Spirit Awakening
From SCross
**RP Run by Bahumat, with my Thanks! Nice to clarify a character mystery once in a while!**
Every night when the old instincts return, every night when the bloodlust, the cool urge to murder wraps around your soul... there's that same, old, familiar stabbing pain. A writhing in your sleep-paralyzed body, a punishment for the day's sins, minor and severe. In your eyes, a lanter shines, blinding you to anything but the darkness around you, and the warm yellow glow so cruelly mixed the pain. The soft shuffling sounds; the occasional drip of water in a dank cavern somewhere. Every night, that same dream, usually forgotten by morning, except for the itch over your heart.
Sion sits up from his spot on the bed in the cave, taking on his heat amulet against the chill that pervades even this place. Shaking off the sweats of the nightmare, and rubbing where on his pristine body a scar from the wound that cleaved his heart, he picks up his sword and his tunic-top and moves away from where his soulmate sleeps soundlessly. Drawing the well-made weapon, he checks the edge, and for a moment pines for the blade that was destroyed with the scant memories... the swing... the strike... the centuries old sword shattering like glass... and another wince comes to him for the shame of his actions.
Tonight seems a night for pulling together fragments, this time. Whereas usually the waking world sweeps the fragments of dreams away like a servant would a shattered mirror. But the moonlight from the winter sky through distant ice facets seems to hold memories, shards and glimpses of them. The moon, like a distant lantern, guiding you free of the gloom of the ice caves for a while, into the winter night.
Sion pulls his leather chestguard off the rack and quickly dresses himself for the weather, tossing some supplies quickly into a pack in case something happens, and stops to give Dimitri a kiss on the forehead before heading out, and not at a walk... Warden of the Esper enclave, and guard for the town, he moves with purpose, wasting little energy save for the puffs of breath from his nose.
Once outside of the cave, he looks about, trying to gather the vague sense of purpose into something more... but this time when the memory comes, the nightmare remembered, he gasps and grunts, as it the stab had just come, and it was his life ebbing away for duty once more... It makes him lean against something for a moment, and let his gaze turn towards a pool of ice on instinct.
It's a cold night, and still the shattered bits of memory keep calling, refusing to be swept away. A mission. A blade... something rediculously small, like a kitchen knife. A crown? Twin glowing eyes in the dark, pale and yellow, sickly. The light of a lamp, hanging over you, as the pain rolled through your chest. The moon high overhead, clearly visible, dull and yellow.
Sion rolls over and makes to stand, gripping at his chest and the feeling there. He pushes himself up, eventually drawing his blade and stabbing it into the earth for balance. Looking around for the presence, he drops himself into that state of being just before violence... the calm clarity like a pool of water, stilling in his mind until a droplet strikes and lets his perceptive senses move out and return. Each water droplet in his mind is the same as he tries to track the clues... the knife, the crown... the sickly golden eyes..., head turning to try and find that lantern.
Instead, the snow greets you, as consciousness flees, back to that mission, back to that time. A simple mission; elimination. A man out of line in the eyes of your masters, a house mostly unguarded, a known secret tunnel below leading to natural caves. The infiltration, simple, quiet, effective, and the house cleared without sound or resistance. Then had come the caverns, and there, things had gone so wrong; screams, half-heard, haunted, from stone crevices and nooks, team-members, experts each and every one of them at fighting silent and dying unheard, giving unholy screams. And then finally, the sinking, hideous realization... you weren't being ignored. You weren't lucky. You were being saved for last.
Narrowing his eyes, and shaking his head, his memory not matching with what he knew or supposed he knew... the mission to the north and to this place... a lie? Questions begin to flood him as he moves away a few steps and sits down on a stone in reality... in his mind however he is standing with his back to a wall, blade before him and panting softly as he tries to gather himself. Looking back and forth he says quietly, his tenor returned, "Koji... Akuro... Saita?" Each name a whisper, and each scream matched to them. Gulping once, the stink of fear on him, he waits for whatever this is, and what it means for him.<nowiki> <nowiki>And slowly, in the distance, swinging and swaying... a soft yellow light, reflected from the dank stone walls. A glint of gold above it, the soft, shuffling sound of hesitant steps. The glint of a knife... tiny, pathetic, like it was swiped from a kitchen. Dripping with blood on the tip.
Sion shakes his head once more, and stares at the blood on the knife, and says, his voice returned here, clear and accented from his home, "No... this is not what happened... the plains of snow... our mission... a great beast..." But each step raises the palpable fear in his eyes, "Stop... no... this is not real!!!" He almost screams, turning to try and jump the wall, scrabbling for handholds, the side of his sword's guard scraping on the stone and tile.
The humble creature approaches slowly, the faint, horrifying shuffle, the slow, inexorable approach, the glint of the tiny steel blade, the lantern swinging, casting crazy shadows along the stone. A soft voice, almost a shy whisper. "Excuse me sir..." A sibilant voice, apologetic in tone.
He tries not to look back, but when the voice calls, the ninja soldier stops, and turns to face the being, and without even knowing why says, "Ton.. Berry?" Somehow strangely comforted and at the same time even more afraid, the sure knowledge that if he is a target then he will be hounded for the rest of his days, "Y-yes?" He says, throat dry as he whispers, "This cannot be real, I don't remember this... this mission never happened... so what is going on..."
The knife raises. "You've been judged." says the soft voice. "And everyone has a grudge, for you." The first slow, inexorable step forward, the lantern swinging quietly.
Sion replies in youthful defiance, "I am on a mission... these are orders! We do not question when the emperor passes judgement!" And once more the sword comes up, readying himself and steeling his grasp. None of the confidence of his new life is there... just the youthful bravado and stark fear that keeps him upright.
