I MIGHT HAVE SLEPT. If I did, I wouldn’t have known. Each thought was sluggish and changing the previous to the next took more effort than I could muster. Somewhere within the haze I was set down. The next time I was arguably lucid, I felt the uncomfortable numbness had mostly faded, leaving me free to move, or so I believed.
I had to know where I’d been taken. Being in low-light for so long didn’t help my eyes adjust to the cave-darkness of wherever I was. My back was against the corner of two chilly walls. I felt along the ground as well. It felt like poorly carved stone, butchered out of whatever block once contained it. My pulse quickened in remembered suffering at its touch. I wasn’t bound– that much I could discern. I listened for a minute for anything at all, and heard nothing of note. I had to see my surroundings, either to plan escape or know how I was to die.
I created what I thought would be just a spark for light. The burst of flame dissipated and the room was revealed to my eyes: a small stone room with a small slat of light at the base of what might be a door.
Resounding from the hard walls were footsteps approaching from outside, their echoes off the stone walls nearly deafening in contrast to the stark silence, accompanied by voices I could barely make out. A gruff voice sounded from above, “It came from this one? Can’t be, the boy’s alive. He just got here, I don’t think they’d burn him so fast.”
A different voice answered, similar but deeper: “Ah, right. Maybe it came from the other cell. The one we brought had that brand, just like they said he would. Weird they’d know that.”
Each movement on the stone floor rattled in the small dungeon. The flicker of torchlight shone waveringly under the door.
Fearful and confused, I gathered my strength and shouted to the men at the grate above, “Hey! What’s going on? What’s happened?”
Some startled noises from above gave the impression of being caught off guard, and after a short while a figure’s shadow blocked the light from the slat.
“So it’s true,” the first man said, voice muffled by whatever barrier lie between us.
“I didn’t think the fire thing was real. Guess they’ll be thrilled.”
“Iddy, it’s not our business. We’ve already been paid. Let’s leave before they take him. I don’t want to spend another second in this place.”
“Wait! Don’t go, please, answer me! Why am I here?”
“Maybe we should have asked for more gold just for dealing with these madmen.”
The guard chuckled to himself, or maybe to his partner.
I kept pleading, “What’s going on?”
“Dunno. Sorry kid, we’ve done our part. You’ve been delivered unharmed, and we made sure you’re still breathin’, so we’re done. Sorry it had to be this way. Best of luck!” With that, I heard metal-jangled footsteps diminishing, softer and softer, along with my pleas for help. To my dismay, I was alone.
Light shone softly from underneath the door and illuminated the cell just enough for me to see vague outlines. A few times I sparked my flame – much more carefully – to get a better view. I waited for a long time, and in my pensive boredom, further examined my cell. It was six paces across. Summoning my fire proved useless when I attempted burn through the stone walls, and I scolded myself for even trying. The texture of the floor entertained me and thankfully kept my dark imaginings at bay. I fingered around the cool, carved stone, doing anything to keep myself occupied. I still had a headache from last night, but not nearly as bad as the ambrosia hangover. With all foreseeable options exhausted, I curled up in the corner and tried to sleep.
A while later, the echoing clack of a lock snapped me to alertness, and I jumped to my feet, pressing my back to the wall for whatever defense I could muster.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, bracing myself. I prepared for combat. The door stayed closed. Instead of the big reveal I was expecting, a small flap was pulled open at its base and a neatly folded red garment shoved through. A voice, gruff with the hoarseness of a lifetime smoker, accompanied the offering: “You may wear these. We’ll give you a moment to change.”
Frankly, the cold hasn’t bothered me in weeks, but clothing was welcome, especially in a strange place. It was surprisingly dense material with the slickness of silk but weighed next to nothing. It was easy to slip on even with one arm, but it had two sleeves. The robe was not transparent as I expected such thin material to be, either; breathable, but opaque, and even with low light I could make out the color of deep rose. There was a cincture around the waist I tied to the best of my ability to keep myself covered, though I’m sure it wasn’t proper.
