I am a warrior. War is all I’ve known.
I’ve come to this place to rid myself of the memories of battle and free myself from these unabating nightmares. The monks chant in ancient tongues and the grand priest washes my hair with blessed water. His assistant slaps my arms and legs with the branches of a willow tree.
The grand priest begins his ritual. “Close your eyes. Imagine a ball of purifying light floating above the crown of your head. Enjoy the feeling as the light enters your body, filling your skull like a glass of wine and relaxing all of the muscles of your face and jaw.”
I am a warrior. War is all I’ve known.
The air feels cold on my face, but it’s a different kind of cold than the steel of my helm. It’s like an openness to the elements. Without my visor, the sun’s glare seems overwhelming. I can’t shrug off the faces of my dying comrades or the once-faces of my victims when I retrieve my mace.
The priest’s voice washes over me. “Now, imagine the light moving down into your chest, pumping your heart and making your lungs heave with kindness and love.”
I am a warrior. War is all I’ve known.
“Tempest Shout,” they called us. Our demon husk armour and hard leather belts were recognized everywhere we went. When they heard our battle cry, they knew a storm was coming to leave a trail of destruction in our wake.
“The light flows into your arms and legs, making you feel lighter, as if you were floating in an endless sea.”
I am a warrior. War is all I’ve known.
My hands and feet feel light, but only because they are unburdened by studded leather boots and heavy gloves. However, deeply entrenched in my bones is the weight of the lives I’ve squeezed out with these very fingertips. My calloused feet are numb from constant marching to the orders of kings I’ve never met.
“The light dissipates into the air around you, leaving you an empty vessel. And with that, my brother, you are free.”
The chanting stops.
What is this place? What am I doing here?
Who am I?