He can tell that she’s distraught about the whole situation. And he can’t blame her for it. Had he been in her shoes, he likely would be in a far worse state than she was now. After all, his inability to protect an innocent girl he cared about had scarred him deeply…If he’d rampaged and killed everyone around him, innocent or not, with no control over it?
To be honest, he’s fairly certain that if he had, he would have followed them into death quickly after. Because unlike her, he’s too weak to live with the guilt. To power through it and work to be better and help people. Suddenly, he feels he understands why she holds herself to such lofty ideals and still thinks so low of herself. And yet…he doesn’t. Because as a third party, he can see that the fault isn’t hers. That it’s a curse, not a mistake. And he doesn’t want her to suffer from it more than she already has.
And he recalls what she said so clearly…or rather, what the being possessing her said to him.
We, the weapon, destroy, because that is what we were created for…
Whatever it was that possessed her, it must have spared him because it saw him as an ally in destruction. He’s not sure what to make of it…Lon’qu is not ignorant to his violent ways or dark thoughts, but he’d always tried to fight for a decent cause…or at least not a cruel one. And in that bloodbath, he had. Clearly, the cultists were evil, were cruel, sought to exploit Amilia and use him as leverage. They deserved death. But that wasn’t exactly all he gave them, was it? He still remembers the feeling of bones breaking in his hands, of blood spattering his face and clothes and he smashed one of their heads against a wall. He could blame it on the venom in his veins from those snakes, yes, but even still…It feels unreal recalling those memories to see, instead of his usual controlled, precise killings…something so feral and animalistic from him.
But he listens in silence when she tells him about how her powers work. About how she was born like this. He’s noticed the markings had magical qualities before. Sometimes they would glow faintly, but that had been the first day he’d seen them go black. It’s nice to know that there is at least some visible warning as to when she’s about to turn.
Not that he has even the slightest idea how to stop it…
“ So they see you as a weapon ,” he surmises, nodding as he looks ahead at nothing in particular. It sickens him…that people would take advantage of her for their own uses, as if she wasn’t a person…A person who’d already suffered enough.
Amilia clearly has no recollection of what she did or said in detail, only that she killed everyone but him during that turn. She’s surprised that he survived, however. Which does seem odd since she says usually she cannot distinguish between friend or foe. That would imply she should have killed him, too. And easily could have. He could feel the power she held, saw the way she obliterated the cultists with barely a motion. Lon’qu stood right in front of her and she didn’t kill him. Only spoke to him.
He wonders if he should tell her what she said…maybe he should. He doesn’t know if it will help, but maybe it could…It’s worth a shot.
“ I did. But not because I was able to elude you. Whatever was controlling you could have easily killed me…But it chose not to .” He pauses, trying to remember exactly what was said. Or at least summarize it as accurately as he can. Parts are clear, but others are…hazy.
“ I can’t pretend to fully understand why, but it spoke to me…It called itself ‘the Weapon’, and said that ‘my way is pleasing to the gods in the stars’…judging by the rest of what it said, I can only assume it means my own bloodlust and penchant for killing. But it seemed focused on…cleansing the world. On destroying everything so that life can just start over on its own. It said that….I have the same goal …”
He’d never thought about it that way. Was that his ultimate purpose? To destroy all corruption? While part of him would certainly like to rid the world of evil, he’s no idealist in thinking it can be done in entirety, though he continues to do what he can to improve things in…’the only way he knows how’…those words echo in his head in the Weapon’s voice as he thinks them. Even if the entire world were to be eradicated and be reborn from the dust…the same cycle would continue. Corruption would seep its way back into mankind or whatever replaced them. So why did the Weapon think he wanted that?
Was the Weapon wrong…or…was Lon’qu blind to his own path? Did he think that way and not realize it? Would he take that path one day? He shudders to think of the possibility.
“ I don’t know what to make of it ,” he leaves out the part where it said one day it would kill him too…but he won’t bring that up to her. Not right now. It isn’t relevant. “ But maybe we can find out .” Somehow…he’s not exactly sure how he can help. Even if he found a book titled “The Secrets of the Weapon” he wouldn’t know it…wouldn’t be able to read it. But there has to be something he can do to help her. To keep her from meeting this fate she seems destined for…and the fate it seems destined to bring on the world.
Discomfort settles heavy into her bones at the mention of such a thing, and Amilia shifts uncomfortably in place, pulling her knees up tight to her chest, hugging them into place with her arms. Her chin comes to rest on top of them, expression turning thoughtful and pensive as she sorts through her memories. There were precious few encounters others have had with her in her uncontrollable state that haven’t ended in death and disaster, and Lon’qu is the first, and likely only person who hasn’t despised her afterwards.
