PREFACE
Let’s be honest, some things are just better off dead.
When a man loves a woman, it is not all flowers and candy. They will fight. They will argue. They will, hopefully, make up when it is all said and done. And those petty, useless little factors that started the argument? Kill them together and bury them forever.
How about that stranger that finds a peaceful village, but cannot bypass a chance to ruin such peace? He finds a pretty little girl playing by herself near a creek. A farmer finds the girl days later under a pile of leaves, her dress torn, her parent’s lives change forever. I assure you, the world would be a slightly better place with that stranger dead.
Weeds in your garden? I am sure your flowers would vote for dead weeds.
Unrequited love? Is it romantic and sweet? Not if you are the one suffering. Love is only truly alive when it is shared. A love non-reciprocated is a love better off dead.
Hatred? Dead.
Dishonesty? Dead.
Betrayal? Dead.
The list is long of those attributes of “human nature” that describe select members of mankind whose actions are simply wicked. There is so much needless death in the world, yet the particularly evil things seem to endure despite our best efforts to be rid of them.
“What is your point?” you are probably asking by this time. The point, as is so often the case with a writer, is completely egotistical. The point is all about me.
You see, I was better off dead, too. I simply was not given any say in the matter.
CHAPTER 1
"Come to bed now, love. It's getting late." Sarah stood at the door of our bedroom, her mouse-brown hair resting against her shoulders invitingly, as if calling me to bury my face in them just to smell her warmth. Despite the desires that leapt up to warm my insides and called for me to follow her soft voice, I couldn’t… not tonight.
The same regret calls often to me in my dreams and nightmares: If I knew now what I knew then, I would have dropped everything and taken her in my arms. But I had no way of knowing, and it is my only comfort to fight down the anguish of opportunities lost.
"Just a few more minutes," I said. "I have a show tomorrow, and we could really use the silver."
Sarah fought back a frown. I saw it in her eyes. Her hand slid off the doorframe and she thoughtlessly smoothed down a non-existent ruffle on her cotton dress as she weighed my words against her desires. Finally, she looked up and smiled to me. That scene might have otherwise been nothing but a passing moment lost to time, but it has since been seared into the remnants of my memories as a vivid reminder of the delicate nature of life and loss.
"You are right; we could use the extra money." She walked over to where I sat working on a pallet of makeup, and she bent down to me. Sarah brushed her lips lightly across my forehead and then turned back to the bedroom. My recollection of that moment always slows down to a series of still images as I recall it. In an eternal second, she walked into the darkness of our bedroom.
I saw her only one more time again, but I fight against my memories instead to remember this scene. My work continued for hours until I eventually fell asleep at my worktable, still preparing for the next day's show. I did not want to disturb my sleeping Sarah, so I left at sunrise without checking on her again.
I arrived at the Meister's house and with the rest of the troupe prepared for the daylong show. This was a birthday party for the Meister’s daughter. He was paying us quite well and considering the war ravaged not only the lands, but also the pockets and cupboards of the average family, we had not been able to get much work. The troupe welcomed the income and the opportunity to distract our minds from these bleak times.
How terrible we spoke against the war, yet we did so with fool’s tongues. The fighting had been nowhere near our little town. We thought ourselves so well protected that we could speak against both the enemy and our own government with such zealous arrogance.
"Damn them for causing so many to go away that our business suffers!"
“The Scourge? You know, I think it’s all a fat lie. I’ve never seen one! They’re chasing geese and women is more like it.”
“The hardy among us are off fighting, leaving the rest of us to live off crumbs and tepid water. I’m sick of the whole mess.”
“It’s just a rich, spoiled prince who wants to rule his father’s whole damn kingdom, and I guess the other rich snotters don’t take kindly to fratricide. So, of course, we all suffer for it.”
Oh how we raised our fists and raised our voices. But none of us were bold enough to actually fight the enemy ourselves. We chose to stay home and entertain the families. At least that was our excuse.
But the morning of the party, our worlds changed.
The twins had just finished their dance number and I was set to go on next: Harvey the Clown. I had such a wonderful time playing Harvey. I even had this little gnome craft me a wig of sorts, that covered my head and the craziest hair stuck out in all directions: Purple Spikes of Silliness, my Sarah called them. The skin of the mask was a shade of white that matched the rest of my makeup.
For my act, I would step out and tell a few jokes; you know those wonderfully witty multi-level jokes that get both the children and the parents giggling… for different reasons, of course. Then came a few slapstick numbers where I would pretend to fall on an imaginary banana peel or get in a fist fight with an invisible opponent. You know the kind humor that caters to that dark part of human nature that enjoys watching someone else suffer. It’s the darkness that people never like to admit, but the part that often comes out in small doses, especially disguised as a clown on a stage. We all have a wicked nature, though we love to pretend we don’t. It’s a good way to let loose those demons in a controlled environment. Anyway, the crowd was usually guffawing by that time.
So then I would get right to my big finale: a set of razor thin daggers that I would juggle in the air. To alleviate those who doubted the sharpness of the blades, I always offered the chance for the doubters to test the blades' bite. I assure you now, those blades were kept sharp. To add a little extra thrill to the crowd, I would often move around the stage, or switch to juggling one hand and do something mundane with the other, like drinking a mug of water.
