Seculo Seculorum
an excerpt

I wander across bloody battlefields, my eyes trained on the faces of the fallen at my feet. Some are mangled and bloody, their mouths open, as if in morbid surprise. Others are simply blank, almost stupid-looking in their own death. Some are pale, most are gory.

I try to look at each face intently, trying to see the depths of the soul lost. It’s as if, in their opened staring eyes, they are begging me to look at them, to acknowledge them, to see them, what they were in their last moment.

Not all are given to death, however. I am not only a watcher for death, as most have accused me of, but a watcher for life as well. More so, even.

But even that involves death. Always death to give life.

When I find those who still have breath, glowing with their last trickling bit of lifesource, I go to those quickly, making the most of the precious seconds that are passing by. I gently touch their wounds, examining, figuring, rationalizing who can be saved, and who cannot. Who is deserving of healing, and who is not.

I am very jaded, that way. Years of viewing death with my eyes has inevitably made me what I am, who I am. Even when I give life, I only see it as a bit of death to me.

My eyes light upon a heaving chest, cut open by some enemy’s sharp sword that has left him vulnerable and in his last throes. I quicken my pace and kneel beside him, ready to assess his wounds.

But always the face first. I must always look into their faces. The eyes that flutter open, gazing at me widely, are a deep rich brown, almost black. His eyes are bright and clear with both fear and severe pain, sharp and sparking in his sockets. His blonde hair is matted with rusty dried blood, and more blood is smeared across his cheeks. His strong jaw line and stubborn chin are those of a noble family, but now they are tense with each quivering breath that he takes.

Quickly, I look at the deep cut across his chest. He has lost much blood, and it continues to spill across his wooden armor like wine. Yet there is a possible chance for life.

Just possibly.

I carefully place my hands on his chest, pasty white against the depth of red, and close my eyes, focusing the lifesource out of my fingertips. My palms tingle as I feel it pulsate down my arm, from my hands, into this young man’s body. Underneath my hands, I feel the skin begin to come back together, organs retethering themselves into place, veins, arteries, capillaries…all coming as they were under my touch.

But I feel myself begin to weaken. My lifesource is running low. Slowly, I withdraw my hands. The young man’s body is relaxed, and he has fallen into unconsciousness. I am satisfied that he will soon mend, and his natural ability will take care of the rest.

Standing on rather trembling legs, I survey the battlefield once more. I am the one in need now. I cannot let my lifesource become too low or I will be as weak and defenseless as those lying wounded around me.

There.

Lying on his side, a black spear is impaled through his abdomen. I can see by his trembling chest that he too is flailing in these last moments of life. I creep towards him, almost stealthily, not wanting him to be aware of my presence so quickly.

Even though this is what I am, this is what I do, I never overcome the sense of shame and guilt that assails me each time I approach a dying man that I know is beyond my reach for any healing of mine. I feel that I am a profaner of a sacred moment, that last moment when all he see is me, then growing blackness as I gently ease him out of this world into whatever lies ahead of him in the next.

But my need drives me. I must partake of my necessity.

Kneeing down quietly beside him, I risk a quick glance at this face. He is an older man, with a wife and children no doubt waiting for him at home. He has strong shoulders, those of a fine soldier, and his graying hair recalls a life of wisdom. His eyes are already fading, a pale blue, becoming dazed in the mist of death.

I place my hands on his neck, and draw, ever so soothingly, the last bit of lifesource that is already draining from him. His body falls limp, and he lets out a long breath, his eyes looking into the sky above, matching color for color. I can feel his ease as I feel my own body strengthened, feasting upon this man’s death.

At last his body is empty and hollow of all life. I stand silently and whisper my thanks. Even though he cannot hear me, I cannot help myself.

For that is what I do. That is my sole purpose. I take, and I give away.

I am the Ghost.

*****
She lies on the ground, panting painfully, splotches of color splaying themselves across her vision. The four parallel gashes across the front of her body burn like fire, constricting her lungs and making panic well up inside as breathing becomes more difficult.
The dead Infrasoldier lies beside her, her curved blade pierced through its semi-mechanical body. The tips of its four claws still rest lightly inside of those wounds that they made. The last thing it ever did.

