I slept before the dawn and entered the crumbling dungeons of my mind, intruding upon the recesses where the darkest of my memories resided.
I wandered to those dreaded depths without intent, and though I cursed every recognizable stone and wished for this deplorable place to be eaten by time's ennui, I understood its permanence. This was the foundation of my being, of who I was. These gray cinder-blocks and bloodied flagstones were the beginnings of the Sin of Pride, and I could no more wish them away than I could banish my soul, my anger, or my arrogance.
My feet strode where they willed, and I entered one of the looming portals, coming upon a forest of burning oranges and reds.
Seven young Sins stood in a secluded glen ringed by hulking trees colored in the hues of autumn. The verdant grass rustled against their high-kneed boots and the low slant of the sun bloodied their doublets and foreign tunics. Chains of gold were woven about their wrists and fingers, connected to bands at their arms. Ribbons of various colors were braided into their long hair in such a way as to reveal their thin, pointed ears.
I was there, of course. Little older than a child-Sin, headstrong and willful, my carmine hair was bound at the nape of my neck by a cut bit of cloth and my features mirrored the slimmer, more delicate aspects of the Dreaming Children. My eyes—blue as the fire of the Pit—were locked upon the young man bound, tethered, gagged, and kneeling in the dirt at my feet.
No. Not this memory. I do not wish to see this. Not again.
A sword was braced in my trembling fist, the naked blade gleaming in the sunset.
Six other Children knelt in the dirt before one of the Original Sins. All were male, some stoic and others pleading for their lives, vivid eyes wide and streaked with tears. The pallid color of their hair and eyes marked them as Craginaughts or Stormlians—I never ascertained which—and my uneasy brethren kept them in place.
"I cannot do this," Balthazar breathed as his hands shook worse than mine and his voice rose to a terrible pitch. "I cannot do this!"
Our hosts agreed with him and pleaded further for their lives through their gags.
We were boys, and we'd only been in Dreaming Isle for less than a year at the time. Before, we'd lived in the Pit under the care of the Baal, and from him we'd received the energy needed to survive, but our Dark Father couldn't sustain creatures like us indefinitely. We'd been sent out to be hunters, to fend for ourselves and exist in his name as agents of the Pit's will.
None of us had ever bloodied our hands, as far as we'd known. We'd never killed before—and we were starving. We'd done the bidding of our foolish hosts for a year, and they'd never believed it would come to this, that we'd actually demand their souls as payment—but the day had come when we couldn't wait any longer.
Staring at myself through transparent eyes, I thought of what a clumsy, fumbling, greedy fool I'd been in the beginning. In the eons that had passed since this event, I'd come to know what true hunger felt like. I'd survived decades without sustenance. A year was nothing. Child's play.
"Do it," Tehgrair urged with authority, but he hadn't stepped forward. His juniper eyes were closed and his head bowed. "Do it, Darius."
I said nothing. I only looked down at the boy who would become my first kill. I never learned his name, because I'd known this would be his end, and knowing his name would have only made it more difficult for the both of us.
"I will return to the Pit. I cannot do this!" Balthazar continued to rage and Kaimeial—good, patient Kaimeial—held his arm to keep Envy in place.
"You will die in the Pit," Cuxiel told him, the weight of his hand settling on my shoulder. At the time, I hadn't known if he'd meant to spur me forward or pull me back. Now, I thought he'd meant to do both. "The Baal will not sustain you or any of us any longer. We must do this to survive."
"Is survival worth it, then?!" Balthazar demanded as he ripped his arm from Kaimeial and took a step in Cuxiel's direction. His green eyes were tremulous and shining with tears he'd never shed. "Is this what we must become to live?!"
Suddenly, I lunged forward with a shout, my sword poised and my eyes screwed shut. The blade slid through my host's chest with ease, and his startled gasp resonated with perfect clarity in my thoughts all these years later. A deathly hush fell upon the glade as I sank to my knees, pale face flecked with red, and my host's death rattle faded. I watched as the younger version of myself inhaled, stripping the freed soul of its ether, and the entrapment of that vile rapture filled my young expression with somber bliss. Like a dying man freed of the desert, I'd ran forth to take my first sip of eternity's waters—and had imbibed poison. It'd felt good. It'd felt amazing, but something unrecognizable inside me had died that day. It never returned.
