He is a child following a strange man.

His body moved when it no longer should, his mind demanding that he beg for food and water from the man. For his body was malnourished and dying. Yet he did not, no he couldn’t. For he never learned how to speak. Instead he looked to the man as a source of hope, a possibility of not dying. Though he couldn’t walk anymore, and fell with a silent thud.

The man stopped, looking to him with a face of cracked silver like a god, and with a whisper he asked.

‘Do you have faith?’

He is a child being branded by gods.

He sits in silence, his lips sealed shut as his bruised and battered form is marked by his gods. ‘Endure’ the silvered one says, as arcs of pain coursed through his very body, with their source being sharp heated needles that scarred his form. The pain is bearable, for it is a gift from his gods who had saved him, and he smiles at them.

But they do not.

He is a teenage boy, hands clutching chains over a sobbing man.

‘Spare me Ser, please spare me…’ The sobbing man said, hands clutching chains that slowly wrapped around his neck. ‘My family, they be without food a-and warmth… F-Forgive me Ser, please spare me!’ He kept speaking, but the boy did not heed them. His gods taught him of faith, dogma and most of all, law. Yet none taught him of true pity, most of all for heretics such as this man. Without a word he pulled the chains taught with great force, resulting in a wet snap reaching his ears, and the sobbing to have abruptly ended.

‘You’ve done well aspirant.’ A voice soon rang behind him, he made to promptly let go and to attempt to kneel. But he was stopped by silver and golden hands, forcing him to stand. No words escaped his lips, only that of silent obeisance to them, to his gods. Then they gave him a mask, a new face.

He is a teenage boy, wearing the face of his gods.

He stands besides the silver gods, his own face covered by a dull mask showing a god’s face. His face. But he was not his gods, he could never be, that he knew. Yet he stands among their company now, assembled before kneeling prisoners of a heretical faith. They speak and yell, claiming that they were in the right, and that their magics were not dark.

But they were wrong, as his gods soon said. ‘Nary a hint of repentance nor that of acceptance,’ one said, a god of bronze and bloodstained steel. ‘Truly thou kin are naught of men, but of daemons and sinner. Yer kith and yer kin, be that of same quality, then only in death mayhaps you be quelled.’ In that instance he acted in accordance to their teachings, and he moved with the gods. Ten blades raised aloft, sanctified by hallowed oil, then wetted by heretical blood in mere seconds.

He is a young man, once more kneeling and being branded by his gods.

He is branded once more, but this time he kneels as his arms are marked by the honor and kill markings of his gods. The pain is not there, his mind long since having forgotten that the act now was of torturous pain, instead associating it with the norm of his gods. He does not smile, he merely waits. With every second bearing the sound of hissing flames, searing flesh, or the mere laboured breathings of others being branded with him in this chamber.

Women are at the side of others, healers and mages, at the ready to tend to the wounds or failings of the other younger worshippers. One falls in exhaustion, another passes out in sheer pain, yet all he feels is disgust towards them. Without meaning to, his face breaks into that of a frown. One of the women approaches in response, raising her hand to bring soothing relief to his form, halting the searing lances of markings from his gods.

He stops her with a look, and spoke for the first time without permission from his gods. ‘No.’

He is a young man, staring at the silver mask of his god.

He is crying, tears falling from his eyes without restraint, yet he stands firm and resolute. But tremors of sorrow course through his body, making his hands tremble with his chest. The other gods stand behind him, not speaking, as his god look to him with gentle and unfamiliar eyes. With the silver mask being removed from his face.

‘My son.’ The silver god says, his face old and worn, wracked by creases and scars from a thousand hallowed crusades of their sacrosanct order. Yet it did not detract from the kindness expressed in this moment, even when the silver god was dying. In response, all he did was kneel, taking off his own mask as he still cried.

‘Cry not for this one, for I hath served our order with grand distinction. It is folly to cry for I, for I am but one of our many warriors.’ The silver god spoke, his smile never leaving his face, even when he cried, even when the other gods watched on in damning silence. It was here that he would speak for the second time without the permission of his gods.

‘You are the greatest of us all…’ He began, tears pouring out unrelenting and renewed with his words. ‘If I hadn’t failed upon stopping that blow… Then mayhaps there is aught we can do with your condition…’ But his god just laughed, without the veneer of his silver mask, his god looked just like a father. His father. It only compounded more to his sadness than ever before.

