing him to spin it easily. Obidaan was overwhelmed by its craftsmanship. It made his sword seem flat and unwieldy. He held his hand flat and spun the sword slightly, it moved in a smooth motion. One could almost feel it slicing the air as it slowing spun around.
A quarter of the way through the spin Obidaan balanced it on the edge of his hand, still it spun with no waver or hint of falling. He let it roll to the back of his hand before catching it. Silence was the only thing he could answer with as he handed the sword back to Zarinthis and nodded.
“If I may,” Don interrupted, “I’d like to test the sword.” Don noticed Obidaan’s look and wanted to make sure he was making the right decision. He knew how to properly test any weapon to judge its worthiness. This was going to be the biggest decision of Obidaan’s life; he would not let his blood brother enter lightly into this contract.
“By all means,” Zarinthis did not hesitate to give Don the sword. “I’m familiar with your sects’ knowledge of weaponry. Compare it to any weapon here. Also,” he pulled Obidaan’s weapon from its sheath, “You must compare it to his current sword.”
Don took both weapons; he held the new sword in his right hand and Obidaan’s in his left. As he tested them, he switched hands several times. He began dancing with the swords, putting them through various movements, spins, and thrusts. He smacked the air with each blade, watching it vibrate. He did a serious moves, foot stamps, and claps were part of his routine. Then while continuing the fluidity of his movements, he danced with an axe, a mace, staff, and spear, putting each through a rigorous test. At one point on the staff and spear, he stood them up and climbed up them like a monkey climbing a tree. While suspended on each, he did a serious of acrobatic moves, never himself touching the ground even flipping the weapons and replanted them without ever touching the floor. The spear left an abnormally small cut on the floor. This was a testament to both the skill of the craftsman as well as Don’s skills as a wielder.
A huge smile was on his face, something uncharacteristic of him. He was not one to show overt emotion one way or another. Breathing heavy, he recovered himself, put back the weapons and picked up the sword meant for Obidaan. Still panting, he handed it back to Zarinthis and said, “It is acceptable.” Though Obidaan pinged, it was obvious he was lying and everyone knew it
“How do you really feel?” Obidaan asked with a grin. He saw his brother excited and wanted him to express it.
Don’s eyes got big and he walked over to the weapons, “They are exquisite! Never in my life have I had the honor to exercise with such weapons. Their feel, their balance, their shear poetry; they are not weapons they are works of art. It is as close to perfection as you will get. For the first time in my life, I envy you, my brother.” They were all surprised by his comments, “We are taught not covet. We train the mind, body, and soul. We forsake wealth and materialism because it clouds a weak mind making them greedy. I have trained all my life, disciplined myself to go beyond what is in front of me, believed that spirituality, love of your fellow humanoids, and moderation in all things are keys to happiness. Yet I would throw it all away to have one of these weapons attached to me. I would endure any pain, do whatever I had to, shun the world if necessary, to have one. Yes, for the first time in my life: I. Am. Jealous.” He looked directly at Obidaan. “I always thought a ‘soul weapon’ was a weapon that was attached to the soul. I am wrong. These weapons are built to be one with the soul. They are symbiotic in nature. They need a soul to operate at their fullest potential. In return, they offer. . . completeness. I can not describe it. It’s like thinking your life is complete, till you meet your soul mate, then you realize a part of you has been missing.”
“Wow,” was all Obidaan could say. Everyone else was uncharacteristically silent.
“Curious,” Zarinthis said, “we have had many play with our we
apons, none have ever described their experience as you have. All feel better after feeling them, or feel they have touched the perfect weapon, but it seems our weapons have touched your soul. That hasn’t happened before. We will need to study this.”
“Now?” Relina asked. She was finally able to say something.
“Well, not right this minute, but while Obidaan is getting tattooed, we can study this phenomenon.”
An awkward silence now filled the room. It was finally sinking in the depths of what was going on. A well—disciplined monk displayed jealousy. Still, no one truly realized what they were in for.
“Any questions?” Zarinthis asked.
