Hey, everyone!
I know it’s been a while since I’ve updated, and I feel I’ve been slacking. So, rather than continue to be a hermit, I’ve decided to follow in the footsteps of my mentor and publish a bit of writing I did while at the James Jones Writers Workshop Retreat. I was rather proud of this piece of writing, so enjoy!
(AN: I do not own the rights to the picture posted above. All credit goes to the artist Maia Kyi’Ra Nartoomid)
The Inquisition called her “Leviathan”. The way she could cut down six men in three blows had earned the title for her. Opposing armies cowered when they heard the name, and allies cheered. At first, she bore it with pride like the bloodstained armor she took off after every battle.
Now, the very mention of the name sickened her. It twisted her stomach as if the Demon of Envy himself had wrapped a tentacle around her lungs, squeezing until the thought of air was only a mere memory.
She could still hear the sickening slicing of her blade cutting into the gypsy child trembling behind his mother who had fallen from her sword moments before. She could see the bright blue eyes glazing over from fear to the sweet kiss of death and his body sliding from the sharp silver and into a heap on the ground. Blood blossomed within the dirt, mingling with the grotesque flowers of those The Inquisition had deemed as “heretics” or “witches”.
The sight haunted her thoughts now until she felt like a hollow tree, strong and brave on the outside, but empty and decayed within the branches. She no longer felt the faith and freedom she had before when she thought God was on her side. She knew now God had damned her along with the rest of The Inquisition, and the strength she once thought came from the Almighty was only a lie told to her to keep her from questioning the cruelty of her actions. She believed the bloodshed justified the means, but now she had removed the scales from her eyes, and the truth was far more horrifying.
There was no such thing as a “Holy War”. Blood was not salvation. Within those seconds of staring into the child’s eyes, she had discovered the darkest part of her soul, and it was the faith she had held so dear.
B.R. Fairchild 