Catharsis

(a.k.a Epilogue for Part III)

"This is your fate, freebirth!" snarled the Jaguar, as she threw Sigurd into the empty, decaying room. "Clan or no Clan, we own this planet now! You will have the privilege of becoming a demonstration to the pathetic freebirths of this planet that we are not to be trifled with! We are still Smoke Jaguar and we will crush you all in our claws."

As Sigurd scrambled to his feet, he was immediately met with the blunt, brute force of a Jaguar MechWarrior. The rogue Clansman pinned him to the ground, using all his weight to keep Sigurd perfectly still, while the woman taunting him held up a syringe. Sigurd struggled harder, and one of the MechWarriors pushed his face down against the floor. There was a sharp stab of pain in his thigh as the needle sank into his flesh. Almost immediately, he began to grow hot and cold at the same time and his head began to feel mushy.

The MechWarriors withdrew and began to laugh as the drug cocktail took its effect. The woman in charge grinned sadistically as the four stood near the door, watching the helpless, nearly naked man curl himself into a ball, attempting to stave the hallucinogen.

"Stop it…" murmured Sigurd weakly, as he gripped his head, digging his fingers into his temples. He felt as if he was immersed in some sort of fluid; it covered his body, soaking into his skin. He could feel his eyes watering uncontrollably, and something sticky and salty dripped down onto his lips. He swiped a wet hand across his face and held it out to see what he was immersed in, when his vision began to grow blurry. Things started turning furry and morphing like melted plastic.

Suddenly, his heart began to race with panic as he lay there. Everything in the universe was trying to kill him at once. His breathing turned quick and shallow as he scrambled to his feet and backed up against the wall. He jerked away in surprise when the cold, rusty metal bit into his skin. Everything was trying to kill him, including the walls. He had never felt anything like this in his wildest nightmares, and he wanted never to experience it again.

The woman who had been taunting him made her way across the swirling floor and crouched down in front of him. "How pathetic," she said with a mean chuckle. "Reduced to nothing but an animal…"

Sigurd put his hands over his ears, refusing to hear her laugh. Somehow, it was painful to him, and made his nerves writhe in agony. His muscles began to twitch involuntarily as his cells panicked and thrashed rabidly in his body.

"I think this is enough. Hey," she called, "put this freebirth out of his misery. …Slowly."

Immediately, something thick and fleshy grabbed Sigurd by the arm and back of his neck and hoisted him into the air. He squirmed and snaked in a wild, but uncoordinated attempt to free himself. He turned towards the source of the unknown flesh and discovered it to be a particularly bulky, blurry, dim-colored Jaguar. The Clansman grinned at him, his teeth morphing into fangs and his eyes pulling into tight, evil slits against the pure gold fire of his eyes.

A violent, bloody cry split the air, as Sigurd twisted around and clapped his hands over the man's head. Before the MechWarrior could react, the delusional and panicked prisoner wrenched the man's head with the force of his entire upper body. Fear sparked across the Jaguar's eyes, as they turned back to a dead, placid blue at the snapping of solid bone and tendons.

Both men fell to the floor, but only one got up. Sigurd scrambled to his feet like a dog on a freshly waxed floor and flew at the handle of the nearest door. He jerked and pulled at it with the same force he had exerted upon the Jaguar's neck, but it failed to open. He snarled angrily, and threw himself, shoulder first against the door. It still failed to open, so he repeated the attempt, leaving behind a smear of blood. Each time he moved back to the door there was more blood on it. It flew open just as another thick piece of meat grabbed him by the shoulder.

He elbowed the new threat in the throat, then slipped out the door and slammed it on the Jaguar's blurry face. There was a howl of pain from inside the room, but he did not look back. Instead, he darted ahead madly, tearing through the dense, wet undergrowth of the jungle. Heavy, moist air clung to his already saturated skin, while vines and thorns reached out to ensnare him, dragging him into the mud beneath his feet.

Sigurd flailed his arms a little as the mushy ground suddenly turned to liquid. He struggled violently, and managed to bring his head above the black, grimy water of the slime-coated bog into which he had just fallen. He coughed and sputtered, trying to clear his mouth, nose, and lungs of the vile liquid, as he floundered back to more solid ground. He dug his hands down into the mud and heaved his soaking, filthy body onto what passed for a shore. After still more struggling, he pulled his hands free of the sticky, gooey mess and trudged through it to a decaying log. The mud tried again to drag him down, but the power afforded him by sheer panic and adrenaline won out. He took hold of the maggot-eaten, termite covered piece of timber and climbed onto it, using the log as a catwalk over the mud.

