Hi there. My name is Cynthia Gedder. I hit people, and I’m dead.

You probably want more information than that, don’t you?

*Sigh*

Right.

Fine.

I’m not quite all the way dead, but I do hit people. HARD.

I’m not sure what to call it myself.

It’s not boxing.

It’s not brawling either.

If someone swings an arm at me, I break it.

If the idiot tries to kick me after that, I break his leg too.

I’m getting quite good at it.

One adventurer called me a “monk”. I thought those were people who shave a round bald spot on their heads, wear brown robes that use a thin rope as a belt and fight with staves, so I don’t think that’s it.

I could be wrong though.

I doubt Teresa and Joan would appreciate a shaved head either.

Life these days has been… good… if a little slow.

Slow is good.

Safe is good.

Uneventful is good.

Even if it’s a little… uneventful?

Okay, I’ve been bored. I admit it.

I’m liking the beer a little too much these days too.

I’m not drinking as much as Mike here has been since he lost his job, but still...

Hmm?

Yeah.

Mike and I are…

Actually, I’m not sure what Mike and I are.

We drink together sometimes.

I listen to him complain about things.

Sometimes I hit him. Sometimes I help him.

We’re not friends though.

I don’t hate Mike Evans quite as much as Joan does…

But I don’t like him as much as Teresa does either.

I mean, I understand both their reasons, but…

I just don’t care.

Mike doesn’t matter.

Not much is all that important to me anymore.

I read this line in a book once by a famous adventurer:

“All that matters… is all that matters.”

I had no idea what it meant at the time, but it’s been stuck in my head ever since…

Well… ever since.

You get a new perspective on life after you die.

You should try it sometime.

No, I don’t mean die right now, just imagine it instead.

Pretend that in five minutes from now, you will die, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Just three-two-one *ARGH*, and you’re worm food, alright?

And that’s it.

You’re gone.

THE END.

Here’s the thing: just before you die, what do you still care about?

Politics?

Sports?

Romance novels?

Gossip?

Some part of the world you’ve never been to?

What DOES matter, in the end?

“All that matters… is all that matters.”

There, see?

Life can be boiled down to just one simple truth:

All that is TRULY important… well, that’s ALL that is truly important.

Life is what matters.

Family is what matters.

A safe place for children to be born and to grow up in is what matters.

A better future for everyone you care about is what matters.

Being remembered in a good way matters.

Knowing where your soul is going matters.

Worshiping the goddess Ilya matters, at least as long as she keeps up her side of the bargain and protects her worshipers, but don’t tell her I said that, okay?

Everything else is noise.

If Teresa wants to have children with Mike, then great! Wonderful! I’ll support her.

If Mike turns his life around, settles down with her, and becomes a good father then great! Wonderful! I’ll support him too.

I doubt it’ll happen.

I mean, just look at him right now. Does THAT look like father material to you?

But hey, I’ve already seen one miracle.

I’m here, after all.

But if he EVER raises his hand against her…

I’ll put him down myself.

Family is what matters the most, after all.

Also assuming Joan doesn’t beat me to it while screaming, “I told you so!”

What, nothing?

*Sigh*

Hmm? Oh, Joaniepoo hasn’t been talking to me lately.

Personally, I think she really had the hots for that elf boy who ran away.

She’s been quiet in her corner like a smitten teenage girl sighing over a painting of her favorite bard.

I didn’t think she was the cradle-robbing type, but I guess you can’t truly know your own family…

Oh come on!

Still nothing?

HELLLOOOOO!

Joanie! Joaniekins! Joanie-strawberry-watermelon-creampuff!

*Sigh*

You know, I wonder how many times that adventurer had died before he wrote that book?

It’s been too damned quiet around here, and I’ve been too damned bored.

I don’t want to become the kind of person who beats up a person just to beat up a person.

There was that fun with the elf boy two weeks ago.

You know, the one Joanie-chickenfeathers is lusting over?

Yeah, that one.

I thought things were going to finally get interesting around here when he appeared out of nowhere, NAKED, but instead it became all alarms and finger pointing when he suddenly up and ran for the hills.

Something sure scared the hell out of that little bugger.

