Lilliana Whitedawn

Sweet Dreams

I am flanked by thirteen men. I do not need to look behind me, to know this. It is a fact, much like the knowledge that the sky is blue, or grass is green; which it is, here - the field around us stretches on, flowers waving in a breeze. Silence stretches just as far as the field of wildflowers, however - for these men do not speak, and our steps make nary a sound upon the earth. They are soldiers - or so they seem, per their mode of dress - uniforms tattered, splattered with old blood. They are efficient killers, these men.

I hold a mace - no, I strangle this mace, my grip is so tight. Knuckles whiten with the force of my grip, as I stare at the small village across the way. Traitors. The thought makes me burn with rage, with zeal - and the voice that I address my men with is unfamiliar, that of a man. It is mine, though. It is familiar. Not-Lily. I am Him.

I speak with the zeal of youth, and the passion of the righteous, "They turned on us. And by the Light, you will cleanse this land of their perfidy - you will purge every vestige of this abomination, because it is your divine mandate." There is no answer. There never is, from the thirteen men in their blood-stained garb.

We close on the village, and the transition that should be jarring feels natural - one of my men points to a home, "Burn them in their homes," I do not balk at this command, because it is what needs to be done - and the town burns around us. An agonized wail stretches on behind me, and I sweep my gaze over those who would betray, and must pay for their sins - their treachery. Three men, flayed to the bone. A body at my feet - a woman. She raised her hand to me, fool. My mace is still stained with what remains of her skull. She was one of the lucky ones, ended swiftly - she should be grateful; for the quick death, for the purity I have granted her in her death, cleansing her of her sins. The screams of those who die a much slower death echo around me, and I am fulfilled - I am made whole, I am an artist of warfare and this is where I belong. This is the roar of the crowd, and the applause of the unworthy as I free them. 

I close on a home that is yet to burn - the door rattles under the hold of my men, and I take up these last few torches, to set the home ablaze as voices cry out, sob, and scream for mercy. Their 'mercy' can come only in the cleansing flames. 

I turn back to the men who bar the door, and -



My eyes snap open, and I'm in bed - sweat soaked, and thrilled by what I've just been witness to, still riding that man's high, even as his voice yet fades in my mind:

''... I don't want any survivors. They will need to know agony, if they are to be saved...''

My gaze falls back upon that skull at my bedside, so beautifully inlaid with silver. A 'relic' that the Akenashi we slew all but worshipped. Yet even amongst the Akenash, they could be considered fanatical - what a thought. Yet he had insisted, hadn't he, that it not fall into Ahral's hands?

And yet, was it any better off in the hands of a half-demon? Aram's delight in the brutal slaughter wasn't entirely to blame for the thrill that gave me goosebumps, was it?

I find that I don't want to hand this skull over.

It intrigues me.