Memoirs of a Madwoman
How many times have I died, and forgotten some portion of thing? I gave up counting when I realized that I couldn’t remember. Thus the reason for this paper upon which I scratch words. Words that hold some measure of meaning for me now in hopes of reminding myself of what I was, and what I am. At the very least, it is something to do whilst healing wounds after battle.
Battle. Constant battle. To go forth and fight and die and live over and again. We’re all just pieces on the Gods’ game board … constant movement, constant flux … power plays, coups, subtle maneuvering. We’re all born to be the catspaw of a god, even those who refuse to believe … as they, too, have parts to play. There are those who believe that each time we revive from death, that we return out of the grace of the gods. I say, it is because they are practical beings for not wasting a useful game piece, and that True Grace is thus -- to be granted the chance to escape their circles of life and death for once and all.
Some things I do remember. I remember being paraded in chains across wooden planks. I remember a toiling mass of people, chanting, and the smell of magic. A smell that made the nose twitch. An altar that gleamed in spots and was blackened with ichor in others. That was the first death, I believe, and perhaps why I remember it. One always remembers the first death, if not the others that follow. Staring at the Brother, the claws coming close, the blades keening in my ear, the pain and the darkness. And then the unique realization that I’m standing there, looking at my own corpse, already cool on the ground. The words echoing in my ears, “She did not take the Final Death.” The priest shaking his head, murmuring, “I heard nothing from the Father. Claimed by the gods, yes, but the Father claims her not.” The Brother handed the Claws aside, still dripping with my own blood, and took up a brand, glowing and smoking with that same hot magic-twitched smell. Grabbing my face, staring into it, dark eyes burning with the same heat that now seared into my cheek. He speaks again as the priest scribes something into a book, his voice striking the air with the seeming finality of the brand smoking my skin. “Leave this place. The Brotherhood now owns this one.”
And then nothing. Not sure how many years passed. Not sure how old I am. How many lives have I lived? How many deaths? I’ve no clue. Enough deaths to make my memory a shell of a thing, any former knowledge forgotten in the haze of death and rebirth. Thus the name I am called, the name I give those who ask. Change the spelling to make it more pleasant upon paper, but the fact remains ... I am nothing more than a walking crisis, a play on words, and I know this. For I instinctively call upon living spirits to cause sickness, sap strength and skill. Am I truly that different from those that I battle against simply because I tell such spirits "Thank You" when I'm done with them? My face is unwrinkled, yet my knees ache in the cold. My hands laced with what appear to be decades of calluses and scars, I stare at them sometimes, hoping that the twisting traceries will make some sort of pattern to unlock the memories of why they are there. Opposites, dichotomies. Facts that do not reconcile. And not enough memory to make something logical of it all.
But then again, where the gods are concerned, there is little logic. I am a pawn. A play piece. And while I’ve reconciled that and accept it, I want to know what game is being played. So I write these words so that I may remind myself of them when next I die. Call it a morbid curiosity.
I wish to sleep; yet I am drawn home, pulled there. Must keep moving, keep running, and keep making my Way … Home. I know where it is, but will I remember it? Home is where my name is. Perhaps I will meet Final Death in my sleep. Unlikely, but one can hope. Or is hope even real when it is nothing but the carrot the Gods use to keep us in their game?
Bah, it is cold and my knees ache … and I cannot remember my name …
Battle. Constant battle. To go forth and fight and die and live over and again. We’re all just pieces on the Gods’ game board … constant movement, constant flux … power plays, coups, subtle maneuvering. We’re all born to be the catspaw of a god, even those who refuse to believe … as they, too, have parts to play. There are those who believe that each time we revive from death, that we return out of the grace of the gods. I say, it is because they are practical beings for not wasting a useful game piece, and that True Grace is thus -- to be granted the chance to escape their circles of life and death for once and all.
Some things I do remember. I remember being paraded in chains across wooden planks. I remember a toiling mass of people, chanting, and the smell of magic. A smell that made the nose twitch. An altar that gleamed in spots and was blackened with ichor in others. That was the first death, I believe, and perhaps why I remember it. One always remembers the first death, if not the others that follow. Staring at the Brother, the claws coming close, the blades keening in my ear, the pain and the darkness. And then the unique realization that I’m standing there, looking at my own corpse, already cool on the ground. The words echoing in my ears, “She did not take the Final Death.” The priest shaking his head, murmuring, “I heard nothing from the Father. Claimed by the gods, yes, but the Father claims her not.” The Brother handed the Claws aside, still dripping with my own blood, and took up a brand, glowing and smoking with that same hot magic-twitched smell. Grabbing my face, staring into it, dark eyes burning with the same heat that now seared into my cheek. He speaks again as the priest scribes something into a book, his voice striking the air with the seeming finality of the brand smoking my skin. “Leave this place. The Brotherhood now owns this one.”
And then nothing. Not sure how many years passed. Not sure how old I am. How many lives have I lived? How many deaths? I’ve no clue. Enough deaths to make my memory a shell of a thing, any former knowledge forgotten in the haze of death and rebirth. Thus the name I am called, the name I give those who ask. Change the spelling to make it more pleasant upon paper, but the fact remains ... I am nothing more than a walking crisis, a play on words, and I know this. For I instinctively call upon living spirits to cause sickness, sap strength and skill. Am I truly that different from those that I battle against simply because I tell such spirits "Thank You" when I'm done with them? My face is unwrinkled, yet my knees ache in the cold. My hands laced with what appear to be decades of calluses and scars, I stare at them sometimes, hoping that the twisting traceries will make some sort of pattern to unlock the memories of why they are there. Opposites, dichotomies. Facts that do not reconcile. And not enough memory to make something logical of it all.
But then again, where the gods are concerned, there is little logic. I am a pawn. A play piece. And while I’ve reconciled that and accept it, I want to know what game is being played. So I write these words so that I may remind myself of them when next I die. Call it a morbid curiosity.
I wish to sleep; yet I am drawn home, pulled there. Must keep moving, keep running, and keep making my Way … Home. I know where it is, but will I remember it? Home is where my name is. Perhaps I will meet Final Death in my sleep. Unlikely, but one can hope. Or is hope even real when it is nothing but the carrot the Gods use to keep us in their game?
Bah, it is cold and my knees ache … and I cannot remember my name …