Seventh III: Of All Things Divine
??? ???, 872 AD.
Anaria, Western Teleytaios, Klironomea.
Cold. Dark. Cold. Where were they? It was cold here.
They tried to move. They were strapped down on what felt like a stone table. An altar, perhaps?
"You are awake?"
The voice was familiar, and yet foreign. It was... they didn't know what it was. Human, definitely, but strange nonetheless. Perhaps it was all the stranger precisely because it was human?
"I asked a question, your Divinity."
The title jolted them into full coherency. Divinity? They'd never been referred to as that before. Others amongst their kind had been bestowed that title by men of ages past, that much they knew for certain, but no-one had ever called them divine before.
There was a flash of green in their mind. Okay, that was technically untrue. No-one had ever referred to them as divine in this context before.
"Who are you?"
The words left their mouth without thought. The man seemed pleased by this.
"I bear no name, your Divinity. I bear no title. The people here see me as a leader, and so that I am."
Seventh lay in silence a moment, trying to judge the intentions of the man staring back at him, a vacant smile present on their captor's face. Perhaps if they played nice they could bide their time? Perhaps it would be easier to drive them all mad?
No, that wouldn't work, they thought to themselves, his eyes are like Aenethar's.
They took a moment to register the fifty or so men and women sat watching on raised semi-circular benches, and suppressed a shudder.
They're all like Aenethar.
Aenethar himself was in the room, though Seventh could not see him.
Behind me, most likely. Playing the guard, as ever.
Everyone here was watching them, waiting for them to step out of line. Playing nice it would have to be then.
"There is no need for these bonds, leader. What is it you wish from me?"
The man's vacant smile only grew wider.
"Oh, little Divine. How long has it been since your kind last walked the world? Does the eldest of your pantheon know what has become of his creation?"
Seventh shook their head, already confused.
"I don't know. How do you know of my kind? I have yet to meet any others amongst my kind upon this world."
The man's smile curled somewhat.
"A lie? Upon the word of your eldest? How very dishonourable of you."
Lie? But I- How does he- Oh. Oh no. No, no, no. Of course, Aenethar was in the room when I woke Basileous. He knows. My Lord, my King, my God, I am so sorry.
They did their best to maintain a clear head, the better to pander to the figure before them.
"Apologies, leader. A lifetime of hiding myself has not prepared me well to share knowledge with others."
They scrunched up their brow in mock thought.
"Do you truly bear no name or title for me to refer to you by?"
The smile returned.
"I told you already, little Divine. The people here call me leader, and so that is who I am. What do you see me as?"
A hundred derogatory titles flitted through the young Seer's head, but none of them seemed particularly viable out loud. They were silent for a moment, trying to find the least offensive answer to give.
The man still smiled.
"A turnkey."
He nodded.
"Then Turnkey I am."
"You mentioned one by the title of 'eldest' earlier. May I ask to whom you refer?"
The man grinned at him, unnaturally pale teeth catching the light of the brazier behind them.
"The eldest of your kind still here."
Seventh opened their mouth again, but was cut off before they could speak.
"I would strongly advise against lying."
They nodded, as if to try and assure the man they would attempt no deceit. If they already knew of Basileous then there was no harm in speaking of him, it was only the content of what they revealed that would be dangerous.
So long as it was not revealed under that name, his true name. That name was old. There was strength in that name.
But if I do not call him by his name they would know, however it is that they know of my lies, and catch me out. I don't want to be caught out, not by these... cultists.
Their brow furrowed again, this time in concentration.
What do I do... Ah!
"Hydran. He is Hydran."
There. It was not a lie; Hydran was one of the many names Basileous had borne throughout his long life, at least to Seventh's understanding, and seeing as Turnkey was from Klironomea, it was likely to be the one he was most familiar with.
But given that it was not the name their kinsman had borne at their birth, there was little harm in revealing this. It would be as a thief having an alias discovered; inconvenient, certainly, but far from damning.
