The Cleansing of Vildar
by Panik

Vildar stood, his eyes wandered the five walls of the Alcherealm. Each of them stained in visionary divisions of what was his universe. In the center of Alcherealm a river of myth traveled, its waters appeared from the division Astri and vanished the same into the division Quol.

The river flowed swiftly along a gorge cut in the marble floor. The sound of its rushing water brought a feeling of calm with it. Vildar inhaled its fresh aroma as his eyes journeyed along the tossing waves that carried the three orbs of destiny: reawakening, tranquility, and utter perdition. They moved with the river, rising with its waves, then dipping elegantly as the waters returned.

Vildar walked toward the river; his boots stepped heavily on the marble floor. He looked down, his eyes widening at the beauty beneath him. The floor of the Alcherealm was a fine black marble, dotted with various emeralds from across the divisions. "The gems would make for an impressive heist, should a thief be bold enough to enter the Alcherealm with such intentions," he thought.

Vildar was many things; a thief was not among them. He had come to the Alcherealm by invitation from the Oracle Kring. Kring was the curator of souls, the guide to the beyond. He was the keeper of the Alcherealm, the house of the dead. Vildar had come to the Alcherealm for his cleansing. To have his soul stripped and judged before the Optimal Lord, a service generally reserved for the worthy. Surely he was not one of the desirables among Trinianu, but still he was here.

An assassin by trade, not a life of nobility though he was true to his craft. He learned the art of killing from Bellauox, of the division Medivinus. Bellauox taught him to kill, to punish those who betrayed the divisions unmercifully. "Compassion is a weakness my boy. You must never feel for another. That is except for hatred."

Vildar learned hard lessons of killing and mass hatred. It mattered none to the Optimal Lord, the creed, sex, or age of a traitor, they all were to be killed unconditionally. Vildar witnessed the death of many and the torment of more.

It seemed the killing would never end, then one day it did and Vildar was cold, heartless, and he no longer witnessed the killing as such, rather he witnessed it as his life.

He learned well and killed better. Vildar had made a name for himself in Trinianu, a name that parted the lips of the Optimal Lord. It was the Optimal Lord that gave him this opportunity, a reward for his loyalty. An opportunity to choose a destiny from the Orbs of the Alcherealm.

In the Alcherealm, each patron was given series of Orbs from which to choose. For Vildar there was three, two not deserving a mere murderer and one that was. They are: a chance at rebirth, to walk a path far from his own. Solace in the bosom of the Optimal Lord, a place where all the Heavens exist as one. Or, he would know his assigned destiny, to know the torment of those he has killed.

Vildar had stood on the hard marble floor for a while now. His legs grew weary, his mind drifted far from the discomfort of patience. But as quickly as he felt the rush of impatience, he felt a warmth wash over him. His thoughts recalled a forbidden love long since removed.

Alyssa of Quol, she held his heart like no other before or since. Vildar smiled to himself; exhaled longingly then rung his hands slowly, cocking his frame to one side. Closing his eyes, he visualized her. He could see her warm smile and the tender eyes that calmed his rage. How she brought life to him, comfort to a soul filled with hate. With her he was all things and had been for as long as Trinianu would allow. As children they played among the divisions, as adolescents they felt the forbidden warmth of flesh but as adults love fell still.

Vildar’s smile deepened.

As vivid as the day, he recalls the loss in her eyes. The eye's he sees every night before he sleeps and every morning as the fog of his dreams lift. The joy that heightened her face, the rambling of words from a woman in love, they drowned his soul.

She held him tighter than he had ever remembered, on their last morning together. The aroma of her beauty intoxicated him. She talked of their future together; her plans to flee Trinianu through the worm hole Ryk, where they could live their lives outside the turmoil of their home.

"There are far too many obstacles for us here my love. In Ryk we can be together, raise a family, and realize all those things we dreamed of as children. Don’t you see it Vildar? Trinianu stands between us, stands between our future."

"I cannot. I am an assassin of the Lord’s Divisions. My duty is with him."

