Paul
Pharos lifted a golden palm, and its glass disk radiated dazzling light. The demonic leech crouched to leap at his face, but she was too quick. One blast of her beam burnt the lesser demon to ashes that scattered to nothing.
For her, it seemed the easiest thing in the world. She didn’t even singe the bedsheets. The image of Moloch faded from the screen. The television static died, leaving smooth black velvet of the deepest starless night, cool and soft and welcoming as sleep.
The whispering ceased. The clinging shadows in the corners evaporated. Light streamed in from a window Paul hadn’t noticed to give the room a warm, lazy afternoon ambiance. He felt as if his sinuses were clogged with a cold for years and suddenly cleared to let him breathe again. Paul filled his lungs with fresh air. He stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders, feeling taller and standing straighter.
Once again, I’m impressed with you, Pharos told him, To have lasted this long with a demon’s poison inside… to be able to call me with this level of corruption… I applaud you. She put a hand on his shoulder, her voice pleased, Well done.
He smiled at her. “Thank you. Obviously, I couldn’t have defeated it alone. You saved me.”
She gave his arm a squeeze and a pat, then returned to the head of the bed. The demon did its work leading you astray, though perhaps you’ll be stronger for the tribulation—like tempered steel. Or perhaps the damage will eat at your insides until you crumble… but, unlike before, that is now wholly up to you, Paul.
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Paul’s mind filled with ideas and possibilities. The situation outside no longer seemed so terrible or hopeless. “I want to try again. I think, this time, I can make a difference. If I work hard, I can figure out my abilities. I’ll walk my own path, and this time, we’ll really find the T.O.!”
There’s something you need to know about Progenitors, Paul. Some are good, some are bad, and some are one but pretend to be the other. None of them are kind. Pharos put the tip of her finger on the side of the candle on the nightstand. And, ultimately, a Progenitor will always do what is best for their child.
Paul didn’t know what she was doing, but his gut twisted as his instincts surged. “Don’t touch that!”
He leaped forward.
Too late. As she tipped it over, the candle fell on the bed. The sheets caught fire, and Paul discovered the definition of pain. Whatever inkling of it he’d had was the mere days-old lingering aroma of this full-course meal. He didn’t scream or cry or wave his arms; he simply fell as all strength of body and will abandoned him.
So, this was ‘needful suffering?’ Paul should’ve negotiated better terms.
A feeling of wrongness pervaded the atmosphere, like the smoke rising from the flames spreading to the wallpaper. The entire cottage shook, moaning and groaning as it reeled—not a building of stone and wood but a dying animal. Pharos tapped the Dreamscape window, sealing the flatscreen television in glass.
Weak, Paul croaked the only words important enough to hold his attention in the depths of this pain. “What are you doing?”
The fire spread across the wooden floor and into the hallway.
Killing you.