The man smiled down at him, looking pleased and slightly confused. Perhaps he had not expected such openness from them?
"I see. That is truly a wonderous thing, to have seen an Angel as majestic as him in the flesh. And who amongst our pantheon may you be, Divine?"
They shook their head. This was good, all things considered. If they could reveal information that was little more than the harmless truth, they could build a rapport without compromising their kinsman.
"I was not yet born when the seven took on their roles in the pantheon of Klironomea. I apologise, but whilst they may be my kind I have yet to truly walk amongst them. They are... I do not know where the others are."
The man frowned. Somehow it looked happier than his smile.
"They are... gone?"
"I do not know, Turnkey."
He snarled.
"They can't be... GONE!"
He hurled something across the room, but what it was Seventh couldn't see. It made a metallic clattering sound as it hit either a wall or the floor.
"They aren't lying. It matters not. Hydran is out there. You are in here. With us. We will have to learn from you instead."
Seventh swallowed as the man gestured off to the side, where he had thrown the object, and there was the sound of hurried feet as some form of menial or servant-type picked the object back up.
"Okay. I must remain calm. Please, think no less of me for this. It needs to be done. For the good of mankind. To help us save the world from destruction."
There was a scalpel in his hand. Seventh's eyes widened in horror, and they struggled against their bonds despite the futility of the action.
"What do you- save the world? From what? Do you think cutting me open will give you the answers you seek?"
The man smiled wider still. It was more of a rictus than a true smile, fear and excitement mixed into a truly grotesque expression.
Turnkey stepped closer to the bound Seer, closing the distance between them and looking them in the eyes.
"We know not what we save the world from. Only that we do. I do not believe vivisecting you will give us the answers we need, of course not. But it might allow us to find the right questions to ask."
"You- You're mad. You're all mad. What destruction do you need to protect the world from? There is no destruction coming! Nothing has changed here for almost a millennia!"
Turnkey stroked their hair, and spoke in what was almost a comforting manner.
"Oh, little Divine. If only you knew how bad things really were."
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My Lord, My King, My God, save me, please. My Lord, My King, My God, My Lord, My King, My God-
The words repeated as a broken mantra in their head, desperation long since giving way to a crushing sense of isolation and fear. Had their friends forgotten them already? Where was everyone? They would be here soon, surely, soon, please.
They'd never known pain like this in their life. Their God would have, certainly, but Seventh was not their God. They were just Seventh. They were cold. They were scared.
They were bound to the table before a hundred empty eyes, watching as their skin was carefully, oh so carefully pinned back on the table with tacks. There was skill to the man's actions, and it was made sure that there was absolutely no chance they could fall prey to blood loss or shock whilst their insides were studied in a most cruel and vulgar fashion.
Their insides weren't supposed to be on display, they weren't supposed to cry out at every breath of air that passed over them in a most unnatural fashion.
And yet they did.
Looking at this rationally, as if they were still capable of such a feat, they knew that they wouldn't die here, not for a long while yet. The regenerative blood of their angelic ancestry coupled with the precise nature of the incisions dear fucking god My Lord My King My God please save me it hurts so much made sure that they were never at a true risk of dying. Well, so long as they didn't try to escape again, that much had been made clear.
They could still feel the wounds from the men-turned-hounds that had caught them last time.
I can't close those cuts, why can't I close them? My Lord, My King, My God...
The men were only interested in studying them, after all, what use was their capture if they died before anything of value could be learned from them? What was it that made them divine, rather than humanity? Was there some missing part in mankind, was humanity left unfinished? How could humanity reach the heights of godhood as the Angels did? There was so much more for mankind to learn from them, it really wasn't anything personal.
The scalpel came down again, this time along their left arm, to expose the muscles and sinew beneath. This time they cried out, their voice a croak more than a shout.
"My Lord, My King, My God, save me, please!"
"None of that, child. You know better than us that there are no gods, not anymore."
