Savior
This is experimenting with a new style. So don't judge too harshly please, it's not meant to be awesome, and it's not meant to be fapped over.
Savior
Pain is in the mind
Pain is always in the mind. Pain is all around. Pain is everything, and nothing. Pain exists only in your mind, but manifests everywhere else.
Pain.
Pain in the heart, mind and soul, incomparable to pain of the flesh, a devourer from within.
Hope can sustain you sustain you when all else is lost.
Hope is what you give to those who have nothing else left. Hope is the founding of folly. Hope is what is given when all is hopeless.
Hope
Hope is all I have left now.
Remember your teachings always.
Teachings are indelible. Teachings are the foundings of all culture. Teachings tell us what is wrong and right.
Teachings.
Teachings are all that I know. Teaching are the only thing I will allow myself to know.
When nothing else matters, let hope be your guide.
Hope can not be my guide, I have no destination.
Your destination is not a place, but an ideal.
Master?
Hope exists when all else fails.
You are not my master!
Let me be your hope.
* * *
Pain.
Mind numbing, skull-splitting pain. That is all that awaited me in the land of living. How easy it would be to sink into the lull of oblivion and let all my worries disappear, but in Oblivion awaited the voice, the voice that taunted me with the masters teachings.
Smoke.
Putrid, heavy, cloying. Smoke is all around me.
Flashes of the past.
They come to me now, as the first sparks of consciousness take root in my mind, flowing outwards into limbs filled with pain and a nose filled with smoke, my eyes unwilling to open as I hear the first sounds.
Screaming.
Screaming reaches my ears, loud and shrill, the screams of a woman in pain.
The fight.
I remember now, the fight, the surge of adrenaline, the feel of a blade in my hand, the wind against my skin, the battle of wills as steel clashed against steel.
Westerners.
Bringing their weapons of trickery and dishonour, they invade our home, make it their own, call us weak because we do not conform to their ways.
I fought the Westerners.
Light.
Pain.
Darkness.
The three last things I knew before Oblivion and the voice.
Water.
It is all around me now, lapping at skin, my braid floating, twirling, undulating like a serpent slowly coiling in the water.
Reason.
Reason is what drives us. Reason is all that separates us from the animals.
Reason.
Why.
Why am I in the water?
Why are the women screaming?
Why can I smell smoke?
My village!
My eyes crash open and my first impressions are pain, trying to sit up in the shallow water, gasping for air as pain invades my senses, bringing me to life like nothing else.
Westerners.
Westerners!
They are everywhere, running to and fro like ants in a colony, their odd weapons shining in the moonlight as they are backlit by flames. The flames that represent my village. The flames that represent my life.
Hope is all I have now.
Hope of vengeance.
Full mobility comes slowly to me, and a dull throbbing pain echoes in my shoulder. I look that way, yank out, with anger, the piece of wood lodged there.
Looking up, I can see it now, the source of all my agony, the blown out windows, the destroyed wall that was the subject of my bodies relentless force as everything I knew exploded into red and yellow brilliance.
Time.
There is not enough time. Not enough time to kill them all. Not enough time to gather the brotherhood. Not enough time to mourn the dead.
My eyes darken with vengeance, and lower, to the glimmer in the water. My sword rests there.
Polished.
Long.
Sharp.
Balanced.
Everything that is needed in a blade, and all that I need to destroy these invaders of my home.
I raise to my feet, swaying slightly as the world moves beneath me, the tip of my sword digging into the silt beneath me as I use it for needed balance.
One of the westerners sees me now, and his weapons lifts, a puff of smoke spilling from the end to dissipate in the air, a hissing resounding in the air around me like an angry snake.
The danger starts me forward, pushes me to ignore the pain of my body, my feet sloshing through the water even as I see the Westerner reload his strange weapon.
My sword lifts, and I start to move faster, feet more steady now, my teachings coming back to me.
My Wushu.
He sees me coming, and lifts his weapon again, a blocking motion, but my sword is sharp, and I cleave it in two, a long whirling motion allowing me to easily slide around and slice deep into his body, my blade biting into him like a tigers claws slashing a rat.
Collapsing, he drops his weapon.
I leave him, barely noticing the blood that now sprays over my face, not hearing the sound of his final, dying breath as he hits the ground.
I move on.
Someone is shouting my name, what used to be my name.
I don't have a name now.
I am nothing more than hope.
Hope of vengeance.
The Westerners are destroying my village, and I am destroying them.
I hope I am destroying them.
I will become the hope for my village.
They will not die if they have hope.
Blood starts to trickle down my shoulder, and I cannot help but cough as my lungs fill with smoke, the loud retorts of the Westerner's weapons reaching me ears as I stop to rest, panting, against a wall.
Beyond the wall, within the confines of its protectance, I can hear something, a plea for help, and a soft laugh.
I am framed by the meager light as I throw open the door, eyes narrowed on the Westerner who dares defile a female of my village with his rough hands and uncouth soul.
My sword flashes again, another line of blood to add my body.
Shrieking.
Shrieking of a woman as I cut down her attacker, reasonless fear. She is safe now. But still, the shrieking.
I leave her, stepping back into the fresh air, eyes seeking a target, mind turned towards vengeance.
Something happens next to me, something brilliant, destructive, a familiar feeling of light, pain, darkness overcoming my senses as I am thrown listlessly to one side.
Oblivion.
I can feel it getting closer now, the voice returning, that soft, feminine voice that whispers words of untruth into my very mind, penetrative, overpowering, irresistible.
Come to me.
The voice whispers to me in the dark recesses of my mind, and I can almost feel her, the soft, warm body wrapped around mine, the fur of her chin resting on my shoulder and her softly furred arms wrap reassuringly around my neck.
