[TRIGGER WARNING - Self harm and offensive bigotry/ slurs]

We all have demons inside us.
Tempting us, whispering in our ear.
Telling us just enough of the truth.
To make us truly doubt and hate ourselves.

We fight them, every day, every minute of every hour, we wage war against our worst inner thoughts. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but sometimes perhaps it is better to lay aside the pen and take up that sword; to turn it on ourselves, before those demons break lose.

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Corbin eyed the blade he used to sharpen his quills, it’s edge red caked, like it had already opened his veins. In truth he’d neglected to clean it when he’d been preparing the red ink for the illumination he was working on. He flexed his cramped fingers, putting the quill aside and sighing. His back ached from being hunched over all day, his head ached from eyestrain, and his fingers ached from being cramped so long, and yet what did he have to show for it?

He stared at the vellum with disgust, rubbish, it would have to be scraped back, started over. He barely resisted the urge to take the knife to it, or himself. He slid off the hard wooden bench, self loathing chewing on his entrails.

He should have been a master illuminator by now, but he was a hack, a fraud, at best a copyist, at worst… He didn’t let himself complete that thought. He worked his way past stacks of books laid in haphazard piles beside the shelves, the chill of the flagstones seeping through his slippered feet. Maybe he would make it to the kitchens in time to get a flagon of beer and a heel of bread. His stomach growled at the thought, his slow shuffle turning to a more determined stride. Beer, or wine even, that would help purge the thoughts from his head. Intoxication peeled his worries away, layer after filthy layer, until he was exposed, a weak, stupid, slightly hunchbacked man, with nothing to show for his life but age. He’d once had plans, dreams, stupid, stupid dreams, things for the young and foolish, for the talented, for the weak minded.

He hoicked, but stopped himself from spitting the wad of phlegm just in time. Not in here, the library was sacrosanct. He waited until he’d pushed the huge iron studded door open and slipped out into the gloaming before expelling it from his mouth. The courtyard was empty, the surrounding squat gray stone buildings silent, everyone would be at prayer. He screwed up his nose. He had no time for gods who had no time for him.

He was a blasphemer, he knew that, maybe that was why the demons haunted him, because he had no faith, no light to banish the darkness inside himself. Sometimes he felt he had in truth, a beast inside him, and that if he gave into it, it would burst from his skin and devour the world. That was vanity though, visions of greatness, even if horrific greatness. He was supposed to be humble in the face of the gods, but he was humble in the face of his self hate instead. How could you be proud to be a failure?

He cursed as his foot broke the icy crust on one of the puddles, soaking his slipper with freezing water. He hated winter, the library was freezing, even with a brazier burning, his fingers and toes numbed to lumps of uselessness. The dorms were no better, thin woollen blankets that did nothing to ward off the chill, sleepless nights spent shivering, and nothing to look forward to but gloom and eyestrain.

He limped faster towards the kitchens, the one warm place in the whole of the god forsaken monastery. If he was lucky the matron would be at prayer and he could warm himself beside the big cooking fire. He pushed the door open, feeling the welcome waft of warm air hit his frost rimed face. Stepping in quickly he closed the door and crept towards the fire. Luck was with him today, only the dullard was here, moon faced and too stupid to talk, he was no threat to his plans to warm himself.

“Aydan, fetch me wine. Wine, yes?” He motioned drinking to the simpleton, hoping he would bring him what he wanted, and not some random object.

The man smiled, bobbing his head, a thin trail of spittle dangling off his chin. Corbin shuddered, he found Aydan mildly disgusting, abominations should be killed at birth, the defective, the weak, they had no place in this harsh world, much kinder to end their suffering before it started. There were times he wished someone had done him that kindness. Orphans were next to slaves in the way they were looked down upon, bastard orphans even more so. The grace that had taken him and not had him enslaved was the only small mercy show in his life thus far.

Rubbing his hands before the blaze he felt his body slowly relax, the heat making him drowsy. Ayden’s unintelligible grunts and the flagon shoved into his lap brought him back quickly, and he smiled at the man. Wine, thank the gods. He unstopped the cork with his teeth, swallowing a long draft, feeling it hit his empty stomach and slowly spread a warmth through him. He belched and patted Ayden’s shoulder.

“Bread man, fetch me bread.” That at least he knew the drooling idiot could manage easily, he’d trained him well enough.

Ayden brought back, not a stale heel, but a whole fresh loaf, fragrant, the crust still warm and crisp. Ripping it in half he gave Ayden the larger share ensuring the man would still be chewing when the matron came back from prayer. She would assume he’d eaten the whole loaf, and he wouldn’t be punished for it either, being simple had it’s own rewards. It also cemented his usefulness. As long as he gave the man treats, he would do whatever Corbin asked, to the best ability he could.

He ate his own share, the bread sweet and light, clearly meant for the high tables supper. He smirked, they could eat rough bread like everyone else tonight. He hated them as much as he despised most of the other people here. Fools, ignorant, light-blinded, faithful. He spat into the fire, trying to rid himself of the taste of anger. He was never sure quite when he’d seen through the prayer and foolishness, to the futility, but he was damned if he would make a hypocrite of himself. He did not worship, could not, he had nothing but his demons.

