[Pyro]

III. The Right of Power


   What does it mean, to be born with power? Do you owe a debt to your creator? To the world? When a homunculus is created, do they earn the right to wield their power, or even their creator's?

   Is it the right of one given power to use it, or should they restrict themselves based on the preconceptions of others? Where does right meet responsibility?

When I was created, I knew how to draw a bow before I remembered how to walk. To string it if it were broken before I took my first breath after being drawn from the void of un-life. I rose off the operating table and I clattered to the floor in a pile of armor plating and my own body. My legs did not want to listen and my tongue did not agree with my jaw even in the common language. I looked up at my sister expectantly and she did not help me to my feet. So I laid there for the next several minutes, a struggling soul against a body that did not like being commanded. When I rose, I was fed. Like a dog.

Soon introduced to my other siblings, I was scolded for my lack of manners. Understandable, I suppose. But it stuck with me. Over the next week, before I was set upon my work, I spent much time in the courtyard of home with a bow and many, many arrows. I could feel the hints of memories in my mind; the thoughts that did not belong to me but were instead stolen from my father. His magic was mine, yet I did not properly understand how to wield it wholly. He may have given me the knowledge enough to use magical arrows and the like, but the darker arts were still locked away. Seeking a catalyst to be freed.

Such catalyst would come with utter humiliation. I was a mediocre archer at best. I could run. I could hide. I could shoot arrows, but none of those made me good. To be thrashed in the arena and humiliated in front of spectators. To tackle my brother to the ground and begin beating him until my sister kicked me in the ribcage. These were the beginnings of the growing anger within my blood. And in a way, I suppose I am thankful. My fear and meek attitude turned to hatred, and that fueled my father's teachings. To hex and curse, to see someone tremble and shake beneath my boot because I had filled their body with poison and their mind with terror. The idea grew with great excitement within me. And I asked my sister if this was wrong, and she said you could not be wrong in fighting. I took up the spear, and I learned that to let blood by hand was much more satisfying than to use a mere arrow. The impact of the blade piercing plate caught on bone and severing muscles as it passed through. The scent of blood so close to my hands. To see it dripping down the searing blade, sizzling and filling the air with the scent of iron. Fuel for an even greater desire to fight.

I must ask myself with my growing power, stolen from my father; does this belong to me? Am I skilled, or am I merely playing mimicry of his greatness? Was I not to be using this power, would I be wasting the potential he instilled in my body? Is it my right as his creation to wield such power and use it to crush my enemies? I believe it is my responsibility to advance his work and utilize what I was given to grow in strength.

Would he be proud of me?