It is like a dream.

The seat creaks beneath me as I settle behind the bar, resting my hands on the smooth, dark wood. The courtroom is not packed, but it is full. Not of people, though there are many of those; the ghosts are here, silent witnesses, memories of a pain that will last long after I am nothing more than dust. Suffering has a voice even when the world is deaf, but perhaps only those who lived it care to listen. The words crackle like a fire under my skin. I feel the smoke, the blood, the tears.

The lawyer in front of me is the picture of professionalism. His skin is fair, pale from too much time bent over law books or lingering inside to trade arguments as others might trade blows. His suit hangs just a little loose on his body, perhaps a size too big, but it is clean and pressed. His blond hair is carefully combed. His eyes, however, are immeasurably tired. He does not look like me. He does not speak as I do, even the smallest shaping of sound that is an accent so starkly removed from my own. We come from different worlds.

I think of how I must appear, sitting in front of them. Do they look at my green eyes and see my emptiness? Do they mark my desert-brown skin or mahogany hair and think me alien? Do they see cruelty in my narrow jaw, my sharp nose, my thin lips?

Perhaps they do. I do not think they would be wrong.

The look the lawyer gives me is uncertain, that of a man staring down a serpent. His voice, though, is steady. "Please state your name for the court."

The words that come out of my mouth are cold, not because I hate him, but because the chill of the grave rules my thoughts when the fires rule my heart. "Karsa Mardas."

"Do you understand that you are under no obligation to testify, Miss Mardas?"

For a moment, I wish to argue with him on that point. I want to tell him about the compulsion to speak burning in my throat, the words pressing against the inside of my lips to be unleashed even after all the time since the beginning, the need deep in my chest to spit the truth like a dragon's fire. "I do."

"Miss Mardas, do you understand that at any time you may choose to end your testimony, refuse to answer a question, or defer to the advice of your legal counsel?"

His words make me restless, perhaps because I simply wish to begin. "I do."

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The chief judge, a stern man with skin like polished basalt and hawkish eyes, gives the lawyer standing before me a nod. It strikes me then how young he looks, like a son being urged to do well by his father. "Do you have any questions before you begin your testimony, Miss Mardas?"

"No."

"Would you care to tell the judges and the assembly why you are here to testify?" There it is. A slight waver in his voice. Fear, anger, it is difficult to tell. The two are different sides of the same coin, for where there is one, so too lies the other. His slightly slumped shoulders square and I can almost hear the preconceptions marshalling across his tongue like military formations, into ranks and regiments designed for the most calculated attack.

I touch my pulse in my right wrist, fingertips above the mark of blue-black inked beneath my skin. "To tell the truth, from the beginning. I was there from start to finish." The last three words escape without my permission, mercifully under my breath. “God forgive me.”

"Do you believe you can explain the conflict?" Skepticism forms in the lines around the young man's mouth, lines beyond his age.

"No." It is simple and as honest as I could ever be. "I can only tell you what it was to be a part of it." I pause, take a breath, and correct myself. "What it is, to be a part of it."

He clears his throat and I study his eyes. They are a delicate blue, like cerulean glass, but they carry a spark of animation. Eyes are portals into someone's world, they say. I do not possess a drop of god-blood in my being, but for a moment, I can almost see his fetch. He seems a hound, devoted and relentless in pursuit, protective and affectionate in his home. "Where would you like to start?" he asks.

My fingers still rest on the mark, on the faint beat of my heart. It feels distant here in the courtroom, as if I am adrift from it, and this my only anchor. "It is difficult to know where to begin."

He tries to smile, to offer some piece of comfort, but finds he cannot. He still has too many thoughts bubbling inside his own head, but no matter the emotions, he is devoted to the pursuit of the truth. "We are here to listen, Miss Mardas. Whenever you are ready," he says before sitting down behind his desk.

I am not ready. I will never be ready. And yet, in this moment, the thought of giving breath to this brings sweet relief. I take a moment to study my hands.

I have my mother's hands, but their delicate nature is misplaced. These long fingers have not known an instrument's keys or strings as hers once did. They are tangled in a different, darker song than music. They are not beautiful any longer, flecked and striped by little scars. Calluses on my hands mark me as one who has not known a softer occupation in such a long time. My nails are clean and even, a strange sight after so long spent in the ashen paroxysms of a dying world.

Then I look up at him, at them, at fragile eyes and fragile hearts. For a moment, guilt clenches in my stomach. I do not know what they will make of me by the time my story has run its course, but I know that some part of it will hurt them.

I take a deep breath as my thoughts all fall into place at once.

"Hell found us."