Vigor Mortis

“Ready to go, Lark?” August asks, smiling my way. I nod, reaching up to grasp his outstretched hand as we walk together.

I gave into hunger and hunted last night. But… I didn’t hunt humans. I never sought a target, never followed someone home. I almost did, but flashes of memory stopped me dead in my tracks whenever I tried. Sharif’s sobbing face. The words I spoke to make it worse. The look of utter hatred in his father’s eyes as I devoured his wife in front of his eyes.

Humans seem to forget things, to lose information over time. I don’t. Every memory is recalled with perfect clarity, from the taste of blood to the muffled screams to the beads of sweat glistening on the faces of my victims. But now, I understand so much more of what these things mean. It seems as though every day I learn something that brings a new and fresh horror to old memories.

And yet, I still must eat.

The forest holds many creatures. It is not as though I lack options. But I catch something and wonder: what if this makes me grow or change? What if this meal is the tipping point which ruins my flimsy disguise? I settled on a small creature, one that flew yet was not a bird. The meal was not enough, but I feared to consume any more. Part of me says: what does it matter? If I’m not eating humans, why am I here? Was that not my goal? Just return to the forest, devour and become strong.

Then August squeezes my hand, and the shivering in my body stops as my thoughts are pulled back towards the present. We’re returning to the church, the place of funerals. Yet today, August wants to show me a less solemn event. One he goes to every week. He was very pleased when I asked to come. Today, the community gets together to rest, to be taught, to appreciate each other, and to offer prayers to the Mistwatcher.

Whatever that is.

We file into the massive room, taking seats instead of crowding the center aisle like we had during the funeral. Rather than pictures of my victims, the front of the room holds a podium with an older woman standing behind it, smiling warmly at all of us. She even meets my eyes as we walk in, though I quickly turn away. I still have my cloak and mask, despite August’s gentle prodding that, today at least, I should wear something else. As if I had the option. None of the other clothes he suggested were baggy enough to hide my extra pair of arms, not to mention the rest of me. My hair has started to get a bit out of control, peeking out through my hood even when I try to bind it up in webbing, but this doesn’t seem to be an issue. Plenty of humans have black hair.

“Welcome!” the woman behind the podium announces, her voice startlingly loud. I suppose it has to be to reach everyone in this enormous room, but I’ve never heard anyone that loud before! How does she do it?

“Welcome, all of you, to this glorious day of meditation and worship,” the woman continues. “I know our community is still reeling from the loss of our ruling Lord and Lady, may they be given their place in the Watcher’s embrace. Lord Taftan’s skill at managing our bountiful mines will be sorely missed, though in the coming weeks we will have the incredible honor of hosting First Lady Etna and her wife to take up the task. Risen to her station for designing and installing the Litia grain gate, there is little doubt she will be fully capable of supporting our vibrant community.”

She pauses for a while as murmurs spread through the crowd, voicing everything from excitement to concern to irritation. When the woman starts talking again, however, they all go silent.

“In far less happy but no less important news,” she intones, “reports confirm that Lord and Lady Taftan, as well as their brave protectors, were slain by one of the living weapons from Hiverock.”

The room erupts into murmurs again, this time much louder than before. Hiverock? What’s Hiverock? I killed them. Are they saying that’s where I’m from? But I’m from the forest!

“Fear not, New Talsi!” the woman says, silencing the room again. “The King’s wroth is mighty and just. Hunters have already been dispatched to protect our lands. Hiverock will not go unpunished for their evil. Not in this life, and not in the next.”

Shouts of approval echo through the room, the woman behind the podium smiling with approval at the sight of it. Now that I'm thinking about it, she seems dressed quite differently than any other human I've seen. She wears a flowing robe of pure white that tapers into a dancing series of strands around the legs, evocative of the tentacular pillars around the building itself. A simple hat on her head is the only color in her outfit, as it is adorned with a brilliant representation of a human eye.

