'Seed of Chaos' System

The clash between egos that occurred then could be compared to what happens when a high-pressure hose suddenly turns on inside a pitcher filled to the brim. The turbulent introduction of that new liquid quickly disturbs the peace that had existed moments ago. The preexisting liquid is forcibly evicted, and as it rapidly mingles with the new fluid, it changes color. The quickly-diluted original liquid spills out as the hose continues to spray. In the end, the pitcher (the body) holds only the artificially introduced liquid (ego), contaminated with less than a percent of its original contents.

Alesha blinked rapidly, staggering forwards as sensation returned to her in a rush. The sight of a stone cell that seemed more like a cave than a building, the smell of blood from a nearby corpse, a faintly chill breeze that rustled her long-sleeve shirt and tickled her bare legs. Sights? Smells? Even sounds had returned. How long had it been since she could see?

Tears came to her eyes and her breath choked with emotion. 

It took her several moments to realize that there was something distinctly wrong with this situation. Just a second ago, she had been fuming about the King having turned her into a sword, and suddenly she wasn't a sword anymore? What the heck?

Realizing that she was holding a sword, she shifted her grip on it, then reflexively seized it tightly. The moment her fingers had separated even a bit from the sword's hilt, her senses had dulled, and the world had grown slightly darker again, causing a rush of anxiety that led her to grab the sword's hilt for comfort. What was going on? 

She examined the sword. It seemed somehow familiar. Blurrily, she recalled holding a very similar sword in recent battles; while fighting a red tiger creature, cutting down oversized maggot things, and finally killing the octopus-headed monster that lay dead in front of her. Something was weird about that. The sword in her hand was distinctly different from the one in those blurry memories. Sure, the shape was the same, but the color and overall impression of the weapon felt like night and day. Instead of a copper-toned hilt, this one was a purple so deep it was nearly black. Rather than a gold-and-silver blade, this one was maroon-and-silver, and its inscription glowed bright red.

It read, "chun mallacht a chur ar an Ríocht, chun sábháilteacht na ndaoine a mhallacht, chun m'anam a dhíoghail."

What did it mean?

Alesha didn't know. For some reason, however, the words resonated deeply within her soul, and she somehow felt that they embodied the depth of her pain. They seemed appropriately vengeful.

Of course, these were not the only differences from the sword in these memories, which, though they were clearly not her own, she somehow had. That blade had felt righteous; it had an intangible aura that made it seem like it belonged to a holy knight. This one, however, felt ominous, like a darkness that threatened to swallow the world. Emphasizing that dark impression were tendrils of snakelike, purple-red smoke that danced along the surface of the weapon, appearing to curl in between the hilt's overlapping pieces before they evaporated as if they had never existed. The rubies in the pommel and crossguard glowed violently red. From the ruby at the crossguard, a set of glowing red teeth yawned, as if ready to attack. 

It was strange. Somehow, Alesha felt as if the weapon were a part of her. She imagined the jawless teeth opening and closing, and they did. She felt the wisps of smoke and controlled their motion. Testing something once again, she rested the tip of the blade on the ground, then slowly shifted her grip to the top of the pommel; at the end of this motion, only her palm was in contact with the sword, which stood perpendicular to the ground.

These actions confirmed her theory: the less contact her hand had with the sword, the less she could access the senses of the body that touched it.

Did that mean the body was not her own? Was she still the sword?

This realization triggered an awareness of her own mind as she grabbed the sword again, sliding her hand so that it never left the surface of the weapon. Dimly, very dimly, she could almost hear a woman's voice shouting. Was it the Captain's voice?

Whatever, Alesha thought, hardening her heart. I have a body again. I'm not about to go back to that awful darkness just because the body I'm using isn't mine.

Of course, these weren't her only feelings on the matter. Alesha's heart was, in reality, still a very sensitive one. Guilt over what she was doing to the possibly-innocent Captain was very much present in her mind. She had herself agonized countless times over the possibility of Rogork taking over her body, and now she was doing that to someone else? The hypocrisy of it stung her. However, her terror of the unfeeling, unaware, anxiety-filled dark emptiness was greater than her revulsion over her actions. 

Looking down at herself because she noticed something was off, Alesha realized that, for some reason, she was half-naked. What? She blinked several times in confusion. Why the hell was the Captain partially undressed? 

That question was answered when she examined the remaining clothes on her borrowed body. Not only in the front, but also behind when she looked, the shirt had been slashed diagonally, and was very cleanly cut. If it weren't for the blood splatters, she might have thought it was just a strange fashion choice. She connected the dots with a sigh. "Wow, you almost died, didn't you, Captain? But wait… how did you not die? Why do you even have a lower half after it got cut off??"

A possibility occurred to her at that moment. Maybe it was one of the Captain's skills?