Cat's Musings


A brief synopsis for ya:
Morana woke up alone, and was Chosen to be a Wraith-Killer. She was given a purpose: to save the Creation from the Wraiths; dark spirits that plague mankind, that haunt and torture them. Remembering nothing of her past, Morana blindly follows her orders, training with her fellow Wraith-Killers, pain becoming the only real friend she has.
When sent on assignment to save a human, she learns that mankind is not what she had thought, at times being considerate and caring when all she had previously witnessed was conceit and malice.
Will her hatred of mankind cause her to forsake the rescue of this human’s soul, or will it disappear and allow her to do what she’s been trained for?


I do not remember many things.
I remember the pain of my left hand, the hand that had become fused to the blue leather handle of a sword unlike the world has ever seen; it is beautiful in its lethality.
I remember that I am tall, strong and beautiful. These seemed a comfort to me at the time.
I knew the name of my sword, but did not know what to call myself. Sitting up in the greenest of grasses, gazing at the bluest of blue skies, the silence was deafening.
I could not remember how I had gotten here.
I knew that I was a young woman, but did not know my purpose.
And then, He came to me, told me what to do. I am His servant, and I do as He so commands.
He holds my memories, and I do not remember many things.

I am known as Morana; there have been only few who were privileged enough to call me Ana to my face.
I am a killer and a protector; both of these words define what I am, but do not tell you a thing about me.
I will do that.
I will let you know what I have suffered, what I have endured by telling you this tale today. Some parts will be hard to write down, others I will want to get through as quickly as possible so that I do not look too closely at the words. Other times, you will wish I had explained myself further.
I am not doing this for you, friend, but rather for myself.
They say time heals all wounds. I am almost four centuries old and wonder whether I will ever be whole again. Have I not waited long enough? Have I not shed enough blood to ease my pain? He doesn’t seem to think so, and I am punished again and again for my insolence, for my daring wish to die. To be at peace.
Still I live and breathe, wishing nothing at all than to end the fiery pain in my chest, and the iced viral infection that has become my left hand. I wonder if I ever do kill enough, will the rest of me become like that?
Frozen to the touch, hard as stone, incapable of feeling any pain, incapable of feeling the life around me? Time will tell, and it doesn’t appear that I am blessed enough to leave this Earth anytime soon. For now then, I will tell you who I am – what I am.
Let us begin.