Another inexorable step. The soft shuffling sound, the drip of water, somewhere in the cavern. The pale yellow light of the lantern, and behind it, the sickly yellow globes for eyes, reptilian skin peeking out from under the brown, humble robe.
Sion grits his teeth, and does exactly what he would have done back in those days... after a moment, he charges the being, screaming loudly and rising up his blade for a fast overhand blow, attempting to use his speed against the slow and sure movements of the Tonberry. With a scream of wildfire he sweeps his katana down to cleave the small being in two!
The tiny blade is so slow, but it's edge finds the edge of the blade rushing downwards. No antiquity blade is a match for that simple tool of kharma; and the steel in your hands shatters, like glass, blowing apart into a million fragments, scattered like glitter before the dull yellow light of the lamp. Like fireflies, joined a moment later by ladybugs. The crimson spray as the fateful, third step is taken, and the tiny blade dives into your chest. The strike so slow yet skillful, slipping around and under your sternum, parting your flesh like a lover's caress. And with it, the spray of crimson and black, the ladybugs to those fireflies. "I'm... sorry..." comes the whisper.
Sion stumbles forwards when the blow comes, and lands on his knees, the shock spreading over his face as he looks up into those eyes, tears forming, and the only words that come are, "Mother... forgive me..." Not family, not honor, not clan or empire... the simple words of regret from a child in a man's form.
Gripping at the small being, he slides towards the ground, shivering as his life ebbs away, "Don't... be sorry... don't..." His last breath comes, and he whispers, "I'm scared..."
Awareness would not come again for some time. A silent presence standing over you, the blade still buried in your body, your body, strengthless, a lantern high over your eyes. Atop you, the crowned Tonberry, silent. Yet in his eyes stands the weight of your virtue, the weight of your sin. So much sin... so much to regret. The tears of a mother that would never see her son again. The tears of every life taken, every family member, every friend, everyone that ever mourned for those who'd been wronged by your soul's actions. In those pale, sickly globes, the full weight of that life passes, inexorable as the steps. Every sin, a choice. Every virtue, a choice. Choice, everywhere. Choices.
Sion tries to meet those eyes, and eventually must look away, not wanting to feel the weight of it... orders, honor, duty... meaningless in the eyes of a killer. He does not speak, cannot speak, but after a moment he turns back up to look back and all he can do is try and convey that he is ready for whatever lies after this. The chill of ice through his vein, mind nothing but those golden eyes in a haze of blackness as a single thought comes to him, 'How am I supposed to die when I never knew how to live?'
The answer in those eyes. The sickly yellow eyes penitent; a lesson in example: Silence. This one never raises his voice beyond a whisper. Humility: The weapon but a humble kitchen knife, a tool to pare away evil from the world, the lamp a simple brass light, to guide the innocent to safety, the robes, simple burlap, all riches eschewed. Justice: The children, the innocents, spared the unflinching blade; the guilty sent to their end, to their redemption. A choice, in those silent, unwavering eyes, in that pale glow of the lamp slowly swinging above your head.
Sion tries to nod, but there's no strength there anymore in his lifeless body. All he can do is think in reply, 'Please... let me try again. Let me get it right. Even if only for one brief moment... let me get it right?'
There's no pleading with those eyes, no mercy to be had, but there is choice. The lamp slowly descends, brushing across your forehead, melted wax dropping from the candles over your eyes. There's no pain; of course. The tissues dead and cold. But the blade, seconds later, is wrenched free of your chest, and as the wash of pain starts across your eyes, it burns away memory, seals it away under the stamp of the king of tonberries. Overtop of it, imagination grows to fill the voids, to fill the voices, the reasons, until imagination and true memory are inseperable. A new life it was; how it was arrived at, clearly, unimportant.
The man would scream, but the sensation overwhelms him as the burning is in his mind, and not his body. He twitches and spasms, trying to reach at and claw his eyes, writhing inside more than out as the assassin's mission is replaced with a mission in the cold and foreboding north... of a great beast-spirit striking him down... of whiteness and other beings lifting him up and healing him. His back tries to arch, part of him screaming for it to stop, but the part that accepted just cries and accepts this new pain, accepts the fire in his mind burning him away...
Over it all, another ruby light shines later, a warm, healing light, returning life to your body, the soft whispered squeak of another sworn to silence. The humble Carbuncle, seeing to the remnants purified by the king of the tonberry. Smoothing over the scars, washing away the last of the sin. A second chance to make the choice; the sin, still there, not forgiven, but at least now, the choice has been made, to redeem.
Sion really can't help himself, the tears burning his cheeks as he sits up, and reaches around the neck of Carbuncle, hugging the spirit to his breast for a moment, and just shudderings, acting like a scared child huddling to the family pet, the fear draining away in relief and thankfullness... but when he tries to speak... nothing comes. Gulping, he tries once more, but all that comes out is a toneless moan, followed by a sigh and a rumble in his chest. Looking to the ruby and the wide eyes of the charming being, then to the king of all Tonberry, a flush of shame passes over him, and he just nods, burying his forehead against the cheek of Carbuncle.
And it's at this point snow is cold under your cheek, and the moon still high in the sky, and consciousness returns to your waking body, your sword still stuck in the ground. The vision, the dream, whatever it may have been, gone. But now, memory, some part of it, restored. The shame of what once was... the choices that remain for what is and can be.
Sion pushes himself up to standing slowly, and stares up into the night sky, pulling his blade and checking it absently, hands moving sure and easy before it is saddled back into it's home on his back. Reaching up, he touches his tear-stained cheeks, and then holds those up to the light as well, marvelling at how the wetness changes everything there. Turning his fingers back and forth he nods to himself, and sends a thought out into the night, ((Thank you.))