Come to me and let me banish all your woes.
The voice tells lies.
Tempting lies.
Let the darkness take you and forget your troubles.
Tempting lies that are hard to resist.
But resist I must. Vengeance burns in my heart brighter than the brightest candle, it drives me to force back the darkness, to ignore the voice and its tempting lies.
A lie is only a lie when it is told maliciously
I gain my feet once more, swaying again. The building behind me is destroyed, my sword is lying on the ground in front of me.
Stooping to regain my blade, I hear the hiss again, and my eyes snap to the Westerner standing the lieu of the buildings nearby, weapon raised and slowly lowering as he tried to ready it once more for its destructive purpose.
I did not allow him that chance. I stole life from him as easily as a thief steals a loaf of bread from a distracted baker.
My sword flashed, blood spurted, and it was over again, a tussle for life that I had won.
But I have no need for life.
I am already dead.
Why do they tussle with me for life if only one of us so desperately needs it?
I hear footsteps, and then feel a crashing blow.
Something has fallen on me.
I cannot spare the time to see what has pinned me. My sword lays in front of my eyes, my fingertips reaching for it, just out of reach, so close that I can taste the blood slicking its sharp edges, and yet as inaccessible as the gods themselves.
Vengeance will be mine!
But vengeance can not be mine this day, even now, I can feel the cold steel of a Westerners weapon against my neck, and then another blow, direct this time, concussive, Oblivion snatching my consciousness with the suddenness of the wind changing in a storm.
The voice calls to me again.
She calls my name provocatively, knowing that I will come. She is all I have now, my only hope.
Again she calls, and this time I answer.
She comes to me from the darkness, revealing her form for the first time, her vulpine features curled in a seductive smile as she takes me once more into her loving embrace.
Hope.
She is my hope.
Vengeance?
I still feel my vengeance, burning in my heart.
Dark.
Cold.
The man who seeks vengeance as his only hope seeks his own destruction.
Words of the wise to the ears of the ignorant.
I know I should heed her advice, but my heat burns for vengeance.
* * *
How long I have been here for, I do not know.
This little room. This little swaying room, constantly in movement, the sound of grinding steel beneath me as the ground rushes by outside the barred window that is our only allowance.
I am not alone now.
Many of my countrymen surround me, but none of them from my village. First we were taken by boat, and now, by magic. A fire burns at the head of this gigantic snake that has swallowed us, I can see smoke coming from its nose, and yet it doggedly pursues the horizon, like a dog on a scent of blood.
Someone is yelling. There is a dispute over food.
I take no heed, until someone is forced hard against me.
My face hits the steel in front of me, blessed darkness taking the pain from me again.
She is there waiting for me again.
My kitsune hope.
I know her for what she is now.
She is my hope, my kitsune, and I at once dread the time she speaks to me, and relish it.
I feel her arms about me again, her soft tongue seeking my own in a heated kiss.
Her magic, her power over me, knows no bounds, and my mouth opens to admit her intrusion, welcoming it like a shore welcomes the waves.
Warmth.
her body against mine.
Comfort.
Her arms around me.
Hope.
Her.
Let the darkness take you and steal away your troubles.
I want to.
I am your hope.
You are more than my vengeance.
I am your beloved.
You are my hope.
* * *
Time passed, as it does, and the strange snake took me and my brethren to one of the Westerners foul villages.
It is large, imposing, a thing of ugly wood and steel.
We are being dragged out into the light to the cheers of a crowd. Already, the ropes hang, swaying gently like an executioners axe at the zenith of its arc.
I know their purpose, and I do not fight against the crowd as we are herded towards the stand.
In the crowd I see a child, and our eyes meet. In them I can see innocence, and horror. Horror at what she is forced to witness.
I am somehow gladdened that the Westerners can appreciate horror as children.
The crowd up ahead is jostling, roiling like an angry ocean swell, bursting the shore of men put there to hold back the waves of crashing hate, men,
Westerners, beating through the crowd of my brethren to rain blows upon their defenseless forms. One of them is upon me now, but I do not kick him as it would be so easy to do. I let him hit me.
Pain.
Darkness.
She is here again, around me, her gentle body caressing mine, soothing my pain.
Let me be your savior.
Savior.
Life-saver.
She cannot be my savior.
I will be your savior
I can feel her around me, working herself against me in ecstasy, and such is her grip over me that I am powerless to resist, feeling her loving arms around me as her tail gently caresses my legs, her soft, furry body inducing a sense of contentedness and pleasure that no other union could even begin to touch.
Her body constricts around me in lustful paroxysms, her claws lightly raking against my back, marking me as her own even as she spirals out of control into climax, our minds joined as one as a blinding delightedness ends our union.
I return reluctantly to consciousness, head spinning with pain and my temple throbbing.
The crowd hisses, its rage directed at us as we as forced into position, the coarse rope lowered over our heads and fastened around our necks.
I can feel my back smarting. Parallel claw marks rest there, proof of my hopes promise.
Smiles.
An expression of happiness.
A sign of contentedness.
I smile to the crowd, to let them know that I do not fear what is about to happen, and feel their bloodlust abate at that, an unnatural hush coming over them.
The executioner pulls the level, and the board beneath us drops, the coarse ropes our only grace against the ground below.
I do not lament.
I even smile.
The smile on my face is the smile of one who does not fear his destination.
My destination is hope.
My destination is my savior.
Savior.
To save someones life makes you a savior.
My hope is not a savior.
She is more
My hope has rescued my soul, and so I consign myself to Oblivion, to her eternal embrace, with delight.
I go now with death, to the arms of my savior.