Ben drifted weightlessly in a void that was the recess of his mind.
He saw images of smoke, fire, and ruin. He walked a desolate landscape under the harsh twin suns of a desert sky. The sand was red with blood, then not. A hand reached out to her after she stumbled and dropped her books down the library’s steps. Bright walls and even brighter lights blinded him as men and women dressed in long, sterile coats spoke in hushed whispers.
A first kiss. The first kill. The last breath of a friend in his arms.
Darkness.
The memories that Ben experienced were not his; he was certain. He felt as if he were an observer. As soon as each memory came, it went, and with it, the emptiness inside of him grew. The young man was able to recall fragments or images of these memories, but the emotions associated with them became more and more muted as time went by. Until he couldn’t bring anything to the fore.
He floated for what seemed like a lifetime. With each passing moment, he lost a little bit of his already fragmented self.
He heard the sound of rain atop a canvas tent. A gentle hum of an alien tune drew him toward a familiar presence. He opened his eyes and saw the form of a woman in a white, flowing dress and tunic. She had long blonde hair, tied in two thick braids that spilled over each of her shoulders. Her eyes were closed in contentment as she whispered words without sound.
"Hark the coming of my Champion…”
The rest of her words were unintelligible as he felt his own form violently reconstruct itself. Imperfect. Subtly different and… less than what he was before.
Ben’s eyes closed and opened once more to a familiar sight. He was lying on the forest floor. He felt Ann's weight on his back. The Priestess had begun to stir from unconsciousness, and he felt her soft breath caress his ear. He stood with surprising strength, strength that he knew he should not have with such a slight frame and atrophied muscles. The Priestess’ body rolled off his back and impacted the dirt with a dull thud. He tried to turn to her, ashamed that he had been so careless, but his body was not his own.
The colours he perceived seemed muted, and he wondered if it was a result of the exhaustion that caused him to stumble. He saw Ainsle’s body lying about five paces in front of him. A horror stood above her unconscious form, eerily still, almost completely motionless. It was tall with long, thin legs that ended in slender, clawed feet. It’s dark-grey skin was taut around nothing but bones, and a long-clawed finger was embedded in the old woman’s right eye.
Ainsle!
He tried to call out to her, but no sound left his lips.
Ben, despite himself, advanced on the creature. He walked slowly with measured, confident steps. He had no control over himself. He felt, once more, like an observer. A foreign, guttural voice came from his mouth, as if he spoke without restraint or care for the well-being of his vocal chords.
"PATHETIC CREATURE! YOU DARE TAINT MY VESSEL WITH YOUR FILTH?!"
The creature turned its head toward Ben, and he saw an elongated, ashen skull with stag-like antlers covered in leathery skin. Its eyes were almost human, bloodshot, and dark red blood ran down its cheekbones. It removed its appendage from the Berserker’s eye socket, pulling out a skewered eyeball that it greedily devoured. Blood pooled in the recess of the old woman’s face, and she wailed a haunting moan.
The Witigo moved in an animalistic crouch, at a near-imperceptible speed towards Ben. The young man’s natural reaction was to flinch, but his body continued its walk without any hint of fear or apprehension. In less than a heartbeat, he tilted his body to the side and intercepted the creature’s lunge. He caught its neck with an absurdly crushing grip and lifted the horror high above his head before slamming it to the ground in a deafening crunch. The way Ben’s body had handled the Witigo was as if it weighed nothing. He held the creature, pinned to the ground, for a moment, as if he dared it try and struggle.
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"Ben…?" Jor moaned in a terrified call from somewhere out of his field of view.
Panic overwhelmed him. He couldn’t respond to her and was subjected to the whims of the beast that occupied his body.
Ben, with a hand tightly gripped around its neck, lifted the creature high into the air above his head and slammed it into the ground repeatedly. Thick, black blood covered his hands, arms, and face. The creature was dead long before he relented.
He watched on in horror at the unrestrained violence. He turned to face the Archer, who was crouched at the side of Ainsle. Her eyes wide with terror at the display. He took slow, measured steps toward the two women, a piece of the creature's neck still gripped tightly by a bloodied hand. He discarded the section of vertebrae and towered over the Squad Leader and the maimed form of the Berserker.
"Whats… happening to you? Ben, is that you?"
Trembling, her eyes met his, and he felt the heat of rage build up within him. As if she dared meet his gaze. He bent over with an outstretched palm and grabbed the Archer’s face with an impossibly strong grip. He wanted to crush her with every part of his being. She whimpered and, in a futile gesture, desperately tried to pry his hands off her skull. He stood and lifted Jor’s form, feet dangling, into the air with a raised arm. She kicked and struggled as she let out a muffled scream.
He felt the touch of a hand against his lower back, and from it, warmth radiated throughout his being.
"Come back, my heart."
He heard a sweet, tired voice plead from behind him. In gradual pulses, he felt the rage and the lust to dominate and subdue, abate. His inhuman strength waned, and he let go of the Archer, who hit the ground in an ungraceful tangle.
Jor scrambled away to the Berserker. Hands covered her face and she took deep, panicked breaths.
He turned to face a short, disheveled woman on shaky legs. Ann swayed from side to side, as if it took a great deal of concentration to remain on her feet. Her eyes were closed when she addressed him again.
"I care not for the fate of the woman…" She inhaled a laboured breath. "But I beg of you to fight against the beast inside you. Please." She paused and opened her deep, tired blue eyes. "Come back to me."
Ben felt light-headed and his body was weak. His vision darkened, and he found himself standing in the familiar cave at the forest clearing. It was dark and a blanket of thick fog lapped against his knees. He turned slowly to take in his surroundings. The previous times he had woken up here in his dreams, he was essentially crippled and unable to move. This time, however, he stood and felt his body brimming with vitality.
He felt the presence of the being approach, and he turned to face it.
"I want answers." He spoke calmly.
A pair of flaming, crimson eyes drifted closer and stopped a hand’s span away from his. The being had a terrible, smothering presence, but Ben was unafraid. He had seen what the beast was capable of and determined that if it wanted him dead, there wouldn’t be much he could do to stop it. However, the plea of the Priestess had awakened in him a resolve that he never knew he was capable of mustering. It felt as deep and firm as bedrock. Unwavering and stubborn.
He wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
The presence seemed to pause at Ben’s revelation. It sniffed and assessed him. The same way it had during its first encounter.
PREY
"No. I’m not prey."
SUBMIT
Ben felt himself frown and considered the concept the beast conveyed. He remembered a yearning desire he had felt when it had taken control of his body. He felt as if he understood the beast to some degree. Ben was overwhelmed with a sense of hubris and the primal urge to subjugate any who dared challenge him. With. Force.
Something clicked in his mind, and he once more regarded the being intently.
"So, if I’m to get what I want... I should take it by force?" He tilted his head questioningly.
The sickly, molten, dripping flames that were the eyes of the beast flared at the question. A bloody, obsidian hand with long, jagged talons materialized and lunged for his throat. Ben let the beast grab him and slowly raised his hand and gripped its wrist with the strength of his will.
The beast growled in fury.
Ben was suddenly forced back by the beast. He stumbled but did not lose his footing. Its wrist appeared to have corroded at the touch of the young man and the arm dematerialized in a wisp of blood-red smoke. He stared into its eyes.
"What’s your name?" Ben demanded.
The beast roared a bone-chilling cry and lunged at him once more.