I announced to whoever was outside that I was changed, and following a different clack!, the door swung open outward. I shielded my eyes from the sudden brightness.
Three figures stood in a carved limestone hallway. They wore the same fashion of robes but cut from some lesser, stiffer fabric and blackened at the cuffs. They parted and bowed before gesturing for me to step out. I hesitated. If I was to escape, I needed to know the exit. I had no idea how many guards there were, if any more than my kidnappers. Well, nowhere to go but forward. I cautiously left the cell to be met by the trio.
While my eyes adjusted to the comparatively bright flickering wall sconces, I heard quiet gasps of what sounded like disbelief, or maybe awe. They rose and gazed unabashedly at my body, and I instinctively shrank. A few awkward moments passed before one spoke.
“You’re more perfect than I imagined. Forgive me, Keeper… My apotheotic foresight showed your grace, yet to see you within a mortal form… It truly is the greatest honor to resemble your planar vessel. I am Rhnull, prophet of the Ælder God.”
“Yes, the true beauty of the kiln is finally revealed.”
What in Field’s…?
The situation was absurd to me, but I retained my wariness, probing, “You’re… not going to kill me?”
The first man laughed, a dry cackle with a rough voice, “No, of course not! You are Agnistreya’s vessel! We are blessed by your presence. This is your shrine, the closest to the obsidian razor hills.” I was both astounded at their demeanors and afraid for my life.
“Then why drug and tie me? My wrist still aches” At the mention of my abuse, I swore he started growling. His temples moved in the light and I heard a squeak as he ground his teeth together. His eyes became fierce.
“They dared lay their hands on you? That’s not what we asked! I never should have trusted those damn mutts to follow orders,” he spat, overcome with repulsion.
"Why am I here?"
“You have been blessed by the Ælder Flame Agnistreya, Keeper.”
He raised his bloody hand to his face and smeared blood onto his forehead, gently lifting his hand, leaving a smudgy mark. “Do you see?” As he spoke he stared deep into my eyes, yet was still somehow focused far behind me. “He has chosen you for his vessel.”
His sleeve sank to his elbow with each shift while his hand was raised, revealing a gnarled and uneven mass of hundreds of white, pink, and red scars, all in various stages of healing.
“Let us accompany you to the offering hall.” Rhnull stepped back to make a space for me to move into and bowed, all the while motioning lethargically with his scarred forearms.
“How did you know…?” I recalled the hazy vision I saw immediately after burning the tree-creature. Is that what they meant? Did Agnistreya grant them visions as well?
“My name is Efrit, why did you call me Keeper? A woman called me that before.”
“A petite one, I assume.” His face showed simmering rage held behind uncanny composure. “She can do nothing to you now. Fear not, Keeper. The hour nears.”
“Is that a title?” I remembered Dean Corbal and wondered if Keeper Efrit was similar, but it seemed these cultists had no interest in my name.
The cultist nodded. The other began speaking from a half-trance memorized from hours of repetition, “For it is into the Vessel that Agnistreya does imbue the Ælder Flame, and then becomes the Keeper who does the same; with Agnistreya’s reign His Champion and Vessel reclaims the title of The Herald of Flame.” It appeared to me these cultists were raving mad, possibly afflicted by some illness of the mind. Additionally, they were dangerous. They’d already ordered my kidnapping and the attack…
Nebrei and Corbal! Fields, I hope they’re okay. Breathe. Nebrei is strong, Corbal is a genius. They’ve got to be okay, they’re safe… but am I?
“We have prepared something for your arrival. Please follow us.”
The first man almost took my hand before correcting himself, quivering with ecstasy as his skin grazed mine. I couldn’t keep myself from cringing away. A quiet chastise from who I assumed was the leader silenced him. They led me through a hallway with wooden ceiling supports, and at the end, paused to open a massive solid portcullis lifted by chains which squealed and complained with each pull. With one man on either chain, it took great effort. Each heave of the chain welcomed smoke from beneath the door. I noticed each person here wore red robes with inky black marks on their sleeves and trim. Later I realized they were blackened by fire.