Bar the cultists whom they had wiped from the face of the earth.
A cold chill crawls up her spine and she unconsciously rubs her arms as they break out in gooseflesh.
“I’ve been told of the ‘Weapon’ a few times over the course of the study of this affliction of mine. Most notably, there was ah...a...period of time I served the ruling faction of Plegia’s government. Before Gangrel’s reign. I was...um...sold to a influential nobleman, a Grimleal cultist of rather high standing and wealth.” Amilia pauses, meeting Lon’qu’s eyes again, and she finds comfort, strangely enough, in the strange mix of emotions mostly hidden on his face. His attempts to remain impassive in the wake of this information was comforting. At least someone had their wits, still.
“It wasn’t anything terrible, as awful as being ‘sold’ might sound. I was still essentially employed by the man despite the context of how I arrived there. I was a medic to him and his family and oversaw multiple births, and helping elder Grimleal through bouts of illness. It was probably the most normal my life has ever been.”
The memories aren’t entirely unpleasant and she finds herself smiling. Though she had not been born a Grimleal cultist or even really raised as one, she had been raised with a deep and profound love for Plegia as a country, as a people, regardless of the religion that governed the land. The Dark Dragon was just one of many dragons in scripture to her, as a child. She finds herself almost comforted by the thoughts, before they tip darker. Again.
“I was caught sneaking out of his estate when I knew the time was coming to empty my markings," she explains, hands temporarily leaving the tight grip on her legs to gesture to the glowing lines in question, "...and the results were disastrous. I was heckled by the guards to return, thinking I was trying to run away from my master’s estate, and their constant tailing caused me to lose control of myself in a poorer district of the nearby city." There is a brief pause, and she takes a shuddering breath before she continues, obviously disturbed by this recounting as her voice wavers slightly. "I slaughtered hundreds of sick people suffering from some sort of flesh plague. A plague that slowly eats you from the inside out. And not just them, either. Several of the guards tried to stop me, and they fell prey to it too.”
There’s a pointed look flashed his way in grey eyes, as if to say, ‘you’ve seen them, now.’
“Those sick people were crazed by the malady that infected them. So crazed they thought I was some sort of...goddess. A weapon of the gods sent to free them from their suffering, a child of the stars. When I was brought back to my master to be executed for killing his guard, he instead expressed an interest in my...usefulness as a weapon because of the things the guard and the infected had said. There were several tests done to determined some of the things I know now.”
A long sigh leaves her and she shakes her head, sinking in on herself, reliving the memories of those madmen they had put an end to just days before. She leaves out the part where she had been kidnapped by those very same ill and deranged people before, as a part of the 'tests' done to determined just what was needed to push her over the edge to become such an unstoppable force. He didn't need to know the history of the people they had killed. Not yet. She felt enough guilt for walking straight into their trap and letting him get hurt for her sake.
After all, there was a diamond now carved into his chest to be an eternal reminder of this horrible incident. She wouldn't burden him further with it than that.
“There is a great deal of debate whether I am ‘possessed’ by some entity called ‘The Weapon’ as you say you encountered...or if it is a fragment of my own self warped beyond recognition that simply manifests like a second personality when I black out. I can’t say for certain. I would like to hope the gods didn’t ‘grant’ me this power. Just look at the consequences of it. Those cultists were...that man was....in love with...that thing I become. That’s horrid.”
Her nails dig into the flesh of her calves so hard, for a moment, she vaguely wonders if they might bleed, trying to put the dizzying, uncomfortable feeling rising ever higher out of her mind.
“Remember when you told me I’m not special because I’ve killed people and got blood on my hands, and I told you I want nothing more than to not be special? This is why. Whatever I am, whatever the weapon is, so many people are convinced it’s...divine or holy, a product of my faith and I...I don’t want to be that. I’m just a woman. Whatever ‘the Weapon’ said to you...as bizarre as it is, I much rather believe I’m not a tool of the gods with no choice in my fate. That those were my own thoughts, just...twisted out context by the madness.”
Her voice grows so small, so soft, it’s barely there, barely more than a whisper.
“I honestly don’t know what to believe anymore. But if we could...understand it. If I knew more...maybe I could control it. Or find out how to stop it sooner. Any answers would be better than this bottomless well of questions of ‘who and what am I’.”
