"In The Empire, murder is a virtue and being murdered is enviable. Have you heard this phrase before, Eirlyn?" The psychiatrist smiled.
It was neither a comforting smile nor an uncomfortable smile, but rather a sober arc laced with empathy, somberness, and understanding.
Eirlyn nodded, hands caught between her thighs.
It'd taken about 20 minutes to hobble toward the military camp before personnel found and escorted them the remaining distance. They were way more hurried than she'd been, immediately sanctioning her limbs with tourniquets and strangling her grated wounds with bandages. They had gloves, of course. She'd checked. Twice.
One thing that really stood out on the way back were the hills. They were steep, obscuring the land behind them. It was only after climbing one of the taller ones that she saw that many of the others had been completely eviscerated and upturned. Jagged stones jutted out of the ground, and many of the fauna had been crushed under the tons of dirt gushing from carved up hills. The product of previous battles. Suddenly, the grass wasn't so green.
She really didn't know how she hadn't noticed this before.
Maybe she had; it just didn't stick back then. She was surprised seeing it, yet it was unsurprising that it looked this way. The outskirts of the island were nothing more than the battlegrounds The Empire used to wage war against the apocalypse. Of course it'd be in ruin. But hearing it from a teacher and seeing it personally were two juxtaposing experiences.
It was like she was still there, in that moment, understanding it for the first time. It was also here that the woman said to her, forced between heaves and coughs:
"You're going… to struggle with what's happened today… and I want you to know, everything— th–t happened today… is completely my fault as your superior. I don't say that just to console you: it's true."
"And I suggest you remember this scene. It sounds crue… b- but the best way to deal with it is to experience it… again and–- agai… unti–until you're too desensitized to be traumatized. Slowly, but steadi—" She fell into a fit of dry coughs for a few minutes after that.
Maybe it was because of the vulnerability of that moment, or the authority and experience she carried, but those words were seared into Eirlyn's consciousness. How she'd said it. Every pronunciation and pause.
After making it to camp, they were tested for the early symptoms of MSD, treated, and given monitored medical lodging. Later that evening, she heard that the monster had apparently been dealt with by the reinforcement, being pushed off the cliff and into a lethal plummet. It was a class-3 abomination, something that generally required a handful of junior wardens to deal with, so her return actually earned her great acknowledgement. She was never meant to survive.
She knew that going in of course. She'd only been involved in the first place because she just happened to be in the area when the abomination appeared — two wardens at her side and an outskirt school at risk.
The food they offered her when she returned was surprisingly good by themselves. Fresh fruit and meat: two things very hard to come by on the floating island. It was… disorienting almost — being offered this comfort following everything that happened. Shame she couldn't enjoy them. A few hours later, after eating and resting, the psychiatrist came by her medical room, where she found herself now. After an introduction, a few questions and a greeting, he asked her an odd question.
"Murder… is a virtue? And being murdered enviable?" she repeated. "Uh, no. I haven't heard that before…"
The psychiatrist nodded, the window light highlighting the drooping contours of his wrinkling neck. "It's a common saying in warden circles," he said, adjusting what she assumed to be his glasses. "A mockery of sorts of how twisted morality becomes in warden-hood."
"A warden's purpose is to protect the empire and its citizens, and while this is certainly noble, it's often accomplished via murder: abominations, humans, whatever… threatens what little safety we have left." He sighed.
"Therefore, while murdering itself is vile, it is ironically a virtue to do so in a survivalist economy like ours. On the other hand, dying is an escape from this paradoxical cycle, and enviable given the tragedies wardens have to so succinctly deal with. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Eirlyn hesitated for a moment before nodding. "I think so."
"Mhm." He clicked his tongue. "You're a smart person, Eirlyn, going through a difficult time. While it is still very early, it's likely this event will have long lasting effects on your mental health."
He waved his hands, showing his palms. "And that's normal. Many, many people go through what you are going through. You are by no means alone in your struggles. Please, understand that for one, what happened this morning was in no way your fault. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and are not expected to have the experience or authority to have dealt with the situation."
"And for two, while I understand you may be lenient in agreeing here, all the actions you took today were undoubtedly the right ones. You can ask anyone in this camp. You adapted, endured, injured the abomination, and survived. It is extremely commendable. Field responses like yours are exactly what The Empire needs right now."
"B– but. I… I know you're right, but. I. He's dead…" she stammered. "And I left him."
"No, Eirlyn. You didn't leave him. You followed orders."
"Survivor's guilt is a heavy thing. It makes us think that dying with someone is nobler than living without them. But you didn't run away, Eirlyn. Someone made you. You ran because someone made you, and because staying would've made two dead instead of one."
"He's dead, and it's a tragic loss." He let the words breathe before continuing. "But what you're experiencing right now — that ache?" He touched his chest. "That conflict? That means you're human."
"You lived because he acted. And he acted because he trusted you to carry on. That is the very nature of field work: hasty decisions made under pressure, and the consequences they carry," he added somberly. "He's in a better place."
She stared at her feet in silence. At least… where they were under the covers. She was lying atop a bed with a polished wooden frame and a soft mattress decorated in white cotton sheets. Still, her legs were tense — squeezed together beneath the blankets.
"I hear your larynx is damaged, so I've been asked to refrain from prompting you to speak too much," his voice slowly filled the room. "But if there is anything you would like to say or vent, please tell me."
"I— it's I'm I… just… mad." She rested her head on the bed's headboard. "I don't know why."
Her voice was still raspy and ghastly — she was told this, and the pain it caused to eat, drink or speak was permanent. Even the fruit felt like swallowing glass. On top of this, her left lung had collapsed, she had three broken ribs, and slight nerve damage in her left hand. She'd lost a dangerous amount of blood — her heart had even stopped for a few minutes during stabilization at camp.
She should be dead. Many times over. But because she was familiar with her own anatomy and biology, and had the unique ability as a visionary-mage to control mana to a ridiculous degree, she sidestepped it again and again.
The psychiatrist sighed. "Well, that is understandable. Try to think on your reasoning for that; we will work through it tomorrow. For now, you must be exhausted, and should get some more rest. Take it easy for the day."
"On one last note," he leaned forward in his blocky lounge chair. "I would prefer to keep you off antidepressant medication if possible. Ideally, we put you in daily physical and traditional therapy sessions instead. If things don't improve, then we will explore pharmaceutical options. How does that sound? Or would you like medication? It's just that you're already on so much."
"That's… fine, I guess. I don't know," she admitted. She also wanted to stay off of medication, and was worried she'd get too reliant on the antidepressants. Perhaps addicted. She didn't trust that she wouldn't try to overdose.
"Great." He sat up from his cushioned chair. "Is there anything I could get for you to help you relax before I go? I can request something. Maybe a friend or a drink?"
She blinked, and pulled her knees to her chest. "Some… gloves would be nice. Cotton ones work. A lot of them. Please."
He clicked his tongue again. "Very well. They'll be brought to you." With that, he turned, and left, gently shutting the door behind him.
Eirlyn stared at the door for many seconds, then turned her head to the window on the furthest wall. She sighed. The faintest lines of a lone tree branch poked at the blue sky. It swayed for a moment as the birds flapped to and from it. Then even they were gone.
"Being murdered is enviable, huh?" she muttered, and then winced. "Ouch— ou—!" She grabbed her throat and grumpily glared at the wall.
"Stupid mantra," she hissed. "Ou—!"