Never have I felt so low in my life. Or so numb.
I wish that it were a physical feeling for I hurt all over. Many years has it been since I was last punished so cruelly. The whip of Mordevin, whilst vicious in nature, was nothing compared to this. My left ankle is snapped, my left wrist broken and the corresponding shoulder dislocated. I have bruises on my face and my chest, a tight corset about my torso compressing my fractured ribs and a large, deep cut spanning the majority of my upper body. There is even a deep slice straight through the meat of my buttocks ensuring that I can neither walk or sit. Both lacerations were later cauterised, only adding to the pain of each and the stench of my burnt flesh left me feeling nauseous.
I deserve this pain, though. I deserve this suffering.
This is a day that I shall never forget. This is a day that I shall ever mourn. This is the day that I took a mans life.
I recall how devastated I felt on that day so long ago that I thought myself responsible for the supposed death of Drevorin, how I cried and my heart shattered for what I believed I had done. This is different, though. I feel none of that; only regret that it had to end this way.
Am I so hardened, have I become so cruel, that causing the demise of another person affects me so little? Or am I simply yet to truly feel the shock of it?
He was hurting me, beating me, because I refused to apologise to him for something ultimately trivial. I refused to be bullied anymore. I refused to give in to his demands. I fought back. I defended myself. I only wished for it to stop, for him to go and leave me be. I never meant to kill him... not until the end.
I cannot deny that I knew what I was doing. I have a good knowledge of anatomy; I need it for my trade. The first two times that he swung his sword for me, I was able to avoid being cut in half, but when he raised it for a third time, I knew that there was no other way. His cold, scathing words of farewell told me that just as much as his continued efforts to end my life. I could not run, I could not escape, so I took the only course available. I threw myself forward, the dagger gifted to me by my mother held tight in my right hand. It sliced deeply into the inside of his thigh just below his groin, causing his blood to rain down upon my back thick and hot, as I knew it would. There is no saving a man from such a blow; the life fluid leaks away too quickly to repair the damage. I was aware of this and I did it anyway.
There was so much blood, his as well as my own. So rich, so thick, so crimson. It soaked into me. It soaked into the grass. It glistened brightly beneath the afternoon sunlight.
I told him that I was sorry for I knew what I had done.
For a few moments, I blacked out. It could not have been long, though, for such a wound takes only minutes to kill. I came to just in time to see him sink to his knees, just in time to hear his last words and see him let loose his final breath. I crawled then. I crawled to him, ignored my own pain as I gently laid him down on his back and closed his sightless eyes.
They stared at me, through me, past me, those brilliant blue orbs. So full of hatred and bloodlust only minutes before, they now saw past the trappings of this world, beyond to a place that none alive may witness. I closed his eyes, but ever shall they haunt me.
Davick found me. Once again, he saved me. He always comes when I need him the most. He took me back to his house, laid me in his bed, tended my wounds. He rests now in the other room, remaining nearby in case I have need of him; my guardian assassin.
It was self-defense, but is that an excuse?
It was him or me; I had no choice, but I did. I could have chosen to allow my life to be extinguished.
I am a healer, not a killer, but now I have killed.
What am I?