They continued to scream and shout and beg until their throat was raw, the effort serving to do nothing more than agitate their already tattered vocal cords.
"MY LORD, MY KING, MY GOD, SAVE ME PLEASE! MY LORD MY KING MY GOD MYLORDMYKINGMYGODMYLORDMYKINGMYGODSAVEMESAVEMEPLEASEITHURTS"
"Hm. Disappointing. Note the complete lack of abnormalities within the internal musculature and organ layout of our guest."
Seventh could barely register the words of the man, so focussed on trying to push past the pain and repair the damage done to really comprehend what was being said. They were exhausted, but still found the strength to knit the worst of the incisions back together when the gaze of the congregation fell elsewhere.
"As you wish, leader. What are we to do with him now?"
"Them, not him. Show some respect to our guest."
"Of course, leader. I apologise. What are we to do with them now?"
There was a few seconds of silence as Turnkey contemplated the question.
"Stitch back together whatever they cannot heal, and make sure they continue their own healing process. After that we'll settle them into their new quarters for now. And wash down the altar. I'll try to think of a different angle to approach this problem from over the next few days."
"As you wish, leader."
They vaguely registered their bonds being removed, but pain and exhaustion rendered them immobile anyway. They were gently carried down a corridor to a dark stone room, and laid down in a corner at the back.
They closed their eyes, and willed themselves to sleep, if for no other reason than to snatch a few precious hours away from this place.
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The days grew shorter, not that they could tell physically from within their grey-black cell, but their visions were coming back in full force. They didn't know if it was because of the expulsion of dream-magic from their system or something to do with the people around them, but in a faint flash of pale-blue light a prophetic message had let slip from their lips.
When this was relayed to Turnkey, he was most excited. He had spent ten minutes trying to convince Seventh to repeat the words they had spoken, but they had tried to keep their mouth shut. They didn't care that the information was likely useless, but how could they know that this cult would not see something they did not in the words?
For ten minutes they had refused to budge, until Turnkey threatened to check if he had missed anything on his "First attempt."
Seventh was ashamed to admit that they had cracked immediately at the application of that threat.
"He stretches out his frostbitten hand, to feel the sands of time,
they run between his fingertips, mocking his design.
They fall into the darkness, to disappear forever,
he can't defeat time's passing, his fire but an ember."
There had been silence after that. Turnkey did not speak a word, merely staring at them with a vacant grin.
"Do you know what this means, your Divinity?"
They shook their head, words escaping them. The man frowned his paradoxically happy frown.
"I suspected as much. Do let me know if you have any more, won't you? I do not with to resort to threats again."
They nodded quickly. They didn't care what they told him anymore. It was survival.
Nothing meant anything until they were out of here.
They could handle the aftermath when they weren't being held by this fucking doomsday cult.
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"Ex... excuse me, Ser?"
Their voice was a dry croak, every word irritating their vocal cords.
An armoured man moved to the front of the cell, irritation and reverence in their eyes.
How the fuck can they justify cutting open someone who they believe to be divine?
They smiled a little internally. If they were still able to make even weak quips like that in their head then they must have some spark left in them.
The man tapped the bars of the cell, waiting for them to continue.
"Could you... tell your leader I had another vision, please?"
The man stepped back, shocked, but remained silent. Seventh winced.
I need to tell him, for my own safety. I am sorry, my Lord, my King, my God, but you are not here, and I am. There's probably nothing of value to be gleamed from these prophetic ramblings anyway.
They blinked themselves back awake at the sound of the cell door opening, and they shuffled back against the wall as if they could get away from the man in front of them.
As if they hadn't just invited them into the cell.
"I am told you had another vision, your Divinity?"
They nodded choppily again.
"You told me..."
The man nodded as Seventh trailed off.
"Indeed I did. Let us hear it, if you please?"
Seventh took a shaky breath, and began.
"The stars begin to fall, black becomes the sky,
from all the wounds upon the world
the unborn start to fly.
