Visions of Death

The last thing I remember is him over me, his knee on my throat. My legs severed roughly at an uneven angle, my right arm broken and twisted and my left feebly failing to slap him away. His fingers piercing my flash, flaming light bursting forth and turning his flesh to coal as his grip slips under my ribs, he doesn't stop. He tears open my torso with a great crack, my golden blood spilling out of me like a wave as he wrenches my heart from where it lay and stands, bringing it to his mouth and looking down upon me with disgust, fear, and resignation; these thoughts, I think, are aimed at us both.

Then I am gone; not gone, in the sense you might expect, but rather elsewhere. I'm weak, gasping but not breathing, blinded and deafened. I cannot move, I have neither blood nor muscle. I am simply an intention, a will remaining despite what clearly must have been my death. I once wondered if I could die, but then I did and I yet survived, in a lesser, weaker form. I expected this had happened once again, another death stripping me of more of myself and now this is what remains. I wonder, can I die again?

It takes me an age, it feels, to reach these conclusions. Without sense, it is hard to tell. Eventually, I think, this must end. It is not my wish, but my intent. I begin screaming into the void, not in fear or rage or desperation but instead, annoyance. I will not suffer this indignity any longer than I already have, any longer than I must. Another age, it seems, passes, but I do not relent, and my patience is rewarded. A voice in the darkness, calling to me. I call out to him, and he comes closer, and my voice quiets.

He is a boy, a small meek child. I do not tell him who I am, only that I wish to grow. He is cautious of me, unwilling to offer me any more than I offer him. His voice changes as we converse, surprise marking his words. My consciousness, it seems, is waxing and waning; years pass for him in what is only a second for me. As the boy grows older, his caution lessens into a wary respect.

He grants me little aid or information, but I persist. Eventually his voice grows weary with age, and a pang of fear grows within me; I do not know if the boy will pass me on to another. But he, finally, offers me what I seek; he desires answers to who or what I am, and will spend the last years of his life searching for them. I do not know how far he travels or how hard he tries, but his voice quickly becomes airy and weak.

And then, I see it; a ring of light in the darkness, so very close but outside my reach. I try to tell the boy, but he doesn't seem to hear me; he says he wished he could have helped me, he regretted how he held me hostage for his own amusement. I feel him die, his mortal shell emptying itself of his essence, and I do not forgive him.

But then, the light comes closer. It nearly touches me, so close I can feel its heat, and I hear a new voice. I see stars, I can smell the fearful sweat of anxious worshipers, I taste sweet wine and salted meat and sour fruits. The new voice is confident, arrogant and selfish. It does not speak to me, and so I do not speak to it. I bide my time, biting my proverbial tongue even as its irksome words abrade my soul. It does not deserve my guidance, this pompous voice, and I quietly let my strength grow in its shadow.

Another age passes. I see through its slitted eyes as it looks down upon its followers. I feel its heart quicken as it imagines splattering them across its throne or grinding them between its teeth. I taste the endless offerings it receives from those it deems lesser, and I hear it words as it tries in vain to guide them towards the same plateau of perfection it enjoys. I smell the involuntary fear response as the great white dragon steps slowly into its chambers, a young monk walking quietly at the white dragon's side.

The white dragon chastises my host for something or other, and its voice grows bitter and enraged as it defends its egoistic actions. With each word my host grows ever closer to war, and with each word the white dragon is calm and controlled. The small human speaks up, an offer; he will earn the host's boon fairly, in the custom of its choosing. Its pulse pounds, skin flushed as it selects the custom of battle.

The human steps forward, serene and relaxed. Dozens of mortals crowd the throne, eager to watch their patron god in action. Like a falling star my host strikes, claw and fang and tail and wing and horn each a deadly weapon the crashes down upon the human. But with each incoming blow, the human twirls and twists and stretches and turns, matching my host blow for blow with a different stance. He uses every inch of his body as a weapon, mimicking all manner of creature in turn as he deflects my host's attacks.

Embarrassment, fear, and rage blind my host. Its heart grows with heat until it is blinding white, and it rises into the air with a great blast of air from its wings. It cares not for the innocent lives which populate its home; it will melt them all to slag if it means destroying this pretender. As starlight cascades from its mouth like a waterfall of plasma, the human leaps into the air and strikes the host, his fist punching through the ring of light and grasping the dragon's heart, grasping me.

When next I can see or think, I hear a voice. The voice of the human. He is speaking, but not to me. He offers thanks to those who have walked the path before him, to the great gods he champions and the gifts they have bestowed upon him. His voice is strong and quiet, firm and respectful. I tell him such. He is surprised upon hearing me, but not much. He introduces himself as Cedron Olesa, a name which I recognize; in what seems now to be an age long past, an old man called himself Olesa as he told me his regrets, told me that he wished for me to become whole. I do not know how much time has passed since then, how much time I spent recovering my strength in the dragon's heart, but it was enough. Enough to learn where I was, enough to learn why I had survived yet another death. Enough to be confident in claiming my name and my life once again, at least in the way that I could. And it was, I decided, enough time to forgive.

So I told the young man. I am Radia.