"We are battered, we are fearful, and we are stressed. It is times like these, more than any other, when we are tempted to question and rage against our creator. And so I have chosen my sermon today to discuss the hardship and pain in our world. If the Mistwatcher is good, why does our world, the world He created, have so much evil?"

The Mistwatcher created the world? I sit forward, attention rapt. Something created the whole world! I never even thought of that before!

"This world is often dark," the woman says. "Our lands are often dangerous. We struggle and we fight, enemies attacking from within and without. Children are torn from their parents, parents separated from their children. Death, no matter how temporary, is a tragedy that pulls us apart. But we must always remember that death is temporary. Our ultimate destination is not here, in this harsh land, but with our Creator."

She pauses again, but there are no murmurs in the crowd this time.

"Goodness is deserved by the good, not the cruel. Yet by what metric do we judge the worth of a person? How do we see who we are, deep in our souls, and know without a doubt the fate we deserve?"

Her ever-present smile grows wider.

"It is in times of struggle that our true colors are shown. The truly good do not lend their aid only when they have aid to spare, but in the darkest hours, where they have nothing at all. And though this sounds difficult, impossible even, there is truly no greater way to live. The man who looks out only for himself has only a single man looking out for him, but when we all uplift each other, we have all people looking out for us.And in this, we become unbreakable. This is the virtue of Community, and it is the harshness of our world that teaches us the importance of this lesson. We need each other, in times like these more than any other. In the world beyond, we will live in a community far larger than we can imagine, consisting of everyone that has ever lived. There is no place for selfishness in this union, no tolerance for a cruel fool to spoil the harmony."

“Watcher bless us,” dozens of people in the crowd mutter together.

“Community,” the woman repeats, “is the first of our great virtues. Wisdom is the next. To act rightly is not something we are born with. We must learn, we must be taught, and we must each personally develop the skill to think and act in accordance with the other virtues. Industriousness, the third virtue, is the keystone on which Wisdom and Community rest. We must each do our part to develop ourselves and our community into one we can be proud of. The Watcher smiles on the studious, the strong, the creative, the tireless. Our society must advance forward, we must tame these challenges the Watcher has given us, as that is their purpose. Every effort, from the lowliest washer to the mightiest warrior, is essential to our goal. Work with vigor and pride.”

She takes a deep breath, eyes scanning over the still-silent crowd. I soak in every word, catching them in my memory forever.

“The fourth is Forgiveness. The Watcher judges the damned, but we do not. All people fail, all people stray. Our world would not be a test if we did not first have to learn. Those that falter must be encouraged to try again, to grow beyond their failings and join our glorious community in full. Yet do not confuse Forgiveness for apathy. A teacher must often be harsh. A generous person need not be a fool. And thus I remind you all of our fifth and final virtue.”

She smiles no longer, her face taking on a harsh look as her voice trembles with emotion.

“Righteous Indignation,” she intones. “A fury we reserve for the truly heinous. This is a dangerous thing to cherish. To give in to anger is too often the path of a fool, and so commonly are people tricked by jealousy, greed, selfishness, and sloth into an unjust rage. Yet when a child lies starving in the streets, when we uncover dark bruises around a woman’s neck, when our beloved leaders are stolen from us in the night, their son left an orphan… the feeling that bubbles within us is not sin, but justice. To have the drive and the will to correct what is wrong, that is Righteous Indignation. Those who fail to stand up to evil are the closest thing to evil itself.”

I sit stunned as I take it all in. So many of August’s words… did they come from here? I don’t have long to think about it, however. After a few more words from the woman, a number of other people walk on stage… and they start singing. It’s beautiful. One voice had enraptured me, back what seems like so long ago. A couple dozen voices together make something even more beautiful, even more complex. It is the most wonderful thing I have ever heard.

And it is agony.

