Current mood:	surprised
Current music:	APC - The Noose

I'm scared all the time.

This wasn't anything new. She'd been terrified when she was first told about her assignment with the ragtag group of dark-elves. She worried about her life in their hands, potential betrayal and the undead that lurked around every corner. She was frightened for her life, the wholeness of her body, of failure.

It seemed so selfish, so very small-minded, now.

Now, there was more than her own petty life at stake, and too many had already been lost for her to just wash her hands of the entire situation. She hadn't cried while she went from corpse to corpse through the ruins of her temple, murmuring words of prayer and closing their eyes. The wide, glassy stares of the dead trapped nothing of their last painful moments; of their fear or determination to live; of their faith in a better life thereafter. She hadn't cried, because they were all safe in Bahamut's care; because they had left behind a mangled, broken body for an existence that was infinitely better.

But she cried for herself. In private moments, while the others were off arguing over coin or weapons. Huge, selfish sobs, that shook her arms and shoulders, that rendered her questions of, "Why, why, why me?" into mostly incoherent babble. The fear she felt in these moments was different from before. Certainly, she was still scared of losing the breath and beat in her chest, but that was so terribly ... superficial, when she realized her immortal soul was in even more danger.

What would the Great Dragon say, what would he do, if he knew how useless his priestess actually was?

She watched the others. They certainly weren't useless, even if they were a little lost on the grand cosmic scale. They were like deadly but exotic birds of prey, perched proudly on their dragons. While mounted, she made no distinction between rider and mount, as each was a seamless continuation of the other; thinking, breathing, feeling one and the same. The combination of beast and elf -- teeth, claws, and weapons drawn, somehow elegant and terrifying at the same time. On foot, they seemed more so; gliding through the trees, gorgeous shadows of swift, sure death, barely a whispered breath between the three of them to give them away.

While Flora -- unremarkably human Flora -- crashed through the trees and nearly killed herself and her dragon, stumbled along to catch up, whose white, white face was vivid in the night. Flora, who couldn't walk quietly if her life depended on it -- and it often did.

She wondered, in the grand scheme of things, if the elves were right. If the thieving, the throat-slitting, the general dirty and underhanded tactics, if it was all justified in the name of the greater good. In the end, if the gods would smile favorably upon them for accomplishing what they could, while meek Flora had only stood on the sidelines, protesting.

She wanted to blame them and their influence for what happened, for this change in her. But they didn't force her hand, they didn't shout a command, they weren't in danger, when she drove the mace into the soldier's chest. Breaking skin, bone (OhGod she could still hear it snapping) organ beneath, crushing his ribs inward. It wasn't an elf, striking over and over again, while the soldier stood helpless in the druid's spell -- it was a human. It was her.

Good, pious Flora. The one of faith, of morals.

You're the one. You're the one he wants, to break apart, to tear up, to twist inside while you scream, and scream, while you beg him and your gods for mercy.

She had killed him -- but who wouldn't?

It was Whisper who had more compassion than she, apparently, who murmured the suggestion of pulling the soldier back from death, reminding her that she still had the power to heal, to repair, to revive. A dark elf, one with demonic influences, had more mercy than a priestess. Weeks ago, she would have laughed at the suggestion, now, the sick truth of it made her stomach heavy with guilt.

She prayed. For understanding, for forgiveness. For a lighted path through the darkness. She prayed that Bahamut would guide her, cleanse her of the terrible things she had done. For courage to continue, for knowledge that she was doing the right thing.

Most of all, she prayed for her soul.

.. That night, while she washed the blood from her hands and her weapon, then herself, her hands passed over an unusual bit of hair, just now pushing through the skin of her thigh, behind the knee. Eyes filled with horror, she looked to the waxing moon in the sky. There was a bloody night in its pale glow, with growling monster and his teeth deep in her shoulder.

As she yanked her skirts back down her legs, to cover up, she wondered if this was Bahamut's answer.



Yeah, yeah. I'm a geek. Whatever. Might write more. The other characters inspire me, even if this seems Flora-centric.