He picked at the scab on his wrist, sometimes the demons got to much, he’d cut himself, again. He found a bitter enjoyment in watching his lifeblood flow from his rent skin, the annoying itch as it trickled down towards the chalice, the feeling of weakness as the cup filled. Then the coppery warmth as he drank it, drank of himself. He smiled and swallowed another draft from the flagon, letting the wine wash away his misery, if just for a while.

Some of the clergy called him Corbin the Mad… maybe he was, maybe listening to your demons was a type of madness. He had no choice though, they talked too loudly for him to drown out. Being labelled mad had its bonuses too, he wasn’t punished for not attending meals or worship, just regarded with a sad tolerance. It made him feel sick and angry to be looked at that way, so he avoided them all. Come summer he would leave. He said this each winter, and each summer had come and gone, him unable to brave the world outside the monastery walls.

Self hate tugged at him, and he drank, washing it down, trying to drown it under the fires of a strong red plum wine. He remembered the words of the hooded nobleman who had sought him out the previous week. He’d asked him to go work for him, to copy a special book, one he felt Corbin was especially suited for. He’d refused him of course. He wasn’t good enough, plus his art was filled with demonic beasts peering out from behind the edges of the paper, twisting the words, dancing grotesque lewd trails across the pages of anything he touched. He couldn’t let his work be seen, they would label him, condemn him, and burn him.

The man had seemed excessively displeased at his refusal, and insisted he would be back in a weeks time, and that Corban had better have reconsidered. He drank more wine, trying to quell the fear twisting his gut. The man would be back in the morning, and he wasn’t sure he had the nerve to refuse him a second time. Something about the man had filled Corbin with a cold dread, and left him trembling for hours after he had departed.

He heard the bells ring for the end of worship, and hastily swallowed as much of the remaining wine he could, giving the last dregs to Ayden, not enough to give the fool a sore head the next day, but enough to make it seem he’d also taken the wine. Brushing the crumbs from his thin woollen robes he slipped back out into the frigid courtyard and trudged to the dorms, pulling his hood close and avoiding the others starting to head to the dining hall. The lamps in the dorms weren’t lit yet, always conserving precious resources. He snorted, glad he had good night vision, and moved his alcohol warmed body to his thin mattress, hoping that tonight at least, he might sleep without nightmares.

Perhaps there is some truth in the adage ‘there is no rest for the wicked’ but if so it didn’t apply to him for once. He woke, for long moments free of all concerns, moments he clung to, wanting to sink back into the soft dreams that had rid him of his worries. The bustle around him pulled him out of his half awake state, and his misery settled back in its customary place, weighing his heart down. He shook himself, sitting up and throwing his blanket off, letting the cold wake him fully. The ache of loneliness was always worst around other people, and he hurried to leave the dorm, avoiding looking directly at anyone, and muttering under his breath, deliberately reinforcing the idea he suffered from insanity.

“Corbin,” the clear, light voice of one of the gelded choirboys floated across the courtyard. “You have a visitor.”

His stomach curled into a cold knot. He’d come back already? He hurried to the privies, needing to pass water all the more urgently at the news, then headed to the reception room, brushing futilely at the ink stains on his robes. The figure waiting for him wasn’t the one he’d expected. For one he was a she, tiny but delicately curved, long dark hair cascading down her back. Dressed as a man in a tunic and close fitting trousers that showed no hint of modesty or any allowances to the cold. When she turned towards him his heart tried to escape out his throat, her eyes, it was as if he was looking into a glass and seeing his own eyes set in another’s face.

His expression must have shown the shock because she smiled a thin lipped grimace that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Hello brother.” Her voice was as cold as her look, this would be no happy family reunion.

He couldn’t deny it, couldn’t look away from her, couldn’t speak. A strange sick lustful stirring made him want to step closer, touch her, kiss her. Surely she was too beautiful to be his sister? He hadn’t laid eyes on a woman not covered from wimple to toe in so long he’d half forgotten they existed at all. Her eyes narrowed and the thoughts fled him, replaced by the fear she had come here for reasons he would not like, or possibly even survive.

“You’ve come to kill me?” He wasn’t sure how he’d reached that conclusion, perhaps it was his own fatalism speaking, his surety that he should not indeed exist.

She shrugged a delicate shoulder, and he couldn’t help noticing how her breast moved as she did.

“That depends on you. So far you are not making a convincing argument against it.”

He spread his hands, “I have no arguments, perhaps it would be for the best.”

“A fatalist, or are there deeper reasons?”

He felt like she was looking right through his soul, weighing and judging. For some reason he knew it was wasted breath to lie to her.

“Brutal honesty? I am haunted by demons, the clergy tolerate me because they think I am afflicted by madness, perhaps I am, but my wish to die is only halted by my fear of what will come after.”

She considered him for a long, breath holding moment, then offered him her hand.

“Come, we need to leave before he gets here.”

He took her small warm fingers in his, not needing to ask who ‘he’ was.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere warm,” she smiled grimly at him, pulling a slick black obsidian stone from around her neck and muttering in a tongue which seemed familiar but unintelligible.

“I’m Inkeri, take a breath brother Corbin.”