The wolves grow strong and fat,
gorged on the slaughter of men,
they circle, waiting for their chance
to leave their darkest of dens."
Turnkey stroked his chin for a little while, lost in thought.
"Dark portents. We may not understand your prophecy in its full, young Divine, but surely you can recognise as well as I that falling stars and emboldened wolves are hardly cause for celebration."
There was silence for a moment before Seventh realised he was waiting for an answer.
Their throat was dry, their words short.
"Yes, Turnkey. Darkness coming."
The man smiled. There was no happiness in the expression.
"Then I was right. Something is coming. Faithful! Bring our guest some bread and water. They have behaved exceptionally well this day."
He ruffled Seventh's hair, and the Seer held back the urge to bite his fucking hand.
The water was welcome though. Their parched throat was soothed by the cool liquid, and they didn't realise how hungry they were until the bread was handed to them through the bars of the cell.
Good. I just need to rest a little more. I just need to get some strength back. If I play along and give them what they want a little longer, surely an opportunity will present itself. Someone's bound to find me soon, surely?
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It was quite some time before someone came for them again. They'd had another vision, and tried to call for someone, but no sound escaped their mouth. They hoped Turnkey would be reasonable.
Because, you know, that seemed likely from the head of a doomsday cult with a penchant for cutting open his objects of worship.
There was a flicker of light in the darkness. They shuffled further back into their dark cell, as if the light would burn them.
Light brought coherency. Light brought consciousness. Light brought captors.
Darkness was silent. Darkness was still. Darkness was safety.
They forced back tears as the door was opened and light spilled into the room.
They knew it would not be help. They'd stopped giving up on someone finding them a week or two ago.
Or three.
There was no way to tell the passing of time down here. It could have been hours. Could have been a month. They just... didn't know anymore.
"You hid it from me. I thought you were doing so well. I thought you were helping us."
They croaked out a whispered response, as desperate as they were resigned.
"...ied"
Nothing came out at first. They tried again when Turnkey moved closer to hear them better.
"Tried."
There was confusion on the man's face.
"They aren't lying. Get them some water. Enough that they can speak, not enough to reward them."
There was silence for a minute before one of the menials returned, a small bowl half-filled with water in her hands.
"Here, little Divine. Recite your vision."
They drank quickly and feverishly, water dribbling down their chin and wetting the front of their rough-spun tunic.
"When- when Solaria comes to its ending,
an Angel's death shall make man weary.
The prince, he shall stand next... next in line;
a sacrifice to keep man warm."
"Good. Very good. Thank you for that. So the sun blinks out, an Angel dies, disheartening mankind, then a boy of royal blood shall die to rekindle hope in whomever is left. Well, I think we have finally found a message we can interpret!"
Seventh moved to slump back against the wall, but before they could Turnkey patted them on the back.
"See, if you continue to assist us-"
There was a second of silence, and the man's hand returned to their back, prodding around their shoulder blades. He had a confused look on his face, which all of a sudden turned into the largest grin Seventh had yet seen.
"Oh, today truly is a great day! Faithful, attend me! Attend the Seer! We have work to do!"
They woke to the sound of fingers clicking in their right ear. They blinked a few times to wake themselves, before ice settled in their gut.
"No... I was good! I did as you asked! Please, I followed your rules!"
The menial stepped backwards, and Seventh heard Turnkey enter the room from a door to their left.
"And for that I am grateful, young Divine. Despite the complex nature of your visions, you nonetheless did your best to share them after only mild disagreement. That is commendable."
He turned to face someone outside of Seventh's field of vision.
"Why are they face up?"
"You wish them to be face down, leader? I apologise, I had no idea."
The man scoffed, then seemed to take a moment to calm himself.
"No harm done. It was simple, really. 'Of course!', I thought, 'I claimed to be trying to find a different angle to approach this problem from, but I have yet to literally approach the problem from a different angle!'. Flip them, now."