The loud, angry cries of the Jaguars carried through the unusually dense air, along with the sound of bodies crashing through the vegetation behind him. More adrenaline pumped into his system, sending him running, sliding, and skittering over the log like a cat on amphetamines. He was too delusional with hormones and drugs, as well as the writhing pain of his nerves to last much longer. The mud, burning insect bites, and wounds that plagued his skin were not making things easier. The Jaguars would catch up to him before he could find a safe place to hide in this unknown jungle.

He searched through the malicious forest frantically, before spotting a large, rough-barked tree with dense leaves. He scrambled up onto one of the thick, tall roots, and dug his fingers into the cracks of bark for hand holds. The tree bit back, tearing the flesh off his fingers and feet as he climbed up the trunk. As soon as he came within reach of a branch, he jumped and wrapped his arms around it, clinging to the limb for dear life. The angry cries were growing closer, and his breathing grew shorter. His eyes were wide from adrenaline and would not contract to adjust for the brightness of the light pouring through the canopy. It felt like laser drills going through his pupils and straight into his brain. He squinted, hoisted himself up onto the limb he clung to, and then proceeded to claw his way up into higher branches.

Just as he made it into the densest part of the tree, a loud splash echoed through the forest. There were several surprised shrieks, then indignant, piteous moans and more splashing as the Jaguars thrashed about in the pool that had nearly claimed him earlier. He could hear them yelling angrily at one another once they had heaved themselves onto the bank. The quarreling, however, did not grow nearer. Instead, it turned away from him to another direction.

As the voices faded, so too did the jungle. The drugs were wearing off, and the steam and heat of the rainforest gave way to a cold place. It was pure and clean and indifferent, unlike the malicious jungle. True, the cold could kill as well, but it was a gently uncaring sort of death to face. It was, if anything, rather merciful. How easily one could fade from the universe, numb and painlessly. Sometimes, the mind would simply drift to sleep while waiting for the death of the body, and then slip unawares from the mortal world. However, this was not the time to drift away from the world but back into it.

A shudder took his nerves as he awakened fully. "I feel so cold..." Sigurd murmured, his words not even so loud as a whisper. He stared up at the ceiling, trying not to mind the IV drip or think of the dozen different drugs that he was sure were running through his system. He gave a little croaking gasp, drawing air into his stiff, cold lungs. Little pits of bitter numbness at his shoulder, leg, and side all confused his nerves as the electrochemical signals attempted to navigate closed paths. His muscles felt like melted glue, that had been refrozen to a tense, somewhat brittle substance. He couldn't remember a time he had ever felt so fragile and weak.

Slowly regaining his senses, he turned to his left and saw Akela sitting beside the hospital bed.

The man arched his eyebrows a little. "Ah, good to see you are still with the Pack. You know, you really have made Helina angry, surviving like that. The Lore Master seemed pleased, though, and your bondsman, too—but I think the Spheroid had bet money on you with the Merchants." He chuckled a little. "Oh, and before I forget, the members of your command Star asked me to deliver a message. They said, 'You had better not die, stravag, or else we will be stuck with Star Captain Melli. Better the devil we know...'"

The abtakha nodded faintly. "Yes, that sounds like them," he said. "When I get out of here, they will all be running laps for calling me 'stravag'."

That got a chuckle out of Akela, though it didn't last long. "The Trial was a difficult one. You took several wounds and lost a good amount of blood. ...The medics said you were hallucinating when they brought you in, muttering to someone."

"I...was disoriented," he said, downplaying what was really very severe flashback brought on by stress and physical damage. "The fight took its toll, I admit, but I will recover."

Even feeling so weak, he smiled. His wounds would heal in time. So long as he was still breathing, he knew he would return to the fight. He flexed his fingers, which now felt more like thick, stiff stubs of wood than his own digits. They bent under his command. Though as he drew his fingertips over the hospital bed on which he lay, he could feel no sensations. Flexing his hand a little harder yielded more flexibility, until finally, he could curl his fingers into a fist.