“When do I start?” Obidaan asked, holding his sword, “Also, is there anything else I need to know about these weapons?”
“As I said, you may start whenever you like, but remember, once you start, there’s no stopping. If you wish to have another meal, we encourage you to eat beyond your capacity.” He then took the weapon and cradled it like it was a baby, “The important things you need to know are, when it bonds with you, it becomes a physical manifestation of the tattoo. Since the tattoo can’t be removed, neither can the sword. Even if the sword somehow broke, all you would have to do is resummon it and it would appear good as new. Once bonded to you it can never be removed. This is beyond permanent. When you die and your soul goes to its final resting place, so does the weapon. The most important thing is the powers of the sword will not manifest till after the bonding. Each weapon manifest powers based on who they bond with. As time goes by, powers may change, increase, decrease, or reverse depending on what you do. Be careful that it doesn’t become a crutch. It’s powerful, but you must still wield it. The sword can read your thoughts. That’s how it will know what to do. This will make it seem more intelligent than it really is. Treat it as a sidekick or partner. If you belittle it or it feels you are taking advantage of it, will resist you. It won’t do it forever but it may hold out at a crucial moment. For lack of a better description, it’s amoral. All it cares is that you use it purposefully. It will slay a friend just as easily as a foe. Do you understand?”
“Crystal clear; let’s get this done.”
Right this way then,” Zarinthis said, he then motioned for an assistant. “Will you please escort our guests back upstairs.”
“If it all the same to you,” Relina started, “I’d like to stay for a while and watch.”
“I appreciate your dedication,” Zarinthis said, “but that is strictly forbidden. It is for your own well being and safety.”
“I can handle it,” Relina was resolute.
“No, you can’t!” Zarinthis was equally resolute. “No one can. No caring humanoid can endure to watch a loved one go through the pain he is about to endure. The people who do it are purposely detached and specially trained for the situation. They will not talk to him beyond general instructions. ANY bit of feeling for the recipient would result in madness this close to him. My dear lady, your love for him; after watching just a few moments would result in your brain turning into goo. It will be bad enough hearing the screams throughout the castle — there is no way to stop them. The screams come from his soul; nothing can contain that type of a scream.”
An awkward silence again permeated the air. They began to wonder what it was they had gotten themselves into.
“Why?” She asked.
“The soul was never meant to have anything bonded to it. We are breaking the very fabric of nature. That has consequences.”
Quietly, solemnly, the others went with the assistant up stairs. As they were leaving Zarinthis added one last thing, “Don,” he grabbed the staff Don had been looking and threw it to him, “please meditate with this tonight and tell us what happens. Also, if you could work out with it in the morning, I would be greatly appreciative. We must figure out how you deduced the weapon’s nature.”
“Gladly,” Don said as he caught the weapon. He could almost feel it pulsate in his hands. It felt so natural, so normal, as if it were a part of him. As if it had chosen him.
“This way Obidaan.”
The table was in a vertical position. Obidaan was stripped down to only a cloth around his mid—section. Arms out, elbows bent, he was painstakingly and carefully strapped down to the table. Many straps covered his legs and arms. Each finger was individually strapped down. A strap went across his neck and a second one across his waist, exposing his back. Boards were put on his sides under his armpits to keep him from moving from side to side. The table was then moved to the full horizontal position. The room was darkened as lanterns shown only on Obidaan’s back and the weapon.
The weapon was on a separate table. A piece of transparent parchment was placed over it and the sword was traced on the parchment. Then using special tools, traced the outline of the sword on his back, only it was smaller than the original sword. It took 2 hours to complete the drawing. They were just about ready to proceed.
“What is the name of the sword?” a technician asked flatly.
“Huh?” Obidaan said.
“Your weapon must be named before we can proceed. If you have not thought of a name, please do so now,” her voice was cold and uncaring.
Obidaan thought for a moment, “Mystic,” he said.
“Mystic, it is,” she said, then proceeded to put a thick wooden stick in his mouth and wrap it around the back of his head. “We will begin in exactly 60 seconds. The pain will be unbearable. Cry out if you have to. Cry, scream, do whatever you feel is necessary. Don’t worry, you will pass out during the procedure.”