The large, stone walled chamber looked more like a cave than a palace room, lit by braziers and hundreds of candles that showed the uneven and rocky texture of the walls. The rock was scored into blocky segments by what I assumed were manmade tools, and the wall housed a giant engraved symbol matching the one on my forehead. In the center of the room was a stone table inscribed with markings I couldn’t make out; immediately I thought of the Headmaster’s ritual and fear gripped my spine. I stared at the black-crusted lines and wondered if my burning blood would also be dried there. Fortunately I was led past the stone table to a large stone chair on a raised platform to oversee the chamber. As I got closer I saw the same symbols from the table carved deeply into the stone. Was this some kind of throne? I felt exalted in a sick way.
The main cultist motioned for me to be seated, and I was thankful this throne showed no signs of blood. Some kind of padding was inlaid on the seat but it was still cold against my skin where the robe didn’t cover.
I wondered how deep I was underground. The walls were unlike those at the cursed hill shrine. These had sparkling veins of shiny silver trails, and the compressed dirt appeared as stone, or maybe soil of an unfamiliar shade.
A new person appeared before me and bowed. Their skin was horribly burned- I couldn’t tell anything about them save the silver goblet they were offering, which I accepted, prompting them to scuttle away.
Rhnull looked at me expectantly with a smile that sent shivers up my spine. I held the goblet to my lips and its contents became apparent, and all-too familiar: the metallic thickness of blood. They said they wouldn’t kill me, but I had my doubts. Worried what they would do if I didn’t hold true to their expectations, staring intently at the ceiling and thinking of literally anything and everything else, I swallowed it, and also the large squishy clot resting at the bottom. It was a trial to stifle the urge to vomit. My neck ached and felt like stone— it seemed my entire body wanted to reject the sticky mess— but somehow I succeeded. I stifled a cough and tried my hardest to not taste it. I didn’t think I’d be right drinking anything again after that.
From a small doorway they brought out a young woman, shackled and unclothed, and probably no older than me; cave-pale skin roughened by horrible burns. I tried not to look to preserve any decency they’d left for her but her horrific condition drew my attention. Her patchy hair—or what remained after their mutilations—was scarce and thin. She herself was thin, and I wondered if they’d fed her at all. Dark blue-green splotches appeared to grow and shrink with light from the nearest fire- fresh bruises upon older ones. The burns looked recent, most likely caused within the last month- red blotches on moisture-starved skin covering visibly bony outlines. She made no effort to look around. She was guided by the chain connected to her ankles by another robed figure toward the low stone table. He was surprisingly gentle with her lead; her hands were never once pulled too sharply, and she didn’t stumble. She looked as though she’d been defeated in every sense of the word; she’d long ago resigned herself to whatever fate was expected of her.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Her suffering was obvious, but what did they mean for me to do? To watch some sick ritual, some violation? I wouldn’t stand for this. I could kill every last cultist in here with my fire.
And burn every ounce of breathable air?
It took three men to heave the door open. I’m not sure I could do it alone. I wanted to speak up but I was outnumbered and had no idea how to escape. One square panel marked some kind of doorway. If only it was closer.
To my horror, they brought out another person on the same chain: this time, a man, just as starved and broken as the first woman, and another one in line behind. Oh, Fields!- how many more? As the man waited in line, unmoving and blind, five cultists the arranged themselves around woman upon the table. Another stood ready at a smaller carved stone table nearby. Earlier she had seemed resigned to her fate, but the stone slab must have returned her fear. She screamed and thrashed, piercing in both volume and vision, but the cultists were already holding her steady. The more uniquely robed cultist produced a large, serrated blade, and it became clear what they intended to do: I’d seen it before, felt it myself…
They prepared this chamber for nothing other than forbidden blood-animatic transfer… paranimancy.