"With him you can know no love. With him I am forbidden."

"Yes."

"In Trinianu you cannot, but with me Vildar. With me you will know all things, flee with me to Ryk." She pleaded, pulling him closer. He felt the warmth of her love splash over him like breakers in the Crystal Sea. Still he was dutiful.

As she held him as he drew his blade. She drew him closer, even as the blade of an assassin rose behind her. The blade that he had gripped a thousand times before now trembled in his hand as it did the first time he killed. "She is my beloved Alyssa, but a trader to Trinianu," he thought as he placed the blade against her throat.

"I love you Vildar." She whispered, not attempting to flee.

Vildar moved the blade across her delicate throat. She exhaled deeply, falling into Vildar she gasped her final breath. With her blood flowing over his bosom, Vildar watched the sterling tint of her eyes slowly deaden.

Vildar clenched his fists; a trickle of blood fell from his palm onto the marble floor. His thoughts vanished beneath a shroud of anger. He watched the droplet of blood disappear into the marble as if it thirst. His hand, the one that drew so much blood now bled itself, but only for a moment as the skin regenerated over his open wound. Vildar threw his head back, screaming into the abyss that hung over him. "Alyssa. How could you love such a man as I?" He cried into the palms of his hands. Tears ran through the cracks between his fingers.

Sorrow washing the hands of a lonely killer.

~ ~ ~ ~

Vildar tired. Lowering himself to the floor, he sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. He looked down at his hands; the blood of those he killed colored his palms, the hallmark of his life.

His hands were the tools of a tradesman. They were unsettled lying idle in his lap. They searched for something to do. Something to occupy the space once consumed with the feel of a handgrip. Nevermore, instead they rubbed his coarse face, ventured across the marble floor picking impassively at the colored gems.

Vildar extended his arms, his hands positioned as if a grip of a dagger rested in them. He clenched them into fist; they shook from the power he put forth. Then they dropped heavily to his side.

Rising quickly, he stomped his foot in place as he straightened himself. His impatience began to wear him; he paced before the orbs of destiny like a caged tiger waiting its feeding. "Where is Kring," he complained to himself, "how much longer do I have to endure this tedious torment?"

"Torment," he heeded in recollection.

"No, nothing like that I endured during the passing. During the killing of the Dark-one, Ganglier the civil miscreant," Vildar recalled.

Vildar met up with Ganglier in the Belly of Dragons a refuge for rebels. It should have been a clean assassination; Ganglier was a civic leader, a warrior of words. Perhaps it was his over confidence. Perhaps he had taken Ganglier for dead, be he only a visionary of words. Whatever the cause Vildar found himself beneath the blade of a civic missionary.

It all happened in a flash, yet, as if in slow motion he watched himself crumble. Ganglier folded passively beneath the power of Vildar, his impressive arms entangled securely around Ganglier’s neck. But Ganglier with a flip of his hips threw Vildar over his shoulder, as if he were tossing a bag of oats. Before Vildar could right himself, Ganglier had buried several inches of his dagger into his shoulder.

He had never been defeated, never so much as challenged. Most conceded their fate. Never before had anyone stood up to Vildar. The mere breath of his name struck fear into all, like a mythological legend he had become revered and feared by all that encountered him. Now in an instant he lay wounded, with a knee on his throat. Vildar remembered the pain as he clutched his shoulder. He remembered the wicked eyes of Ganglier as the butt of his dagger met with Vildar’s forehead, sending him into a much-unwelcome sleep.

Vildar woke sometime later, his head still throbbing from the impact. He discovered himself chained to a cold moss covered subterranean wall. His arms clasped in iron, stretched to agony, his feet dangled inches above the rat infested putrid soil.

His clothes shredded, his skin scarred with open wounds. He had taken a beating, but one he could not recall. The soil beneath him was moist from the blood that slowly dripped from his toes. The rats scurried beneath them, stopping to indulge themselves in fresh blood every now-and-again.