But on this particular day, as I lifted up the knives to show them to the audience, an activity in the distance drew my attention. I was the first to see them coming. They were like a violent storm rushing across the plains: the billowing black dust was the cloudbank and the magical energy was the lightening. But it all came without a single sound I could discern. Eventually the thunder merges with the rain and lightening, and it all comes down on you.
I have no reason to recount the details of that day. The town was destroyed and I right along with it. No lives were spared. Thus was the might and power of the Scourge.
CHAPTER 2
My story does not end there. Oh, how I wish that it did. I would be content ending this little story right there. I could tell you that I’m a little angel (or devil imp for that matter) that has moved on to the next life and that I now spend my days saving or damning souls. But that is not what happened.
In time, the agonizing pain subsided and my worries faded out along with the muffled noises of battle. I was dying and I embraced the darkness. The stories of afterlife are many and varied. And when a person is privileged to travel as much as I had, in an environment that thrived on tall tales and thought-provoking stories, I had heard more than my share of them. Many involved seeing your own death scene and nearly as many more spoke of a bright light.
In my case, I was quite relieved to not experience the former. But I was concerned that I had not experienced the latter, either. There was simply a silent darkness, as if waiting in an enclosed cave. I could not tell which direction was up, or down – and quite honestly I did not really care. But I recall having an awareness of being. I existed, though in no fashion I can put into words. I might have waited a long time, or it might have been mere moments. Time no longer mattered to me.
At some point, my wait did end - and saying that my wait simply ended is putting it lightly. To be more specific, my soul opened in an explosion of my own eternity and I saw a light - a single, bright, piercing light. I saw all of that and a whole lot of dirt.
”Arise, legions! Arise and serve the king!”
I heard the voice’s call, though I am not sure it came through my ears. The voice called and my arms, hands and fingers answered. I began to dig. Through the dirt and filth and the remains of my former comrades, I shoved them all aside to answer that call.
”Arise, servants!”
From the ashes of a happy life, I arose to become one with the storm.
I admit that I am no apothecary, but I do understand the basic operations and applications of chemicals. But I have no concept, even to this day, why I did not remain dead. I recall falling under the weight of the attacks. I recall the complete darkness and searching for some form of light. I waited in the darkness for any signs of the next stage of our existence, the fulfillment of the promises of our clergy. Then, I remember digging through a pile of corpses to once again rise to walk the earth.
“Arise!”
But that is as complicated as it gets for me. I do not understand why it was I that stood again while other corpses remained immobile. Some did attempt to stand again, but many simply had too many things physically prohibiting any degree of useful reanimation. Other corpses lie still with not even a sign of returning. In retrospect I wonder if those were the luckiest among us.
Anything that could not stand again was devoured. From those corpses that lie still to those that tried to stand but could not, they were all our food. I will spare the reader any more gruesome detail in that regard. My own acts would bring disgust to any that read of it, regardless of any sympathy they might try to bestow upon me.
“Pick up sword, stave and pike! Lift them up in the name of your new master!”
The words soaked into my brain like water into a sponge. My will worked without question, dancing on the strings held by another. After recovering my strength, I took stock of my possessions. My clothing was as it had been earlier in the day, though it was in terrible condition – had I cared. There was a large patch of blood on my shirt and it seemed part of my knee had been chewed off, but it functioned normally.
I was completely unsure of the time or even the day. It might have been a month for all I can account. After a short search of the area I found the bandolier with my daggers and slipped it over my head. I pulled one out and gripped it firmly. My knuckles cracked loudly like a dog chewing on a chicken wing.
I looked around. There were several others shuffling about, checking items or still recovering their bearings. Some walked off toward the larger crowd of beings.
“Come to the fountain, minions.”
I checked my clothing once more, but my feet were already in motion. They moved toward the direction of the ‘voice’ of their own accord. I ran a finger across my face and looked down, seeing makeup on my finger. Placing my hand atop my head, I could feel the clown’s wig still there. As I continued to shuffle forward, I pulled the purple spiked wig down tighter. A clump of hair was caught on my hand as I pulled it away. The hair was not purple, but black.
It was my real hair. I flipped my fingers a few times to get rid of it.
CHAPTER 3
I truly do not remember much of the next few years. But time meant nothing to me then, so I can only base the guess that it was a few years on the world I saw around me. I was a puppet. I know those that now stand against my kind… my new kind… will not accept that as an excuse, but that is fine. I do not offer it as an excuse.
I admit that I have performed many heinous things under command of the Lich King. Whether I had control over those acts is irrelevant - they were done by me. The blood is on my hands and forever shall be.
But I can at least be thankful that my memories have blocked out the most vivid details of that time. Things have cleared now that my will has returned. But remembrance is a two-edged sword. The memories from my times among the living grow weaker. Along with those memories, the visions of Sarah grow dim.
When those visions darken completely, I know I will truly be alone.
(To be continued)
Posted by Harvey at 04:20 PM 27 May 2005