Murder.
An autonomous response, I watched the knife as he steadied it against her pallid skin; through all-consuming fear the inescapable sight burned itself into my eyes and lasted an eternity as the tightness in my chest squeezed out any breath I dared hold. Fields above me, this can’t be happening. Not again.
Not to me.
Not me, right?
They removed her arm at the shoulder and transferred it to the smaller table, and the other cultist began expertly peeling the flesh away, inscribing runes and symbols into it. As they did so, my chest felt warm— not unlike summoning my flame— despite the waking memory.
The cultist almost tenderly drew the blade over her body, sculpting her gnarled skin into the runes I knew would steal her from herself.
I felt a gnawing, unpleasant sensation where my arm used to be, like it was momentarily reattached and suffering once more. Each tug on each ligament as vivid as its first separation. Phantom pain, Corbal called it. Now, the suffering of her ghost fused with my own, two phantoms intertwined with ribbons of flesh.
My surroundings blended into a stone chamber, and as I saw the woman on the table, I myself felt equally held down on a slab and mutilated, until I could no longer determine which life I was living. Vicarious, vivid, and visceral, I was both her and me, in wildly separated instances, suffering the same fate. Her screams became my own, as did her pain, and each slice of the blade resonated within my own body as it did hers; phantom pain from someone else.
They removed her other leg, then her arms, repeating the same marking ritual. The sensation of parallel blurred my thoughts. I felt my own legs with my hand just to be sure they were still there. Pain fading with each avulsion, it was no longer blinding. As I watched them remove her head, it was clear from the angle of the flickering light that they had taken out her eyes at some point prior.
The chanting of the inscribers was soft but relentlessly dizzying, and whatever foul words they spoke were lost in the whispering ambiance. Yet as they did so the warmth in my chest rose, bringing with it greater lucidity and confidence.
The man, also gently led, was lifted and laid onto the table and held down, and they repeated the dismemberment, its shock now diminutive compared to the horror of the first. I was either becoming desensitized, or- it made me sick to admit it- eager to feel it continue, with some hidden central part of me longing for further violence. In the back of my thoughts I felt a nagging fear I might be losing my mind. Again, I felt myself upon the table, but this time markedly different- there was a clear distinction between him and me. I knew where I was. I was me.
They brought out the third, another man, and I watched with a quiet mind, absent of the unpleasant thoughts evoked before. My mind was removed from whatever disgust I felt earlier. This shouldn’t feel natural. My arm grew heated, growing warmer with each dismemberment and I felt a fueling drive under my skin that disturbed whatever dregs of morality I still reserved: more.
I agreed, much to my own withering dismay, like a starving person driven to cannibalism. After all, why would they think me mad? I am the Keeper of the Ælder Flame. I am their promised saint from Agnistreya, the Fire God.
My body buzzed; within it, my heart fluttered. They were just beginning the sixth or seventh captive when it struck me what they were: offerings.
Unwilling offerings to me, but gifts nonetheless. And I began to accept them as such. My change in demeanor must have been visible- seeing the fruits of their plan grow, and they continued with new vigor, eager to please and satiate their god’s champion. “Please accept these, in Agnistreya’s name, to appease the Keeper!” The rest cried out in response: “For the Ælder Flame’s Vessel!”
“Take my body, so it can feed your hunger!
For the Ælder Flame!
Take my mind, in reverence to you!
For his vessel!
Accept this anima, a total offering of all that I am, so that Your Champion may wrought the land with His fury, to tear asunder the land and raze the filth to begin anew!
For Agnistreya!”
Their prayers billowed into howling cries, and they were overtaken with ecstasy.
I felt larger than myself, more capable, more wizened- their gift to me. My purpose became clear at last. I really was destined to renew the world, though not with my life, but through a culmination of the borrowed strength of others. Lost contemplating my own magnificence, I failed to see the newer offerings they now brought were smaller…
The cultists– my cultists– themselves grew ravenous and blissful, and they began writhing on the spent limbs, peeling flesh and decorating themselves in a frenzy.