"Ah, he awakens." Ganglier said.

Vildar raised his head; it took all his strength to keep it hoisted long enough to peer at Ganglier. "You whip me while I am unconscious? What kind of coward are you." Vildar spat as his neck gave in.

"I am of the cunning variety. Save your energy. You will need it to scream to your Lord to end your miserable life and take you far from the pain I am about to inflict." Ganglier laughed as he left Vildar hanging, supported by splintering bone and shredding flesh.

Vildar hung at the mercy of Ganglier for seemingly endless days. Each of them Ganglier would return to strip a small piece of life from the assassin, a layer of skin at a time.

Ganglier relished in Vildar’s agony, taunting him as he gently cut at the soles from his feet, then meticulously peel the skin off the swollen redness that covered the rest of Vildar’s body.

His body indeed, it was more as a lump swelled battered tissue that clung for its life onto breaking bone. His flesh painfully absorbed the stale air of his prison and the bitter stench of a hundred flesh starving rats.

He could no longer open his eyes as his flesh had swollen them shut. His breath escaped through small holes that were his nostrils, or whistled through his chapped, swollen lips that parted only by the uneven lumps the rode his once rugged mouth.

Each day Ganglier would return, and each day the smile on his face broadened. Each day the joy in his voice became increasingly dreadful. Each day Vildar sank closer to death.

Each day was his passing.

The pain never subsided though. With each passing layer of skin, he pleaded for death. Death came, but it came slowly, until, with flesh draping from his bones he awoke to find himself whole in the Alcherealm.

"I cannot stand here and reflect over my life. Is this to be my torment!" Vildar shouted above the rush of the river.

"It is an option." A deep voice resonated through the Alcherealm. Darkness followed, along with the hush of the river.

Vildar took a step toward the river his eyes narrowed trying to pierce the darkness. Sparks of light rose from the marble floor as the emeralds began to radiate sending their brilliance into the abyss.

Through the rainbow of lights, Vildar could see a figure rise from beneath the orbs. The Oracle Kring levitated above the water, his flowing robe danced with the stirring water. The Orbs of Destiny spun rapidly about him. Kring cupped his hands and extended them before him, the orbs came to rest in the shape of a pyramid above his hands.

"Welcome, Vildar." The voice returned. Kring stood unmoved, his lips pressed, his eyes peered insanely at the orbs that levitated before him.

"Yes," Vildar responded uneasily, his eyes searched through the prism of colors for the origination of the voice.

"Do you know why you have been brought here?"

"Of course, I am to choose my destiny."

"Ah, Vildar my most notorious assassin, welcome."

The Optimal Lord. Vildar dropped to a knee, turning his eyes to the Heavens, "Forgive me Optimal Lord. I am most honored."

A snicker rose through the Alcherealm, "Please you are dead, there is no need, your fate is already sealed in the three orbs. Your selection assassin."

Silence filled the Alcherealm for a moment, the darkness returned. Vildar closed his eyes, his ears perked as he sensed the movement of the Oracle. "Vildar?" a softer voice called.

"Yes."

The Alcherealm came to life, the room brightened, the stained walls animated as the divisions orbited around Kring. The sound of the river returned and the soft spray of its water again gently bathed him. Kring stood before him, the Orbs of Destiny levitating in his palms.

"It is time for you to decide your destiny." Kring looked up from the orbs, his clouded eyes peered dimly ahead.

Vildar looked away from Kring. His eyes searched the gems on the marble floor one at a time; they dulled beneath his gaze. He left the Alcherealm, the Oracle; the voice of Bellauox rang out in his head. "Kill her. She is of no use to Trinianu. She is flawed, and for this, she is a threat. Kill her."

Vildar looked down at the blind woman; she peered up at him through clouded eyes. Her face quivered as she spoke, "Please sir, spare me."

"She is old and blind, how is she a threat to Trinianu?" Vildar asked as he looked away from the old woman.

