I stand above another - fallen; weak. Shrinking back from me, deep into the smallest corner; raising exhausted limbs in a futile final attempt to shield herself from what is to come - as they all do… Begging me; pleading me - emerald green eyes as wide as saucers; tears flowing from a drying river:
Spare me.
It should not be so. For yet, whom I serve desires not weakness, but power - and does he serve to gain much power from the actions in which I am about to partake. And I serve to benefit from that power.
I stride towards her, long black hair falling away from my face, revealing my eyes - dark green orbs set in pale, green-hued skin binding together this mere wrapping of the soul - this mass of flesh, blood, and bone her kind dare to call a body, when no such vessel truly exists. I use their stare on her until she cannot take it anymore for the first - and last - time. My dark lips move, taunting her while she cowers. Princess. Pumpkin. Sugar. Words that mean nothing to my tongue, yet seem to be a source of deep terror for her. She shrinks back further into the abysmally small corner; screaming as I raise the blow on high--
My arm halts long before it has a chance of reaching her. I try, but not a tic further does it wish to move. Against all I know, I lower the limb. I glance over it, intent on finding where the weakness lies so I may extract it and carry out my orders. Ah! A small curse scrawled in foreign blood near the shoulder. Must have been marked whilst the men tried vainly to halt my steps. 'Tis a weak spell, however. A flick of the wrist, a flash of green energy flame, and does it become no more than mere dust in the falling wind.
I turn back. Her red hair flows across her eyes as she again shrinks back further into the small corner, screaming as I raise the blow once more--
As before, my arm refuses movement. I use all my will; but nothing results. Again, I lower the accursed limb. I look at her; then my gaze returns to my own arm. I trace the nerves down along my arm from my black glove… This black glove of death. Numerous times have I slashed death across its faces, forever etching and weaving the pain of my victims into its fabric. Yet, I have not filled the threads with enough suffering to cause its revolt just yet. I do not have a capacity for pity, empathy, sympathy, or regret. Yet, still the limb resists. What is it about this vessel I have taken form in that causes such weakness?
She opens her tear-streaked eyes; somehow gaining the courage to look into mine. In that instant, my eyes locked upon hers - all becomes suddenly clear to me. I know now my weakness, and I am ashamed. I was warned of this happening to me here. The one I serve will not be pleased, and I know it all too well.
From here forth, do I curse the odd strength this insignificant muscle the creatures call a heart possess.
END