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Erebus
A Different Kind of Light

A Different Kind of Light

In the courtyard of Monast Favri, the sky was red by day and blue by night. The lamps that passed for sun and moon there were of an omnipresent kind gifted by the Painted Lady not long after the Fall, and, like the torch wall ringing the sanctum where I was housed as a child, they offered more than illumination. I could keep my vigil for days without rest, and when I slept, my sleep was impervious to distractions, and a scant few hours proved ample.

It was my third week when Eleazer first came to check on me. He came with a few other hunched over types, then have them a satchel of thin silver rods that took the place of coin there and sent them on their way. We walked along the cloister, not speaking until we were well out of earshot of any of the various frequentors or passersthrough.

"We can be heard anywhere we go," I said, after he had finally greeted me.

"To those who have a right to hear us, yes. So, how are you settling in?"

Were he any other man than the man he was, I would have liked him. He had far too much hair for a man so old, and was far too weak to cause anyone physical harm, yet his mind was sharper than the tip of any spear I knew, and his thoughts flew faster than any quarrel. He often folded his hands, or clasped them behind his back, and hunched forward just enough to evoke a shade of pity, all the while bearing his aches and pains with grace.

"I have no intention of settling anywhere in this city."

He smiled and shrugged, unthreatened, slightly amused, and honestly concerned. Damn that man! Why did he have to be such a likeable villain?

"But, while you're here, there might be some good you can accomplish, so you may as well accept some level of establishment for that end at least. Are you treated well?"

"I'm left alone, so yes."

He always nodded, or shrugged, smiling with slightly sad eyes, in the manner of a grandfather who has no desire to change his grandchildren in the ways the childrens' parents do, but hopes with all his heart that their idiosyncrasies don't hinder their efforts to find joy.

"Have you taken to eating? Or are you relying on your gift to sustain you?"

I asked him, rather bluntly, how much he knew of my gift.

With another, insufferably genial shrug, he spoke. "A few things. For one, I know that certain functions grow weaker with use, while others grow stronger. Walking between the walls of the different worlds, for example. Why the Lady's kindred granted such esoteric knowledge to the Dolomites is a mystery, but what V has helped us to learn is that its use is best to be spared. I hope you haven't trodden betwixt too often. There may come a time when it's needed, so best not to strain it."

I balked at that, likening his advice to telling a soldier not to train out of fear that doing so would leave him too tired to fight. He had some excuse, but in the end he waved my rebuttal aside and brought up a slew of frivolous and asinine topics. The day wore on, along with my patience, and eventually he left. My duty was cut short that evening, and I was summoned to my commanding officer. He claimed to be completely human, but I could smell the hint of phosphorous in his sweat that revealed his lucien heritage. Perhaps to the rest of the pondscum who'd never seen the surface, the scented powders he applied throughout the day were enough to hide it, but I remembered always my old friend Caduceus and his ugly children, and how their light struggled against the dirt and oil that coats our human skin. Our, human skin.

Onisefirot was leaning forward at his desk, a thin white torch granting him readable light. He often read in a way that looked official, when secretly he was pouring over, not missives from the hierarchs below, but satirical short stories distributed covertly in austere districts such as this. I'd confiscated more than a few before realizing my direct superior collected them. They were often excessively lewd, and very amusing. That he could read them with such a serious expression was impressive.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I waited patiently for Onisefirot, as we had something of a friendship. When he looked up, I could see that he hadn't been reading anything comical.

"Bad news?"

He shook his head, then nodded. "Not for me, but perhaps for you. We have some boys being sent to learn basic service and education. They're, well, you'll see."

"I'll see what?"

He shook his head again. "Our Lord has promised us salvation by any means. You fought the Devils, so you've seen that Tarthas can no longer sustain life as it manifests itself today. Our Lord is a brilliant man, and these boys are a step towards salvation. You're to coach a specific model on your duties."

"Model?". I didn't like the usage of the word. Onisefirot did not clarify, but he did say that if I found the task difficult in any way, he would make himself available for conversation.

It was almost another week before the boys arrived. One to three at a time, they would appear, with no ceremony or escort, and walk in a trance to the person tasked with educating them on their own facet of Dagon life. I wondered what I, whose role was ineffably monotonous, could hope to impart.

'I stand by the ram statue at dawn,' I pictured myself saying, 'then I slowly walk south and east, taking three hours and checking these three points along the way until I reach the Weary Knight, then I stand there for half a day, then I continue west, inspect the doors and alleys by the scarab, clean it, then finish my shift waiting four hours by the wolf.' And I pictured the poor boy going comatose from boredom.

They came and they went, hooded minions who seldom spoke, children of shadows. Mine arrived on Domhain, a holy day when the Dagons purged the city of secrets by exhibiting their torture craft in market squares, public houses and grand bazaars. It was duller than usual for me, as most of the order was away from the sanctum displaying their prowess. But the night promised to be alive, as many would sell their family, friends and neighbors as dissidents to prove their loyalty to V. Those offered on the altar of fear would be brought back for internment, and the cloister guards would emerge from behind the statues and hedges to reign them in when they fought to free themselves. It had been a while since I'd had a proper fight, and my fingers tightened around my spear. Then a small and hooded shadow approached me and told me I was chosen to anchor him to all His Lord held dear.

"I will most certainly prove to have been a poor choice for that," I told him. He stared unblinkingly in response. I struggled to his face beneath his hood, so I stooped to one knee and looked him in the eye. It was the same face as I saw on Tythus, but this was not him. The features were a match, but where in Tythus's eyes I saw pages of a long, sad novel, in this boy's eyes were blank sheets. "My name is Victor," I said.

That brought a response. His eyes opened ever so slightly, and he sort of jolted, and nodded. Then he asked me what his name should be, and while he waited for my response, he blinked.

"I..." it was a difficult question to answer, "I don't think I can make that decision for you."

He blinked again, then looked down, chewing his lip, then looked me directly in the eye. "Should we get to know me first?".

"Should we get to know you?". I felt a lump in my throat..

He looked down again, this time scrunching his mouth to one side of his face and kicking at the loose pebbles between the flagstones. Then he looked up. "Maybe you can help me choose a name for myself. But, do we get to choose our own names? I mean, should we? It seems like someone else should."

To that, I staggered, and tried to form a response. "I am not sure how to answer that question, for not only was I given my name by another, I share it with many others who are, or were, in many ways, the same person as I am." And when he ceased blinking I asked him if he'd heard of the Batch.

He nodded. "Yes. Father's father made it. You look like him. He said you're our uncle. But I'm not sure what that means."

And amid my disgust, I found a small cause for gloating. Try as he might to depart from nature, V was bound by the constraints of boundaries he could not surmount.

"I am what I shall prove to be to you, boy," I said, standing. And then: "Let's start searching for your name."