****
I make my way back through the wood, my body humming with lifesource. I never cease to despise myself for the sense of strength and refreshment I have after taking the remaining life of men’s failing bodies. Yet I cannot help but smile with the vigor that seems to reverberate through me, quickening my mind and my senses.

Suddenly, I freeze misstep. The sound of whimpered breathing. Coming from the right of me.

It is growing twilight, and the trees around me are dark in their leafy shadows. Yet my eyes are sharp in the darkness as I walk quietly, following the source of the sound.

I step into a small glen. I intake a breath sharply.

An Infrasoldier, lifeless, lies crumpled in a heap on the ground in front me. A silver blade has pierced its insides.

Beside it, with her hand still wrapped around that blade, is a girl.

Entranced and anxious, I hurry to her side and kneel beside her to look into her face. Her eyes are squeezed shut as her laborious breathing continues. Her features are soft and fine, not those of a rebellious fighter. Her skin is pale, not seemingly touched by much weather and sun.
Without another thought, I remove the claws still embedded into her body and place my hands over the wounds, searching as I close my eyes.

I sense great burning pain, pain that is ominous and decided. Suddenly sorrowful, I open my eyes and look at her troubled face. Never before have I been confronted with such a thing. Many men I have touched, from many men have I taken life.

But never from a woman. A mere girl.

Yet I know that she is beyond reach. She has bled too much, and the wounds are too deep. There is nothing left for me to do than to ease her passing.

I place my fingertips on her neck, marveling at its smoothness, bringing yet another twinge of ache into my heart.

Slowly, softly, I begin to ease the remaining lifesource through my hands into my own self. Under my touch, she begins to go limp, her pain no doubt slowly dissipating into soothing warmth, or whatever else it might be.

A blade is at my throat. If I move, it will slit my neck open.

“Heal her.”
****
Somerled presses the blade harder against the albino’s white neck.

“Heal her. Now.”

The Ghost looks at him with opaque, almost unseeing eyes. Somerled cannot see what lies in those eyes, and it troubles him. Anything can be held in eyes such as those.

*****

I have no choice. With a small movement of his hand, he beckons four other guards into the glen, crossbows at the ready.

I am surrounded.

I look down at the girl. There is yet a shred of life remaining. Closing my eyes, I grasp at it and give it form, pouring, pressing.

Her body suddenly becomes tense with the sudden force. I can feel the intensity of the healing underneath my hands, dancing like lightening through her sinews, through her organs, through every nerve ending.

I know that I cannot heal her completely. I am rapidly growing weaker, to such a point that I feel breathless and dizzy. I pull my hands away, suddenly nauseous with my own weakness.

The blade causes slices my skin ever so slightly. “More.”

The sword in his hand allows for no argument. Taking a deep breath, I place trembling fingers against her neck and channel my life into her.

*****
She had been slipping into warm darkness. It was like water, swallowing her and enveloping her, inviting her into its embrace. The fire was dissolving into nothing, and she felt only slipping, slipping into welcoming oblivion.

Now she is being yanked from those depths, rushing upwards towards the surface. Her lungs fight to breathe, her heart struggles to beat. Lightning ripples through her, sparks of light burst through her body, as she continues to rush upward. She looks up. The sun shines through like through a warped blue window. The pressure she is going against presses against her shoulders, her chest. But the surface is rapidly nearing.

With a gasp, she breaks the surface, spluttering and floundering. She blinks in the bright light, suddenly blinded by the brilliance of returning to life.

***
Her body jerks with a loud gasp, and I yank my hands away, the darkness now tugging at the corners of my vision.

I crumple to the ground, my body in sudden shock. Never before have been so low on lifesoure, so weak, as I am now. My whole body is shivering, and I have never before felt so drained, so bereft of lifesource. A sense of fear wells up in me. Is this how I die? If I become completely dry of lifesource, becoming hollow and empty like those I take it from, how will my demise be?

Images flash through my brain, incoherently. The sky, the trees, they swirl about me, I cannot grasp solidity.

Voices rise above me, distant and echoing. Arguing, conflicting tones reach my ears, but I cannot make out what they are saying. Panic bubbles inside of me, and I strain to tighten my focus. I cannot see clearly, I cannot make sense of words, I have lost control of my senses.

I must find myself…I must find my focus…I cannot submit to it…I cannot be helpless, not to these men, who do not understand, who see me as nothing but the Ghost, harbinger of death, death, death, death…