Mark Wallace

9/18/10

Metamorphosis of the Soul

There was magic in the air that night. A sweet, natural magic, like dew drops on freshly

bloomed pansies. I was the only one who noticed it of course: the other fellows in our little band

hadn’t a drop of arcane talent in them. All the same, I felt it worth mentioning. A big mistake,

since they immediately assumed that it meant pixies, nixies, or even grigs were trying to lull us

to sleep so they could steal all our belongings. With a sigh, I let the three of them run off on

patrol, being sure to sneak a look at Gallus as he put on his tunic (so I have a healthy interest in

the opposite sex, big deal). With the boys all gone I had some time to myself for the first time in

weeks. As was my hobby, I sang a song I had learned in my childhood:

Time passes, people move

Like a river’s flow, it never ends

A childish mind will turn to noble ambition,

Young love will become deep affection,

The clear water’s surface reflects all

(Well, it rhymes in the original Elven)

At some point, I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I was aware of was being

in my childhood room. This is my happy place, where I go to dream. In here, I forget everything.

All my suffering, all the suffering I’ve forced onto others, everything outside my wonderful little
room is forgotten. All I have is my lavender-and-pink bedroll, my various toys and dolls, and of

course the beautiful garnet locket I ‘borrowed’ from my mother.

Something was different this time. Instead of being cheerful and bright, my room was

permeated with the unmistakable stench of fear and dread. Colors faded to shades of grey, my

childhood playthings became broken and dismembered, and my room started to fall apart. My

last refuge of happiness was being destroyed right before my eyes, and I was helpless. Then, I

heard the howling.

In numbers too vast too comprehend, the Dark Ones descended down the mountain. I

realized what this was: a nightmare crafted directly from my own memories. I moved to grab my

sword, but found that it wasn’t there, and that somehow I was once again in the body of my six-

year-old self. Unable to do anything but watch and scream, I once again saw my father die, my

brothers slaughtered, my mother cut down. Her blood stained my clothes. I cried.

Then, silence fell like a shroud. I was back in my adult body. My sword was back in my

hand. I was presented with a vision of the Dark Ones, helpless children just as I had once been.

My sorrow transformed into anger, and with a yell I killed them. I cut them to pieces, again and

again, crying and screaming and laughing all the while. Even if this was but a dream, the feeling

of satisfaction was incredible. I think I have a new purpose in life now: vengeance, glorious

vengeance.