Vengeance corresponds to our first thinking emotion. It is fully justified by the death of our copies. They cannot be called otherwise. They do not hatch until one of us dies, and at that moment, a small monstrosity is born with all the memories of the previous one—which, more than anything else, were reduced to emotions, sensations: where to eat, when, where it is safe. In short, nothing we had not experienced before. Until he arrived.
None could attack him. Our instinct recognized him as someone to give way to. Even if we wanted to, we knew or sensed that facing such an enemy was lethal. Fortunately, he only passed by. Our nests were not touched. Even when the eldest of us offered him eggs to leave, we feared the disappearance of the thirty of us. He only returned them and entered that stone place. After a while, we began to think, to determine what we were, understanding our environment and condition as hunters—nothing we had not already intuited, only now consciously. Finally, the nagas understood.
The name was not chosen by us. It came from those who created us—the same ones we held no affection for, since our males were kept far from us. No matter how desperately the young searched the crevices, hoping to find one that led to where they were, we always grew, and the crevices became inaccessible. It was a task we bequeathed to the next to reincarnate. But with him there, we asked for our needs. The one with the most reincarnations said we had done so before. We did not know if it worked—we were unconscious of everything else. Then we stopped smelling him. Perhaps we forgot.
The next day, someone arrived. He smelled like the fearsome warrior who had stayed here. I saw him as a threat. He looked very small, but when I attacked him with what I always used to bring down even deer, it had no effect. Before I knew it, I was on the ground. He turned his back to me, unconcerned. Then I felt shame for my weakness. Yet he entered and touched nothing in the hallway. He went into the building. Soon after, we heard and felt heat in the structure. There was life again.
During the day, we could feel heat and cold, the smell of hot metal, the penetrating scent of a dwarf working, the smoke of coal. Even without speaking, the eldest began to converse. Her memories were sensations. We never shared them unless there was a threat. Yet she did. She told us she had been brought with a male to this cave. The male fertilized the eggs, and from there, we were born. But when doing so, something happened to her mate. He became inactive, turning into food. There were many of us, but she said the cave was full of food that smelled the same as the one now inhabiting the building. They were all chopped up. We could eat and grow, but we knew no mate for the eggs. They remained like that for many years. Until one day, one of the eldest trusted herself and attacked some wild boars. When she died, one of her eggs broke, and from there, she emerged. It was very strange. We all felt her, but she was not there—just a small naga that could transmit nothing more than a sensation of surprise.
As night fell, she finally told us what had happened with the food—with those dwarves. The magic used on them was poisonous. A mist filled the whole place. When any tried to leave, those who had traveled with her attacked them. She said she even traveled in chains. She had no freedom. Men entered, and the place began to fill with the warm taste of blood. Those who entered smelled different afterward. They did not seem stable. They did not seem difficult to catch, but not worth it either.
By night, we understood what the first one to arrive had told us. He wanted us to help him, to be ready. There was a threat, he said. He had a duty to face it, but we only had to assist him to do so. But a smell alarmed us. It was the same smell as the clumsy ones, the useless ones who had murdered defenseless people. We learned from what he told us. Now our minds put in their place the words, the emotions. At that moment, we did not use them, but we already knew we could. Then the eldest used an emotion. It was very strong—a sad, melancholy scent. Disappointment, she told me. That was what she felt for the warrior—disappointment. Soon after, I saw that he stopped smelling what she called liquor. She asked us to lead him to bathe, to rest. We all wet ourselves, but she said the spring water was not enough. She indicated where, and we began to transmit the tranquility of the designated place—a shower where the dwarf returned to smelling like a living being, not a crust of grime, coal, without mentioning that spicy, dark scent of something neither she nor we had smelled before.
In the morning, we prepared to hunt when noises frightened us. Boots—many boots. Carefully, she told us they were mad men, bad men. We all ran to the building. The crevices could not hide us completely. We ran and went into the rooms, into the cracks age had left in the place. From there, we heard their arrival. There we counted ourselves. We felt more than saw the attack of the elder naga. We heard her die. Worse, I felt her eggs break—each and every one of them. Her possibility of continuing to talk to us, of being there when we were born, was gone. At that moment, we all had a sour taste in our mouths. We smelled spicy. That was the emotion: vengeance.