I stood on my platform and watched my servants tear themselves into pieces to be spread and shared, and their anima was recycled into my flame.
After some time, the dragging jingle of chains quieted, now empty, and the pile of body parts stopped amassing bulk. There were two cultists remaining: the person who had been dismembering, and the assumed leader, Rhnull. The rest had been slaughtered. The one doing the slicing half-danced and half-marched to the leader, begging him to part him from his anima. “Please, Rhnull, I must join him!” he cried, offering the dulled sacrificial blade to him, which he accepted. “I cannot do it myself. I will not last.”
The leader turned to face me and offered me the blade. “Keeper, it may seem barbaric to use such crude tools, but please accept his spirit.” The offered man’s knees shook, more ecstasy than fear, I assumed, and he held out his arms. They were burned and scarred like everyone else’s. The blade was heavy, and very dull after this much use.
“Is this even sharp enough?” The offered man, upon hearing my words, began weeping.
“Please, Keeper,” he gasped between sobs, “Please take me, I have no wishes but to serve you! My life is yours!” I proposed a better option. Feeling empowered gave me an excuse to do it, anyway.
“Then stay still and let me reunite you with flame.”
His face contorted to blissful agony as his body burned from the inside, and when he screamed, flames emerged from his mouth. He was dead before his body met the stone floor.
The leader met my eye. He was stalwart. “Let me step into your flame, Keeper. Take my soul to ensure Aeyturno- rot in the smoking skies- will not be revived.” It wasn’t uncommon for cultists to speak gibberish from what madness I’d heard already. I held my palm on his forehead and focused my flame; after a sound like a stone dropped into water, the leader was dead.
In my left hand I held the dulled blade. A wipe from my thumb loosed flakes of dried blood, I saw a carved bone handle. The blade itself was a black and glassy material, its weight evenly distributed, with chipped edges and a red tint. The firelight’s dance illuminated the carved nature of the blade- an uneven and somehow both jagged and smooth surface. I decided to keep it. After tying its hilt to my cloth belt, I felt more complete.
Alone, I was free to explore the chamber, and I did so imprecisely, wandering between points of interest: the pile of disassembled bodies, the altars, the lengthy chain of shackles… I could spent a great deal of time exploring in here. I still had no idea where I was. The cultists had given me very little information about this place despite their self-proclaimed love for me.
I walked over to the pile of chains, each step causing a splash of thickening blood, its scent lost to me from exposure. How long was I here? I wasn’t tired at all, more the opposite. The altar’s foundation was elevated from the surrounding floor. I was thankful I wouldn’t have to feel around for the chain in the crimson pool. Locating the newest opened shackle, I examined its craftsmanship. This was professionally made, very smooth and hardy.
Ice permeated my body, and my chest took great effort just to breathe as anxiety gripped my heart. I stole people’s anima to use for my own. I felt incredibly sick, and vomited what looked like sludgy black sawdust. I didn’t steal it; it was given to me. I didn’t want this. Fields above, what do I do now?
I righted myself and stood facing the pile. I would honor them and say the rites my village reserved for death ceremonies. But I couldn’t remember how they started. This was strange, I had said them maybe fifteen times in my life. They were memorized by everyone, and I was no different. I recited them when I buried my father. I knew what the words were, but every attempt to recall them ended in an empty space.
Why couldn’t I remember them? It felt like something was actively blocking my memory. Frustrated, I settled on an apology to them for their sacrifice.
Their sacrifice. As though they wanted to die for me. Though thankful, some part of me was sickened from this atrocity. I cast the feeling aside more easily than I expected.
I inspected the altar next. The congealed blood-filled carved lines, marking symbols I never thought I’d recognize, at least consciously. These were the same as the ones the Headmaster used when she tried to steal my own anima.
