Lilian was my name. From childhood, I managed to survive everything around me: the filth of the house, the absurd cleanliness that only meant smearing others' grime on myself. From a young age, I knew I was special. Everyone was dirty from following traditions, but I did not look like that even though I pretended to. I bathed in rivers. My undergarments were not beaten until I thought the grime had come off. I heated water and removed the excess dirt before going to the rivers and doing what everyone else did. I did not want to die. Being clever was one thing, but being too intellectual was another. I owed it all to floating knowledge.
Culture did not exist. It did not matter. We read about Phaladine. Despite what the voices said, I believed in Phaladine. I trusted him with my existence. Whatever the god of my people entrusted to me, I accepted. I only had problems with my marriage. All the girls were interested in Phol—half-elf, half-human, half-idiot, but very wealthy as the son of the High Priest. Phol thought I was some kind of challenge because I seemed like a difficult woman, that his sacred duty was to tame me, to make me like the other ladies—bearing children or losing them every few months. Unfortunately, there were not many options for a farmer's daughter. There was no way out except religion.
When I met the handmaidens of Phaladine, however, I gave up on being a submissive woman who only fulfilled the functions of multiple wives. When I spied on the training grounds of those who aspired to be priests, I noticed I could perfectly imitate all the healing enchantments. That was wonderful. Everything seemed to indicate that my Lord had chosen me for a higher task than merely spreading my legs and preparing whatever was hunted during the day.
The day I presented myself to the High Priest, he looked me up and down. First, he insisted he wanted to see me clean the floor of his house's hall. When I finally made him understand I did not want to be the Lord's servant, he mocked me until tears came to his eyes. But that was not going to make me give up. I asked him to give me a test, the hardest he could. He laughed. "It doesn't matter if a woman who doesn't know how to clean the floor dies," he said. He told me that the next day we would meet at the examination cave for healers about to graduate.
The next day, I went in my white robes, prepared like those in service to Phaladine. At the entrance of a dark, rather sinister cave stood an old, rather foolish man who served as the students' education master, though most of the time he was asleep. At the back of the cave was the High Priest. The test consisted of several exercises meant to test physical, mental, and faith capacities, to see if the aspirants' determination was worthy of the sacred Lord.
They had me go first. At the cave's entrance, there were a couple of bound goblins. The instruction was clear: we had to inflict enough damage to contain them until the paladin squad arrived to tear them apart. I had heard much about sacred attacks and had practiced at least the most important ones. I wanted to impress them, so I concentrated on Divine Wrath—a high-level attack. With a little time, even less than what most took for the sacred lash, a column of light fell upon the goblins. The evil beings, by nature, took the impact terribly. It illuminated the whole cave. When it subsided, one could still see the progressive damage this enchantment generated. Even though they were dead, no one said anything, so I continued.
The second test was healing. On the ground were several knights in sacred service to Phaladine, all in plate armor, drunk and wounded from some brawl or the typical drunken beating, all lost in their faith or lack thereof. The test was to heal their wounds: you had to strip those foul-smelling men of their plates, heal them with magic, close their wounds, then reassemble the armor, all while avoiding their insinuations or frank rudeness. I had not even reached them, and they were already whistling at me or asking me to heal certain "private" parts. I was not going near those brutes! Cure All was the appropriate invocation. It was somewhat exhausting—not only did it strain the body, but the mind was also affected, a slight drowsiness where acolytes normally collapsed from exhaustion. But not me. I was determined to be the best.
Finally, I reached the final phase. At the end, the High Priest observed me with something akin to hatred. From four meters away, he pulled a crossbow from his back. I knew the final test was about self-protection, but I thought it would be less intense. I had no choice. In a moment, he would shout "Defend yourself!" and I had to be ready. I could not fail in the timing. The invocation consumed a lot, and I had almost no strength left after healing so many warriors. So I fixed my gaze on the weapon. Eyes would tell me nothing. Shoulders might tremble, but under so much clothing, it was unnoticeable. Watching his fingers was all I had left. So, after tense seconds, the weapon—without a shout, without warning, without even a whisper—released. The bolt flew straight toward my forehead.
Almost by reflex, I raised a hand. But instead of covering myself, it was to release the protection rune: "Shield." It varied depending on the person's will. I had practiced by throwing stones into the air and standing beneath them before they fell, so I expected a soft impact, something like minor pressure. Nothing like the mace blow with which the crossbow bolt struck me. But I resisted. The impact threw me backward, yet my shield prevailed... I passed!
He did not offer me his hand. No one congratulated me or anything of the sort. Behind me, I heard all the other apprentices suffering to complete their assigned tasks. The High Priest observed me. Finally, as if spewing venom at some pest, he handed me a wineskin of ceremonial wine—the only time alcohol was not punished. I opened it and, despite its nauseating aroma, drank several gulps. The taste evoked something, but I could not say what. He made no move to ask for the wineskin back, so I did not return it. I delighted in watching the others fail. They were weak. I could see them being harassed by the paladins. Some used weapons to eliminate the goblins. But little by little, my consciousness became diffuse. With exhaustion and this wine—I was sure I had tasted this before—I began to drift.