Claretta. Claretta. I grip the top of my head, pressing down on my ears and trying to drown the sound out. No, no, no! My breathing becomes shallow and fast, my eyes squeeze shut. Yet that can’t stop me from seeing and hearing the past. The time we spent together returns unbidden, the sound of her song washing over me as I tore the flesh from her limbs. The desperate screams from her lips the many times I nearly killed Fulvia. The way she looked at me, perfect pictures of the expressions haunting my now-clear understanding.

Why did I come to this stupid town? I hate this. I hate this! Why couldn’t I have just stayed in the forest where I was happy? Why couldn’t those humans leave me alone? Why, why, w—

“Lark?”

August’s voice is barely audible over the music, but instantly I look his way. I’m shaking again, breath moving too fast for me to speak back.

“Would you like to leave?” he asks.

I nod rapidly. August whispers a polite apology to those near us, who make room for us to squeeze between the pews and retreat from the church. I sprint away as soon as I’m able, shooting out the back of the church and continuing to flee until I can no longer hear even a hint of the singing.

My hearing is very good. By the time I make it, I’m close enough to August’s house that I enter without even thinking about it, locking myself in the bathroom and removing my mask. The tears are making it soggy.

"Lark? Lark, are you in here?"

August is much, much slower than I am, and he takes quite some time to catch up with me. I don't want to answer, but my still-sobbing body betrays me, gasps for air alerting him to my presence.

"Lark! Hey, are you all right?"

Fulvia. Please. You’re all I have.

“I-I’m fine!” I choke.

You ate me!

I hear him approach the door. This is it, this is where it all ends. He breaks his promise, enters the room, sees me and—

I hear him sit down carefully on the other side of the wooden door. Just… nearby. Saying nothing else, doing nothing else. He hasn’t ever wronged me.

And she didn’t either.

You made me choose between torturing my friend and watching her die.

“I didn’t know,” I whisper.

I hope they bring me your corpse.

“I didn’t know!” I shout back.

Not that the memory answers. Still, I wail at it, rage and fear and regret pouring out with the tears.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! No one told me!”

I remember every bite, every moment of teeth piercing through skin and shattering bone. Blood splatters into my mouth, dribbles down my face, my throat. The screams, the tears, the way she wailed and begged for it all to end…

It’s such a happy memory. I loved it. Even now, my hunger stirs at the glorious sensations, the unparalleled feeling of a successful hunt.

“I’m sorry.”

A long time passes before my eyes dry, leaving me thirsty as well as hungry. I want blood as well as meat. But I’m afraid. I don’t want to hunt. Humans, animals, monsters… I don’t want to hunt anything.

“You can be forgiven,” August says quietly.

My breath catches in my throat. August has been there the whole time, sitting right on the other side of the door. Of course he has. The thought puts a special sort of warmth in my heart, prodding away just that little bit of pain.

“I can’t be the one to forgive you, of course,” August says. “To me, Lark, you have done nothing wrong. You are curious, energetic, brash… just what an old man needs to put a bit more life into his days. In the short time we’ve been together, I’ve seen you grow so much. I don’t know your past, but… I know you’re strong. Strong enough to make it here on your own. And I know many young children make grave and terrible mistakes with strength. Sometimes, the Watcher tests us before we’re ready. Sometimes, we fail. But you can be forgiven. You have kindness in you, Lark.”

I’m quiet for a while, slowly getting my mask back on over my face. I stand up, and slowly open the door. August is there, smiling at me. Waiting. He reaches out a hand and I grasp it, helping him to his feet. He’s very, very weak for some reason. It’s good to help him with things like that.

“W-what if I can’t?” I ask him, croaking out the words. “What if I deserve R-righteous Indignation?”

“Oh, Lark,” he answers, looking so horribly sad I thought he might start crying too. “You don’t. Of course you don’t. No matter what, I could never believe it. It’s not about what you do. It’s about who you are.”

Who I am? But… that’s not good. That’s worse!I’m Lark!

And Lark is a monster.