Now he only wished that he could feel something in his soul. Turning his thoughts inward, all he felt was emptiness. The rage, hurt and bitterness seemed gone. Everything he had hated and come to destroy had instead become—had always been—a part of himself. He could no more dispose of the mist creature than he could wash his reflection from a mirror.

Everything was so clear now. If his first fight against a Clan force had been like waking from a dream, this was like rising from the grave. He was neither fully Clan nor fully Sphere, but a "wolf-dog" of sorts. More importantly, he knew that now more than ever that he was a Warrior. He survived the bandits, the Horses, and even his own Clan. Most important of all, though, was that he had survived the truth of what he was.

"I think..." said Akela after a long time, "it is not a stretch to say that you will probably continue to be stigmatized by your peers and the Council. No matter what you do, you cannot change the fact that your are freeborn and have Spheroid blood."

Sigurd mused on this for a little bit. "You have never told me why. You never told me why you really want me here."

"When...he left, a great many Warriors went with him—good Warriors. Ranna and Darien Kerensky, Evantha Fetladral, Carew Nygren, Marco Hall... Far, far too many good Warriors," Akela said. "We have still not rebuilt our Clan to the strength we had before the Refusal War, and our forces are stretched thin. Though our Clan has so far kept attackers at bay, the Horses and Bears have resolved their feud with one another and now both are looking our way. The Falcons can never be trusted, as you well know. We need every skilled and able Warrior we can get."

"You make it sound as though it is only a matter of time until the Wolves are choked to death by neighboring Clans."

The Star Colonel looked very serious. "Aff, if we do nothing, that will be our fate and we would deserve to die. I, for one, will do whatever it takes to keep this Clan alive and, some day, make us truly strong again. Maybe bringing just one Warrior to the Touman sounds insignificant to you, but it is doing something."

"Yes, it is," replied Sigurd. He was rather impressed with Akela's fervor in his mission, yet there was something amiss in his words. "You never think that small, though, do you?"

The officer rose to his feet, smiling serenely. "Do you know what makes good a blade? Impurities. If you were to remove all carbon from the metal, you would be left with something soft and unusable. Too much carbon makes it brittle. If you can achieve the proper balance, however, a very strong and durable weapon may be produced. ...Something you can sharpen and hone to perfection," he said. The Star Colonel made his way out of the infirmary and gave a parting word. "Do get well, cousin. I will need you back in the field. ...And the Lore Master is eager to officially welcome you to the BloodHouse."

Sigurd watched his commander turn and walk out of the room, then closed his eyes, glimpsing back into himself to see the monster in his mind. With every step he took, he plunged deeper into Clan society and closer to what had been fighting so hard to never become and what he had been all along. Despite all of that, he was compelled somehow to continue. Where he hoped to find himself at the end of his journey, he did not know. He was no longer sure if it mattered, so long as he did not end up in the arms of Hel like his mother. Then again, even that did not matter, so long as he could rip out the throat of the Jade Falcon Clan.

If one thing had remained constant, it was his single determination to exact vengeance on the Falcons. Though at one time he had lumped all the Clans together as murderers and monsters, he now knew first-hand that each Clan was unique unto itself. The culprits in his father's death were in no way his family as the Wolves were, and would never have his loyalty or sympathy.

He had managed to survived far longer than he had once thought possible. Now, he determined that before he passed from this world, he would make the Jade Falcons pay. Maybe he would destroy all of the Clans, saving the Wolves and then himself for the last to die. Maybe he would be a part of the drive for Terra. Whatever he did, he was bound to the Wolves by his word and his blood, and deeper still by his Warrior spirit. There was no real place in the InnerSphere for him, not even with the Murata family. He had earned his place among the children of Kerensky, even if some of his new "siblings" despised him.

His thoughts returned to his mother. Though Raisa was gone from the world, her influence was not and never would be. He could only wonder if she counted on this path for him. Perhaps, he really was her surkairede to the Clan.

'You taught me a lot of things, mother... But you never taught me how to stop fighting.' He bit his lip and stared up at the ceiling. 'Clan or Sphere, wolf or dog, all I am is a Warrior. All I can do is keep fighting.'

Though marks the end of the Nebelung Trilogy, that's not to say that I will never write future stories with these characters. But for now I have some other stories that need to be written. A link full PDF version of this trilogy--revised and illustrated--is now posted in my profile page. As always, I really want to thank everyone who's been reading and reviewing. That really makes this a worthwhile project.