Another assistant was rubbing his back with an ointment. “The ointment will dull the physical pain; we have no way of dulling the pain your soul will feel. Are you ready? This is your only chance to say no.”
“I’m ready.”
“Very well, 3..2..1,” they were all inserting ear plugs, “begin.”
She took what looked like an ordinary tattoo needle, but longer, she then touched it through the paper to the sword, the needle began to glow white but not hot. She then matched it to spot on his back and placed the needle in his skin. Because it was dulled, Obidaan felt nothing as the needle penetrated his skin. Then all at once, he felt a different sensation. An extremely sharp pain, like a fine dagger, shot through his body, no not his body, his soul. He could tell. His body was in no pain at all, but his soul felt like it was going to be wrenched from his body and was fighting with everything it had to stay in place. The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced. It also expressed itself through waves of emotions. It was almost like watching Relina die repeatedly at the hands of a psychotic madman, who was once your best friend. He bit into the peg, straining not to say anything.
The process repeated itself and this time Obidaan bit further into the thick stick. Splinters were in his mouth and between his teeth. His mouth bled a bit, but he did not feel it. The emotion of extreme despair was overwhelming him now. Were he not tied down he would kill himself at this very moment to end the misery.
It continued some more, unable to hold in the pain, Obidaan screamed out. From a dull cry to a soul—wrenching scream, his very essence cried out. Everything that made him who and what he was cried out. He took a breath and cried again. His screams shook the castle.
The others could hear his cries. They had never heard anyone cry out like that, ever! This wasn’t from physical pain, it was a soul being tortured, total agony.
Relina, sitting on her bed reading, couldn’t hold it, tears welled up. She reached for a pillow and cried into it, falling forward on the bed. “Obidaan, my love!” She screamed, “What are they doing to you? Was it worth it? Is it worth this? O gods, see him through this, please! O, my poor love!” She broke down, unable to deal with the screams. Her true love was in agonizing, soul wrenching pain and she could do nothing. She felt helpless. She turned over, staring at the ceiling, she screamed. Screams of frustration a
nd helplessness. Tears flowed down her face and soaked the sheets. She continued to move around on the bed as her screams began to match his. It was as if they were in synch now. His screams now projecting through her.
Don was meditating, with the staff in his arms. As he heard the cries, he knew what Obidaan was going through would be worth it. He believed this was going to be Obidaan’s greatest moment. He began rocking a bit as he increased his meditation and sought the inner peace Obidaan’s soul was desperately seeking. Tears began to run down his cheeks as he realized he could not find it. He wanted to cry out but held it. Held it for Obidaan. Held it for himself. He was a monk damn it! Emotional situations like this do not become him! He used his discipline, his training, and the staff to help focus. As he focused within, he could see Obidaan’s soul screaming, lurching to reject the weapon. Obidaan’s screams resonated in his ears, through his very soul. The long healed scar on his right hand, where he cut himself to become a blood brother with Obidaan began to bleed. Don opened his eyes in horror as he looked at his hand. It was as if he had just cut it. Blood flowed out of the wound, over the weapon, and pooling on the floor. Don pulled out a piece of cloth and wrapped his hand. Within seconds the cloth was soaked and completely red. Don looked up, closed his eyes and screamed. Tears now flowed down his face and he began to cry. For the first time in a long time, the monk showed his true emotion. He put his hands over his face as gut—wrenching sobs poured forth from him. He let the wave of emotion run through him and run its course. As he tried to meditate, he broke down, tears streaming down his face —he did not try to wipe them away.
Terry had been whittling arrow shafts when she heard Obidaan’s pain. Unable to contain her emotions, she cut herself slightly with the knife. She put her finger in her mouth to stop the bleeding. Frustrated, she threw her stuff to the floor. She walked to her bed, flopped on it and put a pillow over her head. Seconds later, she rolled on her back and looked at the ceiling, screaming and crying.
No Good Deed Page 14