The others fell upon their hosts as well, spurred on by the spontaneity of my own kill. Daggers hit chests or throats or necks with wet sounds and strangled yells, but every strike was a death blow because no one had the stomach to strike twice.
The deed done, Strombar and Sethan sat in the grass with unseeing eyes and frozen expressions. Cuxiel walked off without a word. Kaimeial stared at the star-strewn sky with silent tears on his cheeks and Tehgrair knelt with a hand over his mouth, breathing heavily. Balthazar vomited—but this wasn't something physical that could be forced from our bodies. It would remain.
The temperate air of the Isle suddenly reeked of death.
Like Cuxiel, I stumbled to my feet and strolled off into the forest, abandoning my murderous brethren and my blade in the chest of my now dead host. I ran for a time, not caring how the thin branches struck my body or how loud my footsteps were in the rushes. We'd chosen this locations specifically, as few wolves traversed this leg of the forest and we were miles from Ufiil. I traveled until my legs ached too much to carry me onward, and found a still pond to rest beside.
Night had fallen, and I washed my hands in the water by moonlight, wisps of red curling through the crystalline pond to startle the native fish. I did not weep or cry or scream. I washed my hands until they were steady and clean, then gazed at my reflection in the silver water, Balthazar's words ringing in my ears.
Is survival worth it?
Did I deserve to live when I was compelled to claim the lives of others to do so? What right did I have to exist and to ruin others? I couldn't have children. I had no legacy to pass on. I was not an agent of goodness or rectitude—no such thing existed. There was no evil, no good, only sin—only greed and pride, envy and lust, and all those selfish drives that enticed the living to continue on despite their lack of definition.
There was no reason. I held no purpose but to survive, and to survive I had to kill. My purpose was to kill to survive, and to survive to kill. That cycle defined my existence, and there was no meaning to it. No meaning to me.
The young Darius dashed his hand across the water, distorting his image in its clear depths, and sank wrist deep in the mud.
I closed my eyes and refused to see more. I had replayed this memory too many times for too many years, and wouldn't be brought low by it now.
When I opened my eyes again, the Dreaming Isle was gone. It was replaced by hot asphalt criss-crossed with white lines and cheap cars reflecting the glare of an August sun. Distant hills rolled toward a blue sky, cloaked in beige bushes and withered sage. Verweald General waited at the parking lot's end, vivid as the hottest embers in a fire, gorged on the warm, late summer air.
She stood not two feet from me, clear as day and dressed in faded jeans, tennis shoes, and a stretched sweater she'd grown too thin to fit, so its collar hung loose over an exposed shoulder. As my fingers curled beneath her chin and lifted her cyan eyes to mine, I told her I would kill Balthier—and I meant it.
When Sara had stopped outside the hospital and had quietly asked me to take her life, I'd meant it when I told her I wouldn't rest until Envy was dead.
Now, in my dreams, I stood here again with the incomprehensible shadeborn who'd come to mean far too much to me. Unlike the nameless boy of the previous memory, Sara Gaspard didn't quake or cry or beg for mercy. Perhaps she feared the unknown—but she didn't fear me. She'd never be so plain as to fear someone that made the rest of the world shake in terror.
As we retreated to her car, Sara grabbed my wrist with cold, tentative fingers, and tugged me to a halt. Pausing, I met her gaze and the woman said, "Thank you. Thank you, Darius."
I knew then that this mortal was giving my life purpose and meaning, and though my pride raged against the absurdity of the notion, I'd known the certainty of it in my mind. She spoke softly but with confidence, touching my arm as if reaching for a Sin were the most natural thing in the world—and I liked it. I didn't like anything, and yet I liked that this woman reached for my hand, that she wanted my attention or my reassurance. That she cared at all to open her eyes and take note of my presence.
Perhaps there was a meaning to living if it meant earning her attention.
In the memory, I continued walking and Sara followed, peppering me with questions like she always did as we went—and though she couldn't see it, my lips rose in a soft smile.