‘Nay, to consider I to be great, is to be blind to yourself my son. It has been decades since I first walked with the mask of our kith, and nearly a two decades since I have come across you.’ The sadness he felt, the kindness shown to him by the silver god, all of it was truly alien to him. An anathema that for some reason, felt both just as right as it was wrong. Lending him a humanity he once had forgotten.

‘You are Grigori, the Harrow, take pride in it my son, as I have ever since you were given your mask. Your faith and will eclipses that of mine… And I pray to our Maker, that he be kind to your path.’

He could not understand it, nor did he ever wish to. But he had to, and his god laughed and spoke for the last time in that very day. All giving praise unto him and his achievements, yet most significant of all, giving him a name.

But it was all so hollow to him.

He is a young man, undying, immortal yet most of all gilded in his god’s armor and steel.

He stands atop fallen rubble, all around him his gods stand at the ready. But it is different now, they aren’t his gods, nor is he their squire or youngling. They are his brothers and sisters now, as with the passing of his silver god, he had replaced him. Yet it still felt hollow, with anger bellowing where the emptiness took root. For the concept of being equal to his gods, was a thing he did not wish to comprehend.

Around him the other gods stand with their squires and chosen, but he stands alone. He above all bore the grey mask of the Harrow, his station, his purpose and most of all, the title bestowed upon his god. It compelled him to raise his weapon, a mace topped by a strange a caged crown-like brazier, lit up to cast light upon the lazy afternoon environment they were in. With a mere thought, before them, a several miles away, a score of men died from an eruption of flames that came from beneath them.

‘Glory to the Order.’ He simply said, before moving downward from his perch, only to be met by the sound of charging and warcries from his comrades, with their very cohort rushing forward to meet their heretical foes. Just like how he was trained, they slaughtered every single one that stood before them with fire, magic and steel. Yet now was different, his mask was that of a frowning god, one of judgement and utter contempt for all that stood against him.

Though he was doing this out of loneliness, out of sadness and emptiness, for they were part of the order that took his god away from him. So he killed with ferocity, with such hate and madness that it awed the other gods, yet most of all it struck a deep fear upon their foes. For none but him tore, burned and slaughtered without a care if his opponent was surrendering.

Only death could quell his rage, and only their damnation would he ever find peace.

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He is a young man covered in the blood of humans.

They beg him to stop, they begged with all their breath but he paid not heed to them. His mace moving in frenzied swings that crushed or burned all that it hit, be they man, woman or even child. For they were foes, they were heretics and they deserved death, for they took his god away from him so long ago. Not even their screams and sobbing stopped him, as his once silvered and grey form was colored a sanguine red for this act.

Soon a blade stopped his mace, halting his strike as it was mere inches away from crushing the head of a sobbing woman shielding a younger child. He looked up to see the face of another god, one that was of polished marble depicting a smiling goddess. It was one of his sisters, younger than him by mere decades.

‘Have you gone mad Ser Harrow?!’ She asked him in anger and confusion, but he moved to regain his mace and swing it once more to the heretics she protected. But the goddess stopped him, again and again, forcing him then to answer her as each time he tried to kill, she stopped him. Halting his very rampage against their rightful foes.

‘Not mad, merely doing my duty against these heretics.’ Was what he told her, but it did not let him continue, instead the goddess raised her bastard sword towards him, levelling her shield too against him. This brought confusion upon him, for the gods never fought against one another, never. This gave him pause, only for a snarl to soon leave his lips.

‘I shan't let you slaughter the innocent Ser! Mayhaps they are of the heretical faith, yet they have done no wrong and have surrendered!’ Her words were ashes to him, their taste indigestible and furthermore heresy. They were enemies, they needed to be killed and put to the flame in every waking moment. His will demanded that, his sorrow and emptiness.

Yet the gods could not fight with one another, not here, not now. There was time for that later and he bit back his pride and fury, lowering his face but levelling his gaze to her. ‘Madness.’ Was what he soon said, but turning around and leaving the goddess to the people she had saved, to one of the few that were spared upon that day.

He is a young man, surrounded by his brethren, yet judged by their eyes.

‘Your rage is unreasonable brother,’ One said to him, eyes of deep blue with his mask off, a younger god, far younger than he was. It galled him for the younger ones to think they were capable of dispensing judgement or suggestion to him, they were misguided, for they did not know how the order truly worked. He did not speak, instead he looked upon them with his defiant eyes, blood red eyes that spoke of a deep madness they were well aware of.