When I awoke, I found myself in a cave. It was not the test cave, that was certain. I did not know how it had ended. I knew nothing at all. For some reason, my red skin looked great in the moonlight... Red skin? I felt something was missing. I no longer wore my acolyte robes, but it did not matter too much. I did not remember having these thighs, nor, now that I thought about it, had my breasts been so large or turgid. How I would like to go and rape some little boys... What? Could I only think about doing things to children? Something was wrong inside me, but I did not know. I did not understand if it was good or not. Better to stay here, isolated.
I did not know how much time passed in the back-and-forth of consciousness. I knew I had eaten, but not much. Yet my body still looked stunning. Only my skin looked more opaque—no longer red, perhaps a little purple. Still, I could not gather my thoughts; they were distant bubbles in consciousness. Every time I tried to reach one, the moss on the cave distracted me, an insect passing by... Oops, it was gone. I think I ate it. Was that good or not? I did not know. I only felt something was missing. I had always felt it beside me, and now I did not know where it had gone. Better to stay here waiting for it. It would come. I knew it. Someday.
An avalanche of memories attacked me. It was immense, painful. No matter how much I tried to distance myself, to keep sleeping as I had been doing for who knew how long, covered by these fresh vines, I could no longer sleep. One by one, like a sequence of images that changed in the blink of an eye, my body felt hot—very hot. The children reached the finish line. They used such a weak shield that with a small stone it would vanish. Yet I received them and invited them to join... Why had no one welcomed me? Why was it so hot? What was this they had given me to drink? In that moment, I realized: I had drunk Silverleaf liquor. The priest mocked me. I could see him, but not very well. I only felt a heat that burned me. I tore off my clothes, including Phaladine's talisman that had given me strength when I contemplated the town alone. All my clothes were on the ground, but it was not enough. My hands went to my crotch. After that, everything was more confused.
I tried to return to sleep, but I could no longer. I knew the acolytes had abused me—each and every one of them. I could even remember the one who was supposed to reward me, laughing under his breath. From then on, everything became blurry, confused. Why was I not home? How was it I did not even remember my parents? They were not the best examples of parenting, but still, I should at least know my mother's name. Did she give me something when I was sad? Did she even know if I was well? I only knew they had taken me from that cave with my habits stained... I think there was something else. A memory I did not want to know, but I had to face everything. I was not the best acolyte of Phaladine if I could not recognize what happened.
I concentrated a little, as when I asked my god for advice. No one answered. The warm sensation that in other times meant he was by my side, watching over my effort, faded. Now I only felt darkness, cold, hunger. But I would not give in. I had to know what happened. My lips were dry. When I tried to moisten them with saliva, a black tongue, split in half like a serpent's, emerged and brought me the remaining memory.
I am taken to the Altar of Purity. Still dizzy, in pain, with blood and semen running down my legs. They accuse me of being wanton, a demon of lust. It will be proven. I am tied to that table. The light is intense. I hope to see Phaladine's face, to ask him to advocate for me. He will know I was good. I see nothing. A soft, petulant laugh is heard. Then the pain begins. My entire being is pulled, stretched, twisted, molded. The light is white, but I see everything dark. Like a mask that conceals the lie and my pain. I know what is happening to me. I have seen it many times. But seeing it and feeling it—that horrible pain. The horns emerge and grow, turning several times. Every centimeter hurts. My thin body becomes voluminous. It is not mine, that is certain. My breasts, my skin—I am not red! I am not an aberration!
They release me and ask to verify that I am the demon of lust. After that, the stones begin to rain down. I do not know if my mother is there. It is likely. She enjoyed that kind of event. The last thing I remember was not a look of love or understanding. It was the eyes of people who wanted to see me dead.
I could not remember how I got out of there. I did not know how I arrived, or worse, how I stayed alive. The scream I had been holding in from this bitter ordeal became unbearable. I lost everything and everyone by trusting the people of the light. My scream echoed throughout the cave. I knew it traveled far. It was an inhuman howl because that was what I had become. I was a monster of lust, an abomination in the eyes of Phaladine. I was disgusting.
I wished to fade and die, to lose myself in the shadows, to return to the light—like the scriptures of Phaladine we read—to cease being something of corruption and darkness. But I knew I would not. There was no more future for me. Would I go after men when I was hungry? I remembered seeing lust demons so engrossed in fornication with the town's men that they said nothing while being stabbed... It was a terrible image, now that I knew not all of them deserved this. I had to remember at least the names of those punished. I must pay some tribute. I think my consciousness was fading. Living on insects and dew from moss was not a very complete diet, was it? I suppose my story as a follower of the light ends here. I was sleepy. I would sleep, though I did not know if I would wake or if a mass of lust would take my place.
Something passed through my throat. I did not recognize the taste, but I knew it was good. My head cleared a little. Finally, I made out someone holding my hands. It was a young, dark-skinned man. His face was very marked. I did not know if I would ever see such suffering again. But his eyes were those of someone stubborn. He looked at me, and I could see myself there. I was still red, still had horns, but my body was no longer that of a stupid stuffed woman—it was my thin self. Seeing me awake, he stood up, offered me his hand, and asked me to follow him to prevent more destruction in the world—the unnecessary cruelty, not evil itself, but those who did it in the name of good. I did not know who he was, but he respected me even in this condition. Without hesitation, I said yes. The voices did not protest. I did not know if I would ever hear them again. When he asked my name, I wanted to give him one—but not the name of my village, nor my god. It was one I had heard the priest speak of: a powerful woman who had ravaged all the kingdoms. That would be my name from now on. And I told him: "My name is Lilith."