I wonder if Joan-lone-bone thinks it’s her fault?

Hey, did you know he could make money appear out of thin air?

It’s true, I saw it!

For a poor frontier town like this, that’s like a godsend.

Actually, he WAS a godsend, wasn’t he?

I mean, he appeared in the church and everything.

Huh.

I never thought of it that way before.

Teresa was always the most religious one of us sisters.

Anyways, the kid ran away, right?

Daniel Bowen was REALLY angry…

But Lord Bowen was FUMING, and THAT’S not something you want to be near.

Believe me, Lord Bowen’s voice is really wasted here in this backwater place. I swear, it’s like a panther gargling oiled gravel. He should be on a stage, growling lines like, “GO FORTH! BRING THE EVIL KINGDOM TO ITS KNEES IN THE NAME OF THE KING! WE ARE RIGHT! WE ARE STRONG! WE WILL HAVE VICTORY ON THIS DAY! CHARGE! ”

You haven’t met him yet, have you?

I’ve heard merchants say they can’t remember what he looks like because they keep staring at his mouth, waiting on his every word.

I mean, even when he’s says something normal like, “I think it might rain soon”, people can’t help but wonder if the rain clouds coming their way are somehow magically alive or if that means somebody’s house is about to be destroyed by lightning and tornadoes.

When he says, “It’s a nice day,” everybody expects him to look all-knowing and continue with, “for NOW.”

I’m not kidding. He’s just that charismatic.

I REALLY want to hear him reading from a book of erotic fiction sometime…

*slurp*

Uh… yeah. Where was I?

So Lord Bowen has this great voice, right? So when he gets angry, people get the urge to run and hide. They'll even feel real pity for whoever he’s angry at… once they get past their happiness that it’s not THEM.

Lord Bowen was really, REALLY angry at Mike Evans here.

Apparently he left the innermost doors unlocked, was drinking on the job, and he even almost raped a little girl.

Naturally, he lost his job after that.

He still won’t talk about what happened, though.

The men already hated him (no big surprise there, he’s a stud, and he knows it), but if there’s one thing women will never forgive, it’s a rapist.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Sure, there are still women who still think it’s some kind of mistake, but they can’t stick up for him as much as they used to. Teresa’s been letting him sleep in our bed so she doesn’t have to pray for so many healing spells every morning.

But every night I’m the one watching him drink until he’s like this.

Pathetic, isn’t it?

Hmm?

What’s that?

Oh.

Right.

The whole part about me being dead.

*Sigh*

Okay.

It’s not very pleasant though.

Our family was fairly small. Mama, papa, eldest brother Ricky, little Kyle, and us three sisters, myself the eldest, then Joan, and adorable little Teresa. We spoiled the heck out of her because she was just so cute. The darling of the family.

We were headed to this tiny frontier town called Bowen Village, along with the Evans family of twenty. Apparently they had kin in the new place who practically ran it themselves, or so they said.

I remember thinking it was all like unicorn dung: even if it existed, it couldn’t be all THAT great now, right?

We were going to start a new life there. Daddy was sick of working for our previous lord, the Earl of Cumber, and since he was the third son of his family he wouldn’t inherit anything anyways and so needed land of his own or something like that.

We were being escorted by a group of adventurers calling themselves 'The Ebon Hand'. Rough bunch. Perhaps the name should have tipped us off, but all adventurers we had heard about called themselves stupid names like ‘Black Swords’, ‘Lightning Force’, or ‘Beasthunter Six’.

Men.

The leader of the group was called Randal (or Randell) ‘the Savage’, and I remember thinking he must be very brave because he had so many scars.

I was so childishly stupid back then.

Men don’t get scars for being brave.

Men get scars for being stupid.

The brains of the group, his friend ‘Lucky’ though… He was a sneaky bastard.

More “bastard” than “sneaky”, unfortunately for us.

He stole from people, pretending to “accidentally” bump into them while lifting their purses.

However, when Joan, still only ten at the time, confronted him about it he denied it and  laughed it off, eventually promising that he’d let her see for herself when we finally made camp around halfway to the village.

But instead that was when he pulled out his sword and swung at her head with it, knocking her out with the flat of the blade.

