Komaru hated what he had become. He hated more that his own cowardice led him there. He looked down at his muscular torso and held his hands up to look at them. They were not hands, technically, but they were what he had. His right hand was a double bladed axe from halfway down his forearm, grafted there by his demon captors. His left hand was a heavy bludgeon. They were a part of his body he could not change, as was his lack of a mouth. In its place was a small opening large enough to suck liquids into. The demons corrupted him to the point where death was nearly preferable to the life he led. They made him into the opposite of what he once was. He used to be a priest of Life. Now he was an instrument of death without even hands to create anything. All he could do was smash with his left hand and cut with his right. His skin, once chocolate brown, was now pallid and yellow. The liquid he was fed made him black out for hours. He was sure this was the time when the visions in his dreams were done. Thankfully he could never see past the dark veil that clouded his mind. Things used to be so different.
He remembered taking pride in his hands as they brought the healing powers of Aleondra, goddess of light and life.His hands eased the pain of many men and brought more back from the brink of death. He took pride in his hands and in his own righteousness. His old life was a dream now, something remembered once in a while. His love for his goddess flittered away when the hatred he had for his captors surfaced. At one point in his life he desired a place in the realms of Aleondra, where there was no sickness, but he knew that after what he did, there was not a shot at redemption. Not without death.
Every day the demons came into his cage, binding him with Elemental Air and pouring the dark red concoction into the tiny hole where his mouth once was. It was salty and warm, making him want to gag, but with no real mouth, expunging the liquid was almost impossible. The liquid was his only source of nutrients and without it he would die of starvation.
And death was what he feared the most. How could he not? How could anyone not fear death? It was an end. It might not be an end to his spirit, but how could he really be sure? Would he want to die and face punishment for what he did? Would punishment even be what he faced? There was not a way to be sure, so Komaru accepted the fate these demons gave him.
From a healing angel to a death dealing demon, he had been transformed. He was never fully aware of what he did for his demon masters, but he did know it was not good. He woke from the blackouts caked in blood, but never was able to find out for certain what happened. He did not even know where in the world he was. They laughed as Komaru mourned over those he killed, though they were glimpsed only in dreams. He wanted the courage to die. Would it always elude him? Perhaps today it would come.
The question of whether his goddess would forgive him or not suddenly became irrelevant. The only way to find out if forgiveness would come was to die. He was ready now. What was so bad about an end to this life anyway, though he did not know what came after? Even a torturous afterlife would be less torturous than this. Finally there could be an end to the blackouts and the nightmares. No more blood on his hands. All he had to do was die.