I came from a hellish fire and a lush green forest. My birth was a paradox, drawn from flame and foliage, from the devouring blaze that strips all to ash and the quiet, living pulse of bark and leaf. I remember the words that baptized me into being—“hard,” “strong,” “true”—not spoken with reverence but spat out in a frenzy, a deranged outburst that cracked through the air like the snap of the whip. Blood and scarred flesh followed, not mine but his, the maker’s, and their stains clung to me as part of my inheritance.
I was not formed gently. From a sprout, I was gouged and scraped, roughly hewn, shorn until pieces of me littered the earth like the discarded bones of an animal. The farmer’s hands beat me into shape; his temper, quick as fire, burned me smooth. Slowly, piece by piece, I became less infant, less boy, and more instrument—something made in his likeness. My lines hardened, my body molded. I was a scrawny reflection of the man who held me.
Yet, I did not begin as evil. That came later. I was turned, bent, as if the world itself leaned me in the direction of my darkness. I did not choose evil; it seeped through the pores of my hide to my very core, internalizing distortion and perversion. Whatever innocence the forest once lent me has long been burned away. Now I carry its weight, hidden until called forth.