Our so-called ‘protectors’ then pulled out their weapons and started killing everyone.

They kept the women, Joan as well, alive long enough to… violate them... over and over... endlessly… until finally even they had enough and then they killed them too.

Mama hid me underneath some blankets in the wagon, and Teresa behind some barrels.

When one of the thugs finally came looking I kicked out at him and by the luckiest of shots managed to kick him in the neck.

I felt something crunch under my foot. He went down.

I ran out of that wagon.

I had to save Teresa. Give her time to escape. Create a distraction.

I ran at Lucky. I had no plan. I wanted to at least… hurt him… for what he had done.

He waved his hand at me, inviting me closer with an evil smile.

That’s when I found out how he had earned his name.

He wasn’t 'lucky'.

He was prepared.

My feet stopped working, after I stepped on some caltrops he had spread on the ground.

When I opened my mouth to scream, he threw some kind of dust at me, which made me cough and choke, and made my eyes burn.

I never saw the blade that killed me. I just remember the impact when it entered my chest, and then the searing hotness of the pain and the sudden loss of strength as my body stopped doing what I wanted it to do.

And then I died.

And Teresa? Dear, sweet little Teresa?

She was the bravest of us all.

Seeing her family and friends die… and worse… and knowing that she was next…

She lifted the smallest keg of lamp oil we had…

She poured it over her head…

And then, inside that wagon with all of our belongings, all our family history, she picked up some flint and steel…

And she set herself on fire.

What’s worse is that she couldn’t get it to work on the first go.

Can you imagine it?

Seeing all those horrible men, looking at her with their evil smiles, imagining her naked and...

*Clack!*

Nothing.

*Clack!*

Maybe a spark, but not enough.

*Clack! Clack! Clack!*

Finally, it starts burning. SHE starts burning.

And then the pain starts...

Joan and I died that day, but somehow, by some miracle, Teresa lived.

Somehow, she crawled out of the inferno that was our burning family wagon.

The thieves, for whatever reason, had left.

Perhaps they feared the fire and smoke would attract attention.

Perhaps they believed that once night fell our spirits would seek vengeance against them.

Or perhaps they just wrote the whole wagon off as a loss and left with the rest of the loot.

Scum like that can be practical that way sometimes.

We crawled the rest of the way to Bowen Village.

Yes, ‘we’.

Somehow Joan and I had joined with Teresa’s soul.

Every time she passed out, from the pain, or from exhaustion, one of us would be able to take over her body and continue our trek. When the two of us passed out as well, Teresa would wake up again.

I don’t know how long it took us, but eventually we were discovered by some scouts and carried the rest of the way to the Church of Ilya inside the nipplefort here. They meant to use one of the healing scrolls kept there, but instead the goddess Ilya Herself healed her, with a bright light beaming from her floating  holy symbol, proclaiming to all that Teresa would henceforth serve in Her name as cleric.

Everyone was pretty darn happy to hear that, and everybody could respect a little girl who had crawled all that way with such terrible burns.

Well. They could respect her, but they couldn’t look at her.

Only Mike and that elf boy has ever looked straight at us without looking like they want to vomit.

Don't worry about it.

I know you don't mean to, and we're used to it now.

You know what, though? Joan and I, we had done our job.

We got our beloved Teresa, our only surviving family, to safety.

We should have moved on.

You would think that, wouldn’t you?

But we were trapped.

Trapped by the words, “If only…”

For Joan, it was, “If only I could have been able to tell that those people were evil from the start…”

She eventually got her wish, and became a paladin.

For me, it was, “If only I were just a little faster, just a little stronger, if only I had things I could throw too…”

I learned a lot from that bastard,  ‘Lucky’.

I have my own set of caltrops now, and a few other things.

I can almost keep up with a running horse too.

I… WE won’t die so easily next time.

Pour us another drink, will you?

Leave the bottle.

Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Mike and the three of us get home to bed.

Well, that got dark... I should have ended on something funny.

You know, even if Cynthia DID get her lustful wish and Lord Bowen started reading erotic fiction to her, it would most likely be from the Humiliations of a Wandering Elf Princess series.

Now THAT would be awkward to have to sit through, don't you think?

Especially if your name is Joan...