He felt the sting of leather scrap across his face. "I will kill you the next time you question me boy. She is weak, thus a follower. She is flawed, thus unworthy. The Optimal Lord has no place for her. Kill her!"

Vildar cringed from the beating Bellauox put on the old woman. As he beat her, he peered emotionlessly at Vildar. "There is no place for compassion."

He looked down at the old woman; she lay sniveling in saliva and blood. "Kill her assassin, in the name of the Optimal Lord, kill her."

Vildar raised his leg, placing his foot on the old woman’s throat he pressed down; Bellauox cheered him on, "Kill her assassin. In the name of the Optimal Lord, kill her."

The old woman’s mouth exploded in gasp as Vildar crushed her throat with his boot. He watched with interest the saliva that escaped her mouth. It hung feeble to her lip as he imagined her will did to life. Then it gave way and deposited itself in a small pool near her bleeding head.

He continued to watch as her clouded eyes deepened with each moment his foot crushed her throat. Then her will like the droplet of saliva gave way and the life drained from her. She fell dead beneath his boot.

Bellauox hissed at the crowd that had gathered, "Welcome the newest assassin of Trinianu. Let her fate not become yours." he said behind a brutish jeer.

The faces of the crowd, the dread their eyes carried as they looked fearfully at Vildar before quickly moving on. It was a look he would see time and time again, but a look that would never provide him comfort.

"You wish to make your choice, or shall I assume you wish to remain in the Alcherealm?" The voice of Kring lanced through Vildar’s thoughts, bringing the assassin back to the realm of the dead.

Kring pushed the levitating orbs forward causing Vildar to step back.

He shook his head, "Yes, of course."

"Then choose."

Kring removed his hands from beneath the orbs; they spun rapidly in place, switching positions one at a time. They encircled Vildar in this manner for several orbits, "Choose."

Vildar held out his hand, the orbs stopped and levitated before him. As he reached for an orb of his choosing it moved back, just beyond his grasp. He peered over to the Oracle; his clouded eyes stared blankly back at him.

"Choose," he said again.

Vildar held his breath for a moment, "Alyssa," her name flowed fluidly from his lips.

"Vildar," he could hear her voice in his mind. "Vildar," she called again, he felt the warmth wash from his heart.

"Alyssa," he called for her, his hand stretched for one of the orbs. As his fingers rounded the orb, pulling it into his palm he felt the rush of comfort ease his soul. In his hand a single orb rested, he had made his choice.

Vildar looked for the Oracle. He was gone. The remaining orbs were gone as well. He remained in the Alcherealm, the rushing water of the river bathed his ears in solace, he felt a calming he had not known in such a long time. He smiled broadly, exhaled longingly; rest was finally upon him.

The stained walls of the Alcherealm gave way to a meadow of wild flowers and long grasses, accompanied by the warmth of the sun. His eyes took in the beauty of the white light as it heightened the colors about him. Vildar laughed as he spread his arms wide, tilting his head back allowing the grace of the sun to bathe his bleached face.

"Vildar," a soft voice rode the gentle breeze.

"Alyssa," he responded eagerly turning to meet her. "It is you," he said, moving himself through the wild flowers to his beloved.

They embraced and he held her tighter than he had ever held her before. He felt the warmth of her love splash over him like breakers in the Crystal Sea.

Then she was gone.

Vildar looked at his empty arms. "Alyssa?" He called.

"Yes, Vildar, I am here." Her voice came over him, not as before, he sensed a chill as she slowly pronounced his name, "Vil·där."

He turned cautiously, his eyes brushed across the wild flowers before he raised them to hers’. Alyssa stood, her gown fluttering gently in the breeze. "Alyssa?" he said curiously.

He watched the smile on her face brighten, the muscles that were once tense relaxed. She giggled as if it all had been a terrible jest. "Vil·där," she said as the blood poured from the opening wound on her neck.

Vildar dropped to his knees, clutching his fist full of wild flowers he screamed into the abyss that hung over him, then drew silent beneath a final gasp.

©2002 Panik