I continued my search for anything of use to escape this compound. The main hall where they gave me offerings had a single exit- a massive iron door. I pushed on the side without hinges, but whatever motivation it retained for entry had been used up. It didn’t move. Fields… I pounded on the door and shouted for anyone to help, but judging by the heaviness of the door, no sound was getting through. I surveyed the room again. No windows had magically appeared, no exits made apparent. I wondered how these cultists expected me to get out once they were done, or if they planned for me to die with them.
No, they never planned for me to die at all. Themselves, yes, but not their god.
I dragged my hand along the rough stone walls to see if I could find any hidden latch or key, and after what felt like ages, I gave up. My tools and body exhausted, I slumped down at the bottom of the door. With it being a closed room, I worried there might not be enough air in here to sustain me long.
The fear of suffocation often terrified me as a child. I had never seen anyone perish from it, but roughhousing between chores made me breathless more than I can count, or want to remember. While I was in no way the weakest of my age, the older, stronger Helini always found a way to knock the breath from me. The feeling of air leaving my lungs, and the struggle to regain it, the powerlessness of thieved air…
Breaths came faster, using more precious air. I need to get out. The stench of blood felt thicker and thicker like the congealed mass was blocking my throat. I need to get out. With my one hand I started clawing at the door like a rat in a sack. I’m going to suffocate. Sweat beaded across my back, my forehead, my palm- I’m dying!
In my panic my fire burst from me, engulfing the hinge in white fire. I took a step back, focusing as much of my fire as I could - even more than I thought possible - onto the hinge. Though it was my own familiar flame, through panicked eyes everything is a danger. I closed my eyes and accepted my death.
I felt the floor shake with the shockwave of something massive falling and just knew I had died. For a moment I felt nothing at all. I drew a long breath of the sweet air- that didn’t reek of blood and death.
Wait.
I uncovered my eyes to see the iron door had fallen forward, and the hinge was dripping into orange goop. All I could do was stare at my work in relieved disbelief. Fields above, how have I survived this long with a brick for a brain? Thankful to be free, I got to my feet and stepped over the door, foolishness smothering me.
It opened to a dark hallway lit by only a few candles attached to the stretches of bare wall between each locked door. Was it right to call them walls? That made them seem polished, civilized. No, these were sheared rock faces, empty cradles of earth broken and stolen from their millennial home.
I called out again, expecting my own voice echoed by the depth of the corridor; a small reply sounded, which possessed the telltale muffling of thick cloth, or something similar. I ran, stopping at each wooden side door and examining the dark chambers behind them as efficiently as speed would allow, searching for the trace of whispered company. I found nothing nearby, and nothing in any of the four rooms before the corridor abruptly ended into a tooled rock wall. “Hello?” I shouted, hoping the voice was still there, hoping that it was real. Isolation had once before drawn me to dark imaginings, and I wasn’t confident in my ability to know the difference between actual and perceived voice.
I was so lost in thought and disheartened by the blankness of the rock walls and the leftover anxiety from the door, I hadn’t noticed the tiny pebbles falling from the ceiling. I began pacing and contemplating my demise when, after a few clicks of what sounded like a hammer, a landslide of rock dropped from the ceiling at the end of the corridor. I fell to the ground and covered my head the best I could as dirt flew in and filled the air with its mustiness. It was like before this all started, falling through the earth into–
I screamed. It all became too much so quickly. I felt dirty air invade my lungs and my screams were cut off by a fit of coughing. I heaved, trying to get as much dust out of me as I could, but each inhalation only invited more. This dirt tasted stale, likely exposed to open air, and its dryness also revealed itself by the billowing clouds of dusty air. I felt a heaviness on my back and I knew I would be crushed by some boulder. I dared not open my eyes- not for the threat of dust, but if I was to die, I’d hide myself from it as long as I was able. With burning lungs and a dust-coated face, I felt myself become weightless. I must be dying. The blackness from closed eyes became the blackness of unconsciousness as I slipped into an uncertain depth of sleep.