The blade made a soft clink as it was set upon the stone alter. The smooth, bright metal contrasted sharply with the grey, pitted rock. The altar had stood solidly in the same place for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, and would probably do so for many, many more. It had been witness to a number of experiences, some good, others horrifyingly evil. It had been a resting place for holy relics, a table for meals for the poor, and a stage for saviors and prophets to preach. But those days of peace and community were long gone. More recently, it had been an operating table for the dying, a visitation place for the recently dead, and a cold support for those who were being killed. On each of the four sides of the dais a rusted but strong metal ring protruded, meant to be anchors for the chains of prisoners and sacrifices. Over time, blood of the innocent and guilty had mingled and soaked into the flagstones around the base, turning them brown. It was a foreboding and dead area.
The staleness of the altar was in direct opposition of the vibrant blade now resting upon it. The polished metal was so smooth and pure it showed reflections almost without flaw, almost seeming to transcend the visual world and reflect the soul of those looking into it. The steel was so clean, it captured every ray of light around it, and in the right light, it could be thought to glow. The edge was so fine, it was difficult to see unless viewed at just the right angle. The weapon was roughly a yard long, tipped on either end, like a double-pointed needle. The blade was thin enough to slip between a pair of ribs, but was magically reinforced to be strong enough to hack through even the stoutest armour. It was double sided, with both edges running from tip to tip. It was a weapon meant to be held by magic, and whirled around, every edge designed to create wounds and death in great quantity.
And under the control of the warrior who now stood beside the dais, it had. A white horn spiraled from the forehead above round azure eyes. A purple mane curled perfectly down around a slim neck to an elegant body. The legs and hooves were graceful and gentle, and the back had just the right amount of curve to it. The tail was as carefully styled as the mane, and reached almost to the ground. The mare was gorgeous, and she knew it. Many soldiers had died as a result of being distracted by her beauty, which she accentuated with armour as graceful as her form. It was flowing and curvaceous, and painted in acrylics. It was a testament to her skill how few marks were on it, and she had only rarely had to have it repaired.
The warrior looked up from her blade, and cast her gaze around the room. The temple was large and rectangular, and only had the one room, and one door, with the altar at the end opposing the door. It was a hundred yards long, and was about thirty wide. The ceiling over head was high and vaulting, as were the arched windows. The building had been built with only fitted stone blocks, each a precise fit. There were no decorations, leaving the walls bare. The floor was simple square stones.
Within the room had once been row upon row of pews, meant for those who wished to receive kind words and sanctuary to rest on. Now, however, the scene was quite different. Fifty three dead soldiers lay on the cold floor, in a haphazard line from the altar to the door. Their blood spread, covering very nearly the entire available floor space. The dead were all clad in roughly the same burgundy uniform, with their weapons scattered around them. They had not understood why they had to guard this old place, but they had done so, and paid with their lives.
The warrior mare looked from her victims to her sword. She reflected on the series of events and decisions that lead her here. She had killed all the guards just so she may lay her sword on this altar, but yet she was laying her blade down for the very reason she had just killed them all in cold blood. She did not understand why, but she had done it anyway. She was proud of her accomplishment, and sickened at the same time. She gave up the blade because she had killed, and she had killed so she may give up the blade. The seemingly paradoxical situation was clear to her, if none other.
She turned away from the altar with the blade upon it. In the past, the stone slab had been used to make ritualistic sacrifices in the name of heathen gods, and now, she was leaving her own sacrifice. She knew she would not live long without the sword, not in this world. She just simply couldn't carry on the way she had for the past ten years. When she slept, she was visited the faces of those whose lives she had taken. She was not haunted, for she did not fear them. She was not hunted, for they dare not harm her. She longed for them. She wanted to make amends, and to do that, she must first reach them, and no living soul can reach the dead.