I thought of going after them like that, but we could not—not after watching through the cracks and seeing their broken claws. We had no chance with our hands... but we no longer depended only on our hands, did we? Carefully, I moved my fingers. Yes, we had five. They had claws, but they were five and articulated. I saw the dwarf enter the scene. He was defending the body and our future selves from being destroyed by those brutes. With strange calm, I saw them wearing things on their skin. I was sure they were not originally theirs. I had seen them with the dwarf. They wore them for protection... Why not us?
Following the smell of metal, we discovered many of those things. Some fit us. Others were too thin or bulky, but we used them to protect our chests and heads. Now, weapons—a couple of swords, some knives, and even about ten decided to stay with something they called crossbows. They fired a bolt. They had seen them among the attackers and thought to use them against those who wore cloth behind the armored ones.
As the dwarf's battle against the rest progressed, I could see he was truly powerful. Neither we thirty would have been able to defeat him if he had intended. All his enemies flew away or remained on the ground as food. But I smelled his fatigue. There were many. Despite everything, he made the cave burn and then cool. Fortunately, we were warm-blooded; otherwise, the cold would have stopped us. As we descended to go out and help him, I heard and felt the scent of the storm—a discharge so strong that I even saw sparks running along the weapons we carried. When we emerged, we saw the dwarf unconscious, weak but alive in a corner. In the back, six warriors with armor and about ten without were walking, celebrating, mocking him, laughing—as if losing fifty men was worth it if one fell on the other side. At that moment, I stopped feeling the desire for vengeance. Now everything was a taste of red, dark—a color and taste of hatred. Without a word, we all leaped to attack.
I am sure they did not expect us. One of them gave the alarm. The warriors stopped laughing and put their shields before us in defense. But a sheet, no matter how thick, was nothing against someone who slipped into the cracks. Before mine knew what happened, I slipped between his legs, and my sword rose from below until he was pierced through and dead. Not all had my ease. Some managed to cut but only legs and arms. There, in the back, I saw all chanting. The scent they emitted was like hot metal—not good. The one who had died had warned us that scent was magic and had killed everyone here. I pointed them out as dangerous, and at that moment, the crossbow users shot at them. Only five of them fell, but on this side, they had already done something. The enemies' wounds were healed, and it was harder to pierce them with our swords. I pointed to five to go after the unarmored enemies and joined the attack against the remaining.
As I approached, I saw them suffering impacts from weapons. Shields struck their tails. It was very painful because many organs were there, but they did not relent. I barked orders, and they obeyed. One after another, they grabbed the warriors' arms, sinking knives into the gaps, into eyes, wherever flesh was visible. Blood flowed in great quantity. At that moment, I felt five more suffering.
Only one in cloth remained alive. He was covered in light and lashed whips that wounded my sisters. All the warriors were dead, but he kept wounding us. He could even kill them. I did not know if any eggs of theirs remained. If not, I would lose them. We would be fewer than twenty-nine, even more alone. All shot, but nothing pierced that light. The scent of his magic intensified. I could only wish our eggs survived. I wanted to find our elder friend's dream, to find the males, to have different nagas. I did not want to die...
A sound came from behind me. It was a whisper. I glimpsed a black blur. It pierced the light as if it did not exist and struck the bearded magic user in the head. He was dead before he fell.
When I turned, I saw the dwarf. He was on his knees with his hand outstretched. Still dying, he had thrown his hammer. He had saved us. Yet when I went to offer him my gratitude, Chapatrueno—so named by the one who had arrived earlier—said "Thank you" and fell asleep. A warm sensation covered me—sweet and slightly melancholic. Of all that the one who would no longer be with us had taught us, this feeling, this emotion, was called joy—or perhaps more appropriately... hope.