I was chosen when I was twenty-two, young enough to still be considered a child, old enough to be responsible for my actions.
The choosing was not precluded by ominous thunderclouds in the distance, nor was it announced by the arrival of a man dressed in black as I had seen in a movie about three witches. Rather, the choosing happened much too quickly for me to even grasp that anything was supposed to be different about me.
I simply woke up on a bed of freshly mown grass, the scent made me think of hot summer days, and cool rainy nights. I was born in that grass, fully grown, dressed in a white tunic, and flowing white linen pants.
My eyes opened, took in the sky over my head. My mind was blessedly empty. I knew not how to speak, how to think, how to move. I was nothing but a fleshy shell, inhabited by a beating heart, and an unknowing mind. I was at peace then. As such, I will place feelings on her that I had felt at the time, but knew nothing of how to describe them, or recognize them for what they were: warnings.
I began to feel, and these feelings transformed themselves into words that I could emote. The blue of the sky hurt my eyes, the cool grass that I was lying on roughly abraded my skin, my hair a cushion for my head as I looked up at the sky.
I was no one, filled with nothing. Who was I? What was I here for? What was my purpose here?
I was nothing but a body, feeling the breath leave me, come into me just to leave me again. I slowly became aware of my surroundings enough to sit upright, marvelling at how I knew how to do the movement.
I began to question things: question the breeze as it ruffled through my dark hair, I questioned the heavy silence that hung on my shoulders, I questioned my very existence; I questioned the hilt of a sword that burned its way through my left hand, wondered why it wished to  harm me so.
With a startled cry, I attempted to fling the weapon from me only to find that it had become attached to my body. I screamed with the pain, feeling the ice of it burrow its way through my skin – I had skin? Through muscle – what is this muscle and what is its purpose? To fuse with the bone of my left hand, drawing from its life energy, the very thing that brought it into existence.
It crawled inside my marrow, festering, scraping on the inside, pulverising the bone and muscle, transforming it into its servant, my hand was no longer mine anymore.
Clawing at the sword hilt with my nails, screaming and writhing in pain, I did not hear Him come towards me. I later found out that where He steps, there is no sound, the Earth loves him so to never betray his presence.
“It will pass, little one,” He said to me, voice low and comforting, it wrapped me in its warmth.
Screaming to the skies, still trying to dislodge the weapon from my poor hand, the hilt began to change.
My left hand had been curled around it, and navy leather sprung from the hilt, winding its way around my fingers, encasing my hand to the weapon so that not even my free hand could dislodge it. The ice soaked into the marrow, pulling, pulling it away from me, taking what was mine and channelling it into the hilt, I saw what was to become of the weapon.
With each dreadful pull, the ice sharpened its teeth, damaging the flayed skin underneath the leather, making me keen and whimper when my throat became too raw to scream. From the hilt, something began to elongate, forming the blade of the weapon.
Instead of steel, my sword – for it was my sword now, it had claimed me – was honed from the bone of my hand, yellowed and flattened out, curved wickedly, and razor sharp on the edge. I watched this, still in tremendous pain, unable to take my eyes off of the creation, this weapon that had taken a part of me to forge itself. My mind could not assimilate the material of the sword, my eyes conflicting with the beating of my heart and the roiling of my stomach that this weapon that had claimed me had taken my bone, and turned it into something deadly.
When the weapon had reached its full length, did the leather ease its way around my hand, caressing my damaged limb with its creaking noises, and rough texture.
I fell back onto the ground, breathing heavily, eyes blurred with salty tears mixed sweat. Even though the pain was gone, I cried for what I had endured, for what has happened to me, cried that I was ever subjected to such a thing.
I do not know how long I lay there, watching my left hand, trying to understand what had happened, and why it had happened, that when I vaguely remembered I had heard a beautiful voice that had wanted to comfort me.
“Why have you done this to me?”
“For you, my child. I have done this for you.”
Still lying down on the ground, feeling the roughness of the grass on my bare arms and wet cheeks, I struggled to find a question to ask Him.
“I do not understand. I do not know how or why I have come here, nor what you intend to do to me, but I implore you, let me go. You have caused me enough anguish this day.” I told the grass. The voice came from behind me, the sound weaving its way inside my head, soothing the emotions in turmoil there.
“You have chosen this, little one. I cannot do anything once a fate has been chosen, I am only here to guide you if needed.”
The ice of my left hand had slowly dissipated, the gnawing of its little teeth now only centered to the very tips of my fingers, my hand lay paralyzed next to me.
“This does not make sense to me,” I said, voice still raspy with the screaming I had done.
“What is sense, or logic? Do you know these words, what they mean?” I could hear movement as the voice came closer to where I lay, until all I saw were bare feet in front of  my face.
“I do not. I know these words to speak them that they are important to my way of communicating with you, but I do not know what they mean, what they signify.” Panicked by my lack of knowledge I pushed myself up instinctually with my hands and made myself stand upright.
“How does your hand feel?” He asked, looking down at my feet, where the bone sword lay. It sickened me to look at it, to know that it had stolen something from me to forge itself.
Surprised by his question, for I was sure he had witnessed my suffering, I flexed my left hand, opening and closing it, relieved to feel that the bones were still there, not stolen after all. I felt a smile pulling my face into a thankful happiness.
“Do you know why you are here?” I glanced away from my hand, my healthy hand, and looked at the voice for the first time. To this day, I cannot tell you what He looks like. His features shift minutely as we speak, the hair changing color, irises transforming from green to blue, to brown with golden flecks. I could not tell you what He looks like; He is all of us in one.
“Do you know what purpose you are destined for, my child?” I hear His words, but do not compute them, as I am fascinated by the play of features, how they skitter across His face, transform this way and that, everchanging.
I shake my head. There is only darkness in my head, no memories of anything before the point where I woke up to gaze at the blue sky. I know nothing of before.