The warrior stepped down from the altar, and began to pick her way between the bodies to the door. As she passed each body, she relived each one's last moment in her mind's eye. She went through the entire massacre one stroke at a time, every scream and every cry of pain burned into her skull. She closed her eyes, but still it came. That was why she had to stop. Stop before she went mad. Maybe it was already too late.
She had no problem with getting blood on her hooves as she walked down the room. Now they simply looked as they felt to her. The blood might wash off, but the stain on her mind would not.
She made it to the massive wooden doors. They were not as old as the rest of the building, but nowhere near being called new. They had ruts and pits and scars from unknowable violence, and the tar coating that sealed them together had all but been worn off. None of the boards were rotted yet, but it would not be long. Rust encroached on the metal fittings, and some of the binders had fallen off. With a push, one of the doors screeched open, letting loose a sound fit to wake the dead within.
Sunlight streamed in, and the mare walked outside and closed the door quickly. Something so pure and glorious as the sunlight did not belong in a place wretched as that. She turned to face the countryside around her. Plains stretched over gently rolling hills for as far as the eye could see in every direction. It was late afternoon, and the setting sun was behind her. To the north, she could faintly see a tall stand of pines, and beyond that, mountains. To the east and south stretched plains, infinite and spacious. Clouds drifted in the sky, as weightless and white as fresh cotton. Birds flew to and fro, chirping to another without a single care to what was going on below.
A glint of gold straight ahead caught the warrior's attention. Perhaps a hundred yards away, another warrior stood. A golden helm rested upon his head, and he was holding a bow. The mare recognized the helm, and she was not surprised. The archer's reputation long preceded him. Rumor had it he was as great a killer as her. She doubted that, but maybe there was hope.
The two killers watched each other over the swaying grass. Then a movement from the archer; an arrow shot up into the sky, slowly arcing towards the mare. She closed her eyes, waiting, hoping to feel the cold bite of death that had been so long denied to her. She had dreamed of this moment, and had wondered what her mind would see fit to remember in her final moments. Friends? Family? Past lovers? However, it was none of these. Her mind instead decided to focus on herself.
She saw herself a filly, young and innocent. She watched as she grew, approaching marehood. Various stallions had came and went, none leaving anything permanent behind but a lesson. She saw herself become a mare, beautiful and graceful. Then she watched as her world abruptly changed. She learned discipline, to follow orders, to fight. Her friends all went off to battle, and most never returned. Those who did were not whole, in body or in spirit. She watched herself kill, hesitantly at first, then willfully, then passionately, and it simply became who she was. The gore of battle became synonymous with her name as defining who she was. The blade became an extension of her body, the same way her legs, or her horn was. She had cast off her name, and became Carnage.
Her closed eyes were faced to the sky, basking in the dying sun's light, awaiting the arrow. She heard it whistling through the air, approaching fast with deadly accuracy. She heard a soft thump as it landed, but she did not feel it. She opened her eyes. She looked down, puzzled, betrayed. The arrow was stuck halfway up the shaft into the ground, about two feet in front of her. She looked at the archer, a hundred yards away. Perhaps he was not as good as the rumors had said, and had simply missed. Hopefully he will not miss again.
But no, instead of trying again, he slung his bow over his back and began to walk away. The mare almost called after him, but something about how decisive he was stopped her. She looked at the arrow again, and noticed a note attached to it. She carefully untied it, and unfurled the wrinkled parchment. On it was half a page of spidery script.
Warrior Maiden,
You have killed scores of my brethren, my friends. You killed them without conscience, without care, and without mercy. You are a monster. This deserves the slowest and most painful death possible.
You will not die today. You will not die tomorrow, or the day after. You will age and grow old, alone, haunted by the thoughts of what you have done. You will wake each day to be assaulted not by armies, but by memories. The faces of the innocent lives you have taken shall follow you. You will endure this, and I can only hope you suffer a fraction of the pain you have caused. I hereby sentence you to death, by life.
A single tear, clear and glinting like diamond, rolled from a sapphire eye. It carefully slid down the smooth cheek, and dangled on the chin for an instant, wavering, before dropping.