She awoke in pain with an indescribable hunger.  It was like the incredible gut ache that comes after days of seige, when there is nothing left to eat but thin cabbage soup; like the terrifying unendingness of the second stage of child-labor; like the incredible muscle tearing agony of being pierced by a barbed pike and having it drawn back.  It was like the all-encompassing longing of adolescense when senuality is first awakened; but understanding has not.  She had known all those things, but did not know when and did not know why.  All she knew now was the unending agony that seemed to permeate her every part; all she knew was a consuming hunger and thirst.

“Ah, you are awake, Sister,” said a gravely voice.  “Up, up, we must arm you for the trials ahead.”

Rough hands hauled her from the surface where she lay, and buckled her with ungentle haste into armor that weighed like the deadliest of sins yet molded to her form as no armor had ever fit before.  Her rude squire had a fetid odor, reminiscent of a death house, that was at once repulsive and oddly pleasant.

The pain and hunger were coalescing into one intense need.  Somewhere, at great distance instructions were being droned into her ears.  A key was pressed into her hands.  She clutched it, for it was at once salvation and condemnation in one.  About her there rose a mighty din, wailing and clashing; chains rattled.  Her keeper guided her to a giant lock.

“You will battle a failed one, Champion!” said the gravel voice.  “Feed well, Sister!”

Blindly, she turned the key in the lock, and turned smoothly to face a being armed as herself.  The hunger narrowed her vision into focus on this adversary.  As she struck, her sword drew essence from this being into herself.  It tantalized and tickled with the promise of more sustenance to come.  Heartened, she struck and struck again, marveling at the surcease of agony.  With one mighty thrust, her sword cut throught armor, bone and flesh wresting from her unfortunate opponent life and soul. In ecstasy, she fed, feeling strength and life flow into her.  As the failed one fell, she stood above him, pulled one gauntlet from her hand, and delicately dipped her fingers in the blood coating her weapon.  She sucked it from her fingers, savoring the taste, much as a child might savor honey or apple jelly.

“You are the one, Sister!” said gravel voice, “You are the master’s chosen!  Mount now, and ride to the field of battle!  Suffer well, Sister!”

She swung astride a fiery destrier, and joined ranks of others like herself.  The hunger was and pain were already begining to mount.  By the time she had reached the battlefield, it had reached such a pitch that her only focus was to feed and allay the pain.   All day, she fought.  All day, it was the same.  Attack, slay, feed; brief respite, then the fever pitch of agony which could only be eased by blood.  She knew not who it was she slew; only that they fed her voracious appetite and stilled the burning of her nerves.

As the afternoon wore on, moments of surcease grew longer.  For whole minutes, she was free from pain and hunger.  In those minutes, something began to awake.  Somehow, her surroundings became familiar.  She had been her before.  But even as that tiny something fought to live, the hunger arose and smothered it; so she fought on.

In one of those moments of lucidity, she found herself in an orchard, near a farmhouse.  “There you are, Sister!” a voice of silken beauty called to her.  “You are becoming a great champion!  I have a treat for you.  In this farm building are some insurrectionists.  We have gotten most of what we need from them.  We have saved them for you.”

As she entered the great hall of the farmhouse, she could see the prisoners tied to the timbers that upheld the roof.  “All yours, Sister,” said the silken voice.  “Feed well!”

She stepped forward, her dripping weapon held comfortably in her hand.  “Marya?  Mar, is that you?  Oh, my friend!  What have they done to you!  Marya!  Do you not know me?  We played dolls together, and slipped into Dame Higgins strawberry patch to steal strawberries the spring we turned ten.  Oh, Marya, you wed my brother, but he was one of the first to die in the siege.”

The blood dripped over her hand, and she knew this prisoner.  They had done up each others hair for every dance since they were old enough for something other than pig-tails.  They had stood up for each at their weddings, and had been birthing coaches for each other.  They had tended each others children…down that road lay something dark and terrible.  Marya–if indeed that had been her name–nearly dropped the sword.

“Quickly, Mar!  There is nothing you can do for me now but a quick and merciful death!  Do not let them take me, and make me into such as you have become.”

With blinding clarity, Marya knew precisely what she was and what she had done.  With swift savegery, she hacked apart the woman who called her friend so thoroughly that there could be no raising of that body.  This blood quenched a thirst she had not even realized that she had.  This blood gave her the clarity to see beyond the hunger.

Outside the farmhouse, the fields were littered with bodies.  Here and there grim priests were at work raising the dead, and setting them to work creating more dead.  A once-beautiful collie savaged former family members, parts of its hide peeled back from bone, its fur singed and blackened.

For a moment, she felt sickened.  But then the pain and hunger returned, driving her on.  She rode a gaunt horse for a time; then a great dragon.  She slew soldiers, villagers, children and babes beyond numbering and without surcease.

At last she came to a battlefield where ahead of her was a great light, and someone was talking.  All about her,  the battle stopped.  A stillness came over the area.  “Stand down, stand down!” a voice called in great sorrow, “Stand down!”

All at once, every memory came flooding back.  She remembered dying; she remembered being raised.  And she understood.  Her body had been used by the Adversary to wreak havoc upon all she had loved most, and held most dear.

“We can never atone for what has been done here,” the voice continued, “But we can spend the rest of our lives trying.  Suffer well, Brothers and Sisters!”

Marya bowed her head and knew that no matter what she might do in atonement, nothing would wipe out this day’s work.  She would, indeed, suffer well.