“I do not remember many things. Who am I? What am I here for?”
“You are Morana, and you are here to serve me.” The name He has given me is right, it burrows its way to some place behind my heart, and settles its comforting weight there, lending me strength and purpose.
I bow my head, for I am His servant and I will do whatever He asketh of me.
“Who are you?”
A smile of a thousand men and women, light up the features of millions of children, with billions of different irises. “I am your Father, and I have chosen you, Morana, to be my Wraith Killer.”
He had watched me suffer, and did not help me. I did not begrudge Him this, nor had any bitterness towards Him, He who had named me Morana and gave me purpose.
“I do not understand what a Wraith Killer is.”
A collage of smiles morphed his mouth, and teeth peeked out at me. “It is exactly what it implies.”
I searched my newly born mind for the reason behind my choosing, why I would be suited for such a post. I began to open my mouth to ask that very question, when a swirl of iris colors flashed at me, and eyebrows of every shape and hue, lifted themselves up on a brow comprised of many ethnicities and backgrounds.
“You needn’t be concerned, you are aptly chosen for this occupation. A Wraith Killer is exactly what it implies. You will kill wraiths, the evil spirits that plague my children on Earth. You will kill them with this weapon that has claimed you as its own, for only flesh of your flesh would be able to kill the dead, the evil that intoxicates the life of my creation.”
“Who are you?” I asked of Him, unaware of what he was.
“I am your Father, the source of all life on this planet.”
In my blank mind a single word sprang to life, threaded with golden filigree, backlit by the whitest of clouds.
“You are God?” A thousand children smiled at me, and I felt fear clutch at my chest. Had I been disrespectful, had I blasphemed His name? My eyes took in the odd features, searching for some truth there. “We are made in your image, and this is how you are. Every single one of us was made from you, how you are now.” I marvelled at Him.
“Morana, daughter-mine, we need to have you prepared, ready for what these creatures are capable of.”
“Not yet. I need to know why I am here.” I clutched at His arm, my hand going through what I had previously perceived to be muscle, and hit warm air that could scald my hand at any moment.
The eyes of many flashed anger at me, and it was all the more terrible seeing it replicated in the millions of faces that comprised His face. “You do not ever touch me,” He hissed, thousands of voices intermingling with one another, crashing into my reborn ears.
“I meant no offense, Father” I bowed my head in supplication.
“You do not remember anything at all? No flashes of inexplicable events? No flickers of times gone by?” He asked of me, face quiescent, everchanging from one second to the next. My eyes had a hard time following the changes of the slope of the nose, the thickening of the lips, the furrowing of the brow that could one moment be adult to childlike.
“No, Father. I remember nothing other than what I know now. I have no other name other than Morana Wraith-Killer.” It did not bother me that I had no memories, nothing to tie me to someone else, to know who I belonged to. It was a comfort that He had chosen me for some higher purpose, claimed me as someone important to Him. I was His servant, and I was glad of it.
You may believe that if you had lost all your memories you would feel alone and confused. I wasn’t. I had wondered how I had gotten to that beautiful place, had wondered who and what I was, when every thought that I had permitted myself when I had woken up as nothing but a blank slate, had been chased away by the pain in my left hand.
I had no time to lament over who I had been, who I was once was, and where my memories had gone when my mind and body were thoroughly occupied with trying to disengage the bone – sword from my hand.
I was nothing but reborn into Morana Wraith-Killer, here were no memories who I was, and there was no comfort for me there. Here, now, I had a purpose and I would fulfill it. No matter if I didn’t understand why I was chosen, it had already been done and there was no going back for me. What would I go back to? I couldn’t remember anything of my past.
“Your sword has picked you, as it were,” He said to me, hands clasped behind his back. Some fleeting emotion flitted past my blank mind, unaware of what it possibly could be I let it pass me by. “Every sword chooses its wielder, the hilt becoming what it believes would be most deadly for its master. Yours has chosen bone – the strongest material man is made of, yet so easily broken if pressure is applied just so. It is an interesting choice, almost as if your soul does not want you to succeed,” He said, voice changing inflection with millions of accents and tones.
“Is my sword…defective?”
“That is not it, Morana. It is the peculiarity of it that interests me at all; I have no doubt that your weapon will serve you well.” A tight smile fitted lips of hundreds of men and women combined; the emotion that had briefly skittered past my blank mind flew by me too quickly to process, and annoyance began to grow. I learned the feeling of annoyance quite quickly on, it seemed.
“How is your hand feeling?”
“Better, thank you,” I flexed my left hand gingerly, feeling an odd sense of relief when it moved when I told it to. It was still my hand, under my control, and that was a great comfort to me when I had thought it belonged to that sword.
“That pain you have experienced will feel like a pittance worth your screams once your training is through. I regret that I will have to put you through this, little one.”
“No one has ever called me little one, Father.”
Thousands eyes of different shapes and hues narrowed at me. “How do you know that?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I am so tall, no one could have ever called me little.” At my statement He seemed to loosen, muscles losing their tension, and his eyes alighted with something like joy. I did not understand why at the time.
“When does training begin?” I asked, blank slate as I was, unable to express my worries and fears to Him. When you have no memories of who you had been, no recollections of your sense of self, how can you possibly voice those opinions and fears which leaden your heart?
I had none of these things, no emotions to consider as He told me that I would be trained and endure great pain. I just knew that I would have to deal with it, with no anxiety curdling in my belly. It was almost a comfort then.
“With you, Father?”
Eyes of a young boy stared at me with the wonder of a child, paired with an old man’s sad smile. “No, child. You will be training with a sword-master. You will be training with Michael.”


1 Comment »

  1. ooouu, it’s kinda dark, but i like it 🙂
    you are a beautiful writer Cat!

    Comment by Karen — March 3, 2010 @ 9:09 PM

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Student by day... Super reader and writer by night...







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