‘It needn’t be this bloody Grigori, heretics they are, but they can be converted to our faith. Salvation lies before them, and they can be absolved from their heretical ways.’ Another spoke, a goddess, the same goddess that stopped his rampage. This drew a clenching of hands from Grigori, as he soon tensed up, anger boiling within him. That was not the way the gods had raised him nor taught him, and these younger ones were far more lenient in their belief.

‘Only in death may they be absolved of their sin.’ He says finally, eliciting a look of utter shock and disgust from the younger gods. From that he clearly deduced they were different, oh so different that it made him angry. Were their mentors so lenient upon their teachings, that they would give mercy to heir hated foes? Indeed, they were, that was what he thought.

‘You are mad Grigori, truly so.’ The goddess spoke, reaching a hand out to hold his, but he slapped it away with a snarl. ‘Touch me not you curr, I am not mad, merely true and honest to our hallowed creed.’ This shocked her, having not thought that this would be his reaction, which furthermore reinforced his belief of their disgusting lack of faith.

‘Why are you like this Grigori? Our order is not merely that of blood and death, but of healing and peace, why do you dedicate yourself to this very path?’ She asked, but no answer came as he stood up. Slamming his armored hands upon the table of stone, cracking its surface with his strength, a show of his displeasure and most of all refusal to give them his own thoughts. For there was no need to. If the heretics did not exist, he wouldn’t have been upon this path.

If his silver god never died, he wouldn’t be this empty.

If his father was still alive, then mayhaps he would have found a means to turn his anger to something else.

He is a young man, watching his order change.

He is a young man, mourning the gods he once knew that fell.

He is a young man, turned god, summoned to another world, another time, to be a savior.

He is a god, a god that hates.

-

He woke from his dream, a dream that recounted every single significant thing that occurred within his century of living. They were muddy and barely whole, but he knew the gist of many of them by heart, for he had pondered upon them so many times in the past. His dream was one unnatural, that he remembered, for he needed not sleep, for he was a god of his order. This sleep was one brought about by foul magic, by those claiming to be Gods, true Gods akin to the maker of his religion.

“Your past is one of great delusion and sorrow, I pray to thee that you save us o Warrior-Lord, save us from the coming evil of the abyss that seeks to damn a million souls!” A voice like silk spoke to him, breaking him out of his pondering. Its source was a woman, a lovely woman of a goddess-like quality, flanked by six wings and a dress that left nothing to the imagination. But sexuality was something he forgot, or rather paid no heed to. He did not need it.

This only reminded him of how he was whisked away from his world, when he kneeled, when he prayed to the Maker, the Void Father, the God of All. Where fell powers ripped him from the sacred soil of his temple, and into this strange, yet wondrous land of ancient stone and hallowed air. A false land.

“No.” He simply replied, for this woman, and all the other so called Gods that watched him, were false Gods. They were not the Maker, for the Maker could only be one. This however would not have made him refuse such a thing, but rather it was because of them asking for him to accept them, to let them boost his strength to aid him in his journey.

His creed, his very dogma demanded that he only accept the Void Father. Most of all, his long dead silvered god taught him of faith, a deep and true faith which allowed his silver god to have faced death with his smile. The very act of accepting their proposition was one that spat upon all that he had believed in, one that he had lived by for nearly one hundred and eighty five centuries in holy Urth. Such a thought sent his hearts beating in fury, hands gripping his mace’s length tightly as his face broke into that of wrathful fury.

All of it however was hidden by his grey mask, with the Goddess having continued speaking, even with his reply.

“Please Warrior-Lord, do this not for us, not for the Gods of this world, but for those innocents threatened by monsters and the grand evil of the abyss! Find it within yourself to have mercy, and do this for the righteous cause of good!” She said so with great conviction and pleading, her beautiful and angelic face breaking to that of great sorrow and desperation as tears fell from her eyes.

A lesser man would have accepted, a tactful man would have at least agreed partially. But a god of his Order did not only refuse, but acted. In a mere handful of heartbeats, he unclasped his mace from his waist and swung it towards the Goddess, with only the sound of its brazier catching on fire being a warning to his attack.

It was in that moment that he, Grigori found his faith upon his order and religion, solidified greatly. For he was faced by false gods, gods that bore upon him thoughts that his own faith was false. Which was enough for him to act.

For he was a god that hated.