a new vow

I've found a quiet place, away from the crowded, suffocating streets of Ravnica. Away from the carnage left behind in the war. It's over. The dragon is dead, and we are free.

So why do I feel so hollow in the wake of this victory?

This plane is called Zendikar, and not too long ago it also stared into the face of its own death. I rest now in a forest of young trees, rising out of a field of bone-white dust. The catastrophe happened some time ago, and already the land, with some help, is starting to reclaim what it lost. I'm relieved, but I feel the ache in my chest. I see so much of Skalla here, and my home would never get this chance at rebirth. Not even dust remained of it.

Not that it matters now. Revenge has been had, and now, I find that there is nothing for me to do but wander and think.

A pack of small, wolflike creatures wander by, a few glancing my way and baring their teeth slightly before moving on. Gnarlids, I've heard them called by the locals. I observe, but leave them be, until I notice that one near the back is limping, quickly losing sight of the others. Its tongue is lolled out, grunting with exertion as it tries to keep up. I follow until the creature finally falls back onto its haunches, too exhausted to continue its pursuit. Its breathing is heavy, eyes glazed over, the injury on its back leg blackened and stripping the fur from the flesh. A severe infection, probably gained from a fight with another animal.

Nothing that can be done. This poor thing is on the brink of death.

I move in, and it raises its head, snarling at me half-heartedly before it falls back to the ground with a groan of pain. Lowering my posture, I try not to threaten it, pulling the Arkbow from my back.

"Shh... It's alright," I speak, in a soft, soothing tone, "It'll be over soon. I'll keep your memory alive." I trace the artifact over its body, the cool green light reaching out, cradling the animal in its embrace. Its breathing slows and it curls up as if sleeping, nose to tail. Humming a song from my childhood, I guide the thing into a deeper rest, watching the ghostly image of its body, healthy and whole, rise into the bow and meld with its surface, sinking inside it. The Bow cannot by itself put the creature down, so I take my knife and do it myself, sliding the blade between the first few vertebrae. The death is swift and painless.

I've been through this process countless times, but this is the first time I've performed it since the War, since I've been trapped in this emptiness. That's probably why I start putting too much thought into my actions. I look down at the gnarlid, the poor creature finally having found stillness and peace, and it's the closest I've felt to complete since.

Isn't that my responsibility? To protect those in the multiverse that can't protect themselves? That have no voice as titans rage around them and cut them down without a second thought? That no one else will stand up for?

I step away from the body, walking a short distance away. Running my fingers along the bow's string, I conjure the ghost of the gnarlid, when it was alive and whole. It bounds into the grass with a fully functional back leg, rolling onto its back and kicking its feet in bliss. It's only an image, bound to the will of what I ask it to do. But at the time, I've asked it to enjoy its rebirth for a few moments. I take the time to observe what it was like when it was healthy.

I can't help but smile as I watch it. But it doesn't last long. What was I doing before the War broke out? Since Skalla was destroyed? I told myself that I did what I did for them, by tearing down the stinking, corrupt cities that encroached on their lands and used them. My mind returns to the carnosaur, tied to the table and vivisected. For what? Entertainment? And the sickness roils in my stomach, just as it had then.

But I remember more details now, with distance put between me and the heat of the moment. The poor in that city, the humans, themselves animals trapped in their own cages of poverty and oppression. I do remember pitying them, but my hatred for their oppressors quickly drowned out my sympathies. In the end, I'd never even tried to make the distinction, and they all met the same fate, deserving or not.

The Gnarlid, and indeed, none of the animals the Arkbow contained, knew this hatred or desire for revenge. They knew life and death and pain and pleasure. Those were human urges I'd given into. In my own nature, of course, but to what end?

Was it truly desire for revenge? Or was it some sort of desperate scrambling to respark Skalla's old wars? Trying to cling to some familiarity?

No. Not anymore. The dragon is dead now, and in the Arkbow rest the hopes and lives of all of Skalla, even the parts I didn't like. Every hand had come together to make it, as much as it hurts me to admit.

I'll never like the cities of any plane, let that be known. I don't entirely regret what I've done, in regards to tearing down that which needed to be purged. But violence and blind revenge are my own selfish pursuits, and not in the interests of those I am bound to protect.

The image of the Gnarlid has faded away by now, slipping back into the Arkbow. I too should probably leave. There's much more to be seen, and much more to save.