Inheritance

Part 2. Chapter 44: Among the Sufferers

Pollyanna returned to her room in a mood that was hard for her to describe.

She felt like a weight had been lifted off her chest, but at the same time, she had felt more confused in her life than she had for hundreds of years. She sat on her rickety bed and looked down at her scarred legs. She felt like she had when she was a little girl; confused and unwanted.

Who would ever want me? Why does he want me? Pollyanna questioned. I am ugly and defiled...

She crawled under her covers woodenly.

A memory... A memory too precious and hard to think about had been unearthed.

I'm giving you the choice to be a hero. Eory's voice tantalized her with the sweetness and innocence of childhood.

Heroes don't exist. Fjorn's strong voice interfered. There are only the weak and the strong.

Pollyanna had remorselessly killed hundreds of innocents—hundreds of the weak--during her lifetime and she stopped having feelings about it long ago. And yet, here she was, questioning her world view for the first time in years.

As she tried to settle into sleep, she couldn't stop thinking about the first time she had killed an innocent. She had felt strongly about it at the time, but that had been bred out of her.

Pollyanna had been sent to a town in Maribel which was protesting Fjorn's high taxes and harsh working conditions. They were miners, which was already a highly taxing job, but it was made all-the-worse in the summer. The king demanded they work regardless of the scorching heat. When they refused, Pollyanna was sent to the town to get them in line.

Upon her arrival, she was greeted to revolting citizens who stabbed her with lances and swords while the children of the town relentlessly threw rocks at her.

Pollyanna seized one of the lances in a strong hand and broke it in two. Afterward, she grabbed its user by the neck and began squeezing the life out of him with fury that had been pent up inside of her for fifty years.

There was a little girl with big, blue eyes and sunflower hair--she couldn't have been older than twelve-years-old—who pulled on Pollyanna's cape with tears in her eyes.

"Please, please! That's my daddy!" The little girl begged.

Around her, the regiment of knights she had brought effortlessly detained and otherwise killed the other revolting workers.

Fjorn, who had come with her to make sure she did her job correctly, whispered in her ear, "make an example of this girl. She is weak. Children don't cry when their parents die."

Pollyanna turned to him with a look of scorn and judgement. "She... She is a child! I will not kill a child!"

Fjorn wrapped an arm her and nearly nibbled on her ear as he commanded, "being a child is no excuse for weakness! Do you think I cried when my father died? It is best we strangle this girl now before she lives a life of fear and sadness—a life that will not be worth living!"

Pollyanna's heart was thudding wildly. A tear rolled down her cheek. "I-I cried when my father died. Should you have killed me?"

The look of vitriol on Fjorn's face made her guilty for saying it.

"You are different. Everyone suffers, and I can tell at a glance who among the sufferers will become strong. This girl is not one of them. Do you see her dress? She is well off and spoiled. She will never meet hardships head-on as you and I can. She will never relish it as we do." Fjorn rasped in her ear.

Pollyanna's knuckles went white on the hilt of her blade.

Her fingers lost their sense of touch. Her head was swimming. The only thing she could feel was her heart beating against her rib cage and the unrelenting sun beating down on her head.

She felt like she had lost control as she swung her blade as he commanded.

The workers were stunned.

Pollyanna made no sad expression as she looked down at the corpse. He was right. It's best she die now.

Pollyanna hated herself and Fjorn for what she did for months, but he slowly helped her get over it.

After all, he was the one who had taught her the best and correct way to live.

We are animals. Do you think animals care whether killing something weaker than themselves is wrong? Of course not. They merely realize that they are stronger, and they tear their prey to shreds. Fjorn hammered that message into her head countless times until it became a way of life for her. And when it became a way of life, she stopped worrying. She stopped being unhappy. She stopped her self-doubt and self-loathing.

She was happy and without cares like a child with no parent to police her.

She was powerful.

But here was her lover's descendent telling her that her way of thinking—her way of living—was wrong. He was giving her a decision—something animals didn't have to make as they lived instinctually—and reminding her that she was human.

Humans and fairies are animals. She remembered Fjorn telling her once. It's just that they are slightly smarter animals.

Pollyanna's hands were shaking as intrusive, cruel thoughts squeezed her vulnerable mind. But if we are separate species... If we have no relation to animals at all... Then I would have to treat killing the way a human would and not an animal.

Pollyanna's eyes were wide as she stayed frozen where she lay. Humans assign morals to their actions where animals don't.

Pollyanna rolled on her side hugged her stomach for comfort. Have I been wrong?

If she were wrong and there was moral meaning to her actions, she would be the evilest person on Yharos.

"No." Pollyanna clenched her fists to stop her hands from trembling. "We are clearly animals. If we were separate species, humans would be smart enough not to kill each other or make each other suffer at all."