"At once, leader."
They stifled their sobs as best they could as they were flipped over.
It doesn't matter in the end, I'll survive. That's important. It'll hurt, but it won't kill me. I can heal after for as long as it takes, a day or a century. It doesn't matter.
I. Am. Going. To. Live.
They repeated that last thought like a mantra in their head. They'd undergone this once before. They could do it again.
I will live.
Turnkey felt around their shoulders once more, searching for the abnormality they had felt earlier.
The man's hand was cold as he settled a finger against the small lump he had found slightly below Seventh's left shoulder, and he traced gently down their back for perhaps eight inches.
His hand came away, and he shouted in excitement.
"Quick, faithful, my scalpel! I have found something!"
Seventh supposed they should have been thankful that this... whatever this was, this vivisection, was far shorter than the last. Turnkey was not interested in looking through everything within the Seer, only the bumps they had found.
Someone placed a piece of cloth before the Seer, and they bit down hard to avoid biting through their own tongue. It was a miracle they hadn't last time, come to think of it.
The blade bit into their back, the cut precise and clean. Slowly, almost gingerly it glided down their skin. From the tip of their left shoulder to just below the spot Turnkey had removed his finger, an incision was opened in their back.
They squeezed their eyes shut.
Breath. Breath. Breath. Keep breathing. It'll be over soon.
A shuffle of movement, and a set of hands that Seventh assumed belonged to Turnkey held the cut open.
Breath. Breath. Bre-
There was a flash of blue as something inside him moved. It was... it was as though a part of them they didn't know was there was being freed.
"Yes! Yes! Here we are! Oh, young Divine, we are truly making history today!"
The thing, the muscles, twitched again. There was a second flash of blue as Seventh vaguely registered their own control over their mystical senses unravelling in the face of pain and their body's own unconscious focus on the new appendages striving to make themselves free.
What's happening to me?
Turnkey's right hand moved to physically, though gently, pull the mass free as his left continued to hold the incision open.
There was a gasp from the man as the thing came free, fluttering to the side and attached to the young Seer by a small joint just below the shoulder.
It was a wing.
A sickly, anaemic wing.
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They curled into a ball in their cell. The second wing was now free, the two things clearly not finished forming.
They weren't... they weren't in a bad state, per se. But they were so small. The little things weren't supposed to be out in the open yet. They weren't supposed to burst free for decades yet, maybe even a century.
They curled up tighter.
"How are you feeling, little Wingling?"
They made to retreat further into their cell, then stopped. Wingling?
That wasn't a name Turnkey had for them.
They looked up.
"You- you're-"
The man made a quiet 'shush' noise, placing a finger to his lips. Seventh nodded.
"I am sorry for what has happened to you. If it is any consolation, I do not think you will need to wait much longer."
They stared in disbelief.
"What makes you say that, my Lord?"
The man smirked his infuriating smirk.
"Call it a hunch. You think you can hang on a little longer?"
"Do I have a choice?"
The man shrugged.
"No, not really. You're taking my appearance remarkably well for someone with almost no contact for however long you've been in here."
The young Seer got halfway through a shrug before stopping abruptly, a quiet gasp escaping their lips as the action jostled their sore wings.
"Because it isn't really you. My God is sleeping far from this place."
The man chuckled.
"Maybe you're right. Perhaps you're wrong. What difference would it make if I was?"
Seventh slumped a bit, having no real answer. There were footsteps down the corridor, and a dull headache began to make itself known.
"I need to go now. I can help you with this, however."
They gently placed a cool hand to Seventh's forehead, and in a blink they were gone. Seconds later Turncoat rounded the corner just as a vision was forced from their mind, the flash of light somehow duller and longer-lasting than any that had erupted before.
