"Ernest Hemingway once wrote, 'The world is a fine place and worth fighting for.' I agree with the second part." William Somerset, Se7en
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James meditated.
"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul."
The daemonslayer didn't do this too often. Normally, his thoughts were an organized mess, constantly restless, alert, the turblence suggested by his aura as well. The man would be quite a sight in the rich park in the Ladies' Ward, a lightly, but beautifully armored warrior, and armed to the teeth, standing perfectly still. Only with the gentle motion of his breathing, and the movement of his lips, could one tell if he was alive at a distance.
"In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed."
He drew strength from his rage, a brillantly burning hatred for all evil, for all of those who would hurt the innocent. He drew his strength from vengeance, eternal retribution against those who hurt the weak, and those who murdered his friends and loved one. Most of all, he drew his strength from his own humanity, because it was an example of all he fought to safeguard and protect.
"Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid"
He reflected upon his meeting with the holy monk, Seigfried Eschtauffen. Seig had once been a great man, then he had given up his humanity in an effort to become something greater to his God. Now, the monk became his own worst enemy, a zealot, seeking to sweep away everything that disagreed with him. How low had such a mighty warrior fallen, to despair over the fact that their war was eternal. James might've been as idealistic once upon a time, but the hands of that particular wheel tore away to reveal the bitter truths, they just as well revealed the true foundations and character of a person.
"It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."
It was clear that had he not been as strong, James might've been walking the same path that Seig did now, and while their goals were ultimately similiar, James never lost control of his methods. He had long accepted his fate. The firstborn of his parents, sure, the champion of his clan, great, the most powerful warrior they could offer to help protect the world...
He was a sacrifice.
James Eredas was never truly meant to know happiness. His one chance at a normal life was ripped from him, struck down in the prime of her life, his best friend was dead, and his own family trained him, doomed him, to battle in a war that had raged since man had climbed out of the primordial ooze, until his death. The war between Good and Evil, Order and Chaos, however you called it.
And James accepted his fate. He had made his peace with the indisputable fact that the world sucks, that he would die in battle one day. Because if humans who thought like he did were able to exist at all, then it was all worth fighting for still.
His mind was freed of distractions, his purpose was renewed, and the body, relaxed, James reached into the depths of his jacket and withdrew his crimson shades, putting them on, his face setting itself into his war-mask as he did so, a subtle snarl lurking just under the surface of his being. Those close to the daemonslayer would've felt a shiver go up their spines as James's aura increased, not in size, but in focus, more like a blowtorch then a candle. He hefted his nodachi up over a shoulder, one hand on the hilt, and turned toward potential bloodshed and death.
And so James Eredas was ready for war.
Emily Halpen