As it ended Seventh barely registered that the torches had gone out down the length of the hallway, the remaining sparks from their vision all that illuminated the room. They looked up at Turnkey, who stood before them, and despite being barely conscious or coherent they muttered a repeat of the vision. Vision might have been the wrong term, actually. It was less like they had been shown an image in the mind and more like they had looked to the heavens and listened to one side of a conversation they should not have overheard. Their voice should have been full of panic or fear, but was instead little more than a resentful, questioning whisper. It was... there had been a brief second of great clarity and understanding, but as the waves pulled back from the shore it was smothered by the weight of newly unanswered questions.
Maybe it was just another thing seemingly designed to test their sanity in this godawful place.
"The stars are falling, do you not see them?
It hungers from its throne, this world is not yours.
Why can't you see what I can see, my Lord, my King, my God?
The stars are falling, like drops of rain they fall to the ground.
The stars are falling, my liege. Will you not act?
No. You cannot, can you? You designed this.
The avalanche has begun, the stones have no choice in the matter.
The stars are falling. They sing to me. Do you not hear it?
It is a song of pain and anguish, of vengeance against the already dead.
Did you believe this was truly righteous?
I suppose I cannot judge you, my God.
You are just as fallible as the rest of us.
It is a beautiful night to watch the stars."
Turnkey swallowed, and turned away.
Fuck, if I knew he would leave if I gave him bad premonitions I would have given out a lot more.
Wait, I gave nothing but bad premonitions.
What's so different about this one?
They sighed again, and closed their eyes. They were tired. Maybe their kinsman was right, and they would be free soon. Maybe not. Did it matter?
The smirk stuck in their mind. It seemed to repeat the question back at them over and over again, a cruel repetition of the man's question.
What difference would it make?
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It didn't take long, in the end. They didn't think so, anyway. It was so hard to tell. There was noise outside the cell, shouted commands and clattering noises. Who was winning? Who made up the two sides?
What difference would it make?
They bit back the urge to scream at themself as the question entered their mind uninvited for the umpteenth time. They focussed themselves on simply trying to stay awake as the noises grew nearer.
"FIND THEM! TAKE AS MANY OF THE BASTARDS ALIVE AS YOU CAN, WE NEED TO FIND THEM!"
"Nothing here, your Highness!"
"Neither!"
"FUCK!"
There was a clattering sound. They flinched, but did their best to inch their way to the bars. They knew that voice. That voice was warm, it had a wild heart, it was... it had to be...
"Rhema"
To call their voice a whisper was charitable. It was so quiet it would be a miracle if anyone heard.
"Rhema..."
Silence. For ten seconds there was a deafening, disheartening silence. Then,
"Seventh?"
Their prayer was answered.
A gruff voice called out to the prince as one of the soldiers found their cell.
"Down here, Ser!"
A bloodied prince, resplendent in leather armour with green trimmings, sprinted into view.
They smiled a tired, tired smile at him.
"Rhema."
With more force than Seventh had ever seen in a blow, Rhema brought his axe down upon the lock and slammed his body into the door of the cell. It gave way after three such impacts, smashing into the side wall as Rhema rushed over to them.
"I'm here. I'm here now, don't worry. You're safe now, I promise."
They stretched their arms out to him, and he picked them up, leaving an Armsman to pick up his discarded weapons as he cradled them gently in his arms.
"Let's get you out of here."
They smiled at him, eyes fluttering open and closed as they attempted to remain awake.
As they passed into the torchlight, for the first time since they had emerged Seventh was able to properly see their wings. They were small, as they had known from instinct rather than sight, but now they could see the colour, a grey so light it may have been mistaken for silver speckled with the occasional charcoal-black feather here and there.
Rhema did not comment on them, out of respect or worry or some other thing they did not know, but it didn't matter.
They supposed they should have been elated to finally have their wings.
But, Seventh thought, just like me, they are not yet ready to face the world.
They curled into Rhema even more, focusing on their friend and the warmth that came from him over anything else.
Rhema was here. It was over. That was the important thing. Their kind was always more resilient than humans. They would heal in time. They always did.
But what difference would it make?