Faith Ranch, Arkansas
3rd of April, 1966
A girl is born. Her father had desired a son, though that desire shames him now. He hoped for a strong child who could help him around the ranch, for he is growing weaker as the years pass and the aches pile on.
His daughter will never learn of that fact.
3rd of April, 1970
Christine is celebrating her fourth birthday today. This is the first time she celebrates it alone. It will not be the last. Her parents are out in the fields, having reckoned she's old enough to handle herself.
It is on this day that Christine asks God to never be alone again. In the decades to come, that will be the only prayer she will regret.
15th of September, 1973
Christine has only been going to school for a few days, and she is not sure she likes it. Everyone speaks so loudly, all the time. The teachers, the other kids, and they can't be shut out. At home, she is used to going to her room and stuffing her fingers in her ears when her parents start arguing. Elijah has never hit Helen, nor has her mother ever done anything more than nag him until he started yelling.
It is not difficult to anger Elijah Faith. He is not violent, not with his family, not physically, though his words often hurt more than his fists would, Christine thinks.
Elijah is not a drunkard. When he drinks, it does not dull his senses. That suits him, for, whenever he is not working, he is searching around the house. Looking for "trinkets", which he calls things that either take up space or just annoy him. Sometimes, it seems everything Christine and her mother own are trinkets.
Other times, he looks for money, taken from his wallet or pocket by his wife. She sometimes does that, when she thinks her or her daughter deserves something her husband is unwilling to pay for. Elijah does not hoard money-the family has never wanted for anything-but he balks at the thought of anyone in his house buying anything 'too expensive', even if it's out of their own money. The house gets very loud, on such occasions.
1977
"Now, I've nothin' against them queers. You must get that through your skull, Chris," Elijah says, continuing to milk the cow. Christine must stand nearby on such occasions, in case her father needs to give or be given something. He curses so vilely, if she's not...
"They could do whatever they wanted, if this was a safe world. But it ain't. Every story your mom tells you? Bet your hide she leaves the worst details out. We're at war, Chris. We must all have as many children as we can, or else they're gonna drown us in numbers."
Chris-he calls her that, as if she were a boy, she muses- isn't sure who 'they' are at the moment. The Reds, the aliens, the supernaturals? Whoever, they must be formidable, given her pa's insistence on the subject.
"Now I get that not every lad likes girls or that every chick likes men, but really, it ain't the time to for frills like that. I mean, I don't like fish, but I eat if it's served, y'know? We must do what we must do."
"Is that why you keep trying to give me a sibling?" Chris asks, in some burst of boldness. Elijah is on his feet in a flash, stool knocked over, cow startled. He begins cursing.
"Fucking dammit, girl," he finishes, after several minutes. "You got your moron of a mom's mouth, you know that? I should've never showed you that fuckin' room."
Chris knows her parents tried to have children before her. Her birth only encouraged them.
She is the first of them to live. The rest are in a room that can only be accessed from the attic, in jars. She's seen the things floating in clear liquid, of various shapes and sizes. Some of them are-would have been-boys. None of them really look human, in her opinion.
As her father gets back to milking, still cursing in his beard, Chris muses that, in a way, it's good that she was born a girl. If she were a boy, she'd have been named Christian Faith.
The thought makes her laugh.
1983
The hanged man seems so small, so withered, swinging in the wind. Almost doesn't look real, Chris thinks. More like those mannequins she's seen in shop windows in the big cities.
Hanging is not necessary anymore, not really. Other things-chemicals and injections and spells-could kill a man dead, just the same. But a man must be hanged, for the thing that follows.
The man in black looks bored and serious, like he cuts off the hands of dead men every day. And perhaps he does, for all Chris knows.
The hand will me reshaped and enchanted, until it will become able to open any door. Chris isn't sure if that is glorious, despite the name it will receive.
"Remember this, little me," Helen tells her as the gawkers start to leave the square. The portly woman is shorter than her gangly daughter now-muscles under fat, next to knobby knees and elbows. "Anyone who departs the world in such a way almost always deserves it, as well as what comes after. His soul will burn, forever."
Chris doesn't feel that is fair. How can an eternity of pain be the proper punishment for a life of crime, however heinous? Human lives are not infinite. There are only so many sins one can commit.
She resolves to do something about that.
1989
The Reds are running around like headless chickens, and the world at large is going through a time of confusion. In the years to come, she will laugh to herself about finding Xelkhe on such an occasion.
The demon-though it does not look like one, or she would not approach it- is lurching in the middle of the road, as if drunk. In Hell, it used to amuse its betters with its tricks and illusions, until it made the mistake to become boring.
Before it was thrown out, it was subjected to such things that fear will never leave it now. It wants to hide itself, as much as possible, but it is too broken for that.
It still disguises itself, so that when the mortal girl, so full of certainty and altruism, approaches it, she reaches out. It grasps her hand, and dives deep into her being, glad to be hidden in this small way, at least.
1995
The Twofold joined ARC six years ago, out of necessity. The local priest failed to exorcise the hellspawn inside her, only driving it deeper, so she turned to the world's shield against the unnatural.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
ARC was founded twelve years before her birth, funded and staffed by people from almost every country. The organization that would become the Global Gathering laid the foundation, though it never watched the growth.
Not carefully enough, at least. Such a powerful organization, unbound by ties to any country and with so many deeds to its name-both heroic and horrific-would not be allowed to exist otherwise.
The Twofold's current mission has her braving the plains and woods of southern Romania, looking for a demon that cannot be exorcised.
Ylvhem forced its way out of Hell like a bull through a rotten stable door, and cannot be harmed by esoteric means. Spells, prayers and exorcisms patter harmlessly against its knotted hide.
The demon, rhino-sized and with no skin over monstrous muscles, six-legged and eyeless-its head is all mouth, full of fist-sized fangs- can only be hurt by brute force. The Twofold doesn't not have enough of that, which is why her guide-and liaison to the Ronanian Orthodox Church-is along for the ride.
"Ready for another go?" she asks, breathless from the exertion.
Constantin Silva nods, blood dripping off his knuckles. "Of course."
2001
The Threefold has not thought about their-her-country in years. She knows it exists, and has been on many mission in many of its States, but her patriotism-if it has ever existed-is dead.
Still, the attempt to destroy the Three Towers is enough to dredge up a sliver of shock from her heart. She contemplates that, as she waits for her sometimes-partners, sometimes-watchdogs to arrive in the briefing room. None of them are from her division, though she is closer to them than to any of her colleagues. Like calls to like, and they were all broken things, in their own ways.
The Handyman-and she expects him to burst new appendages the moment she looks at him- does not enter the room. He is suddenly in a chair, as if someone has taken off a sheet to reveal him. His form shifts, though that is a lie-its form is as eternal as the things it shares a realm with, and it is only its extension into mundane reality that changes, fractions of the true entity coming and going. He looks at her, and raises three hands to wave.
She sighs. There it is.
Hex and Nacht come next, indistinct as a shadow at midnight-whose power is in effect is debatable. Hex's white longcoat and wide-brimmed slouch hat almost manage to hide his old Thule tattoos and the stitches at his joints and lips. He moves his face-eyeless, white as chalk-in her direction, and nods.
The mundane agencies-there are few of those, nowadays-were not alone in snapping up Nazi thinkers after the Shattering. A supernatural Operation Paperclip started in 1945, and never truly stopped.
Nacht is wound around Hex like a living shroud, a black shape showing hunting wolves and murders in the shadows and bodies dumped into ditches. Every horror of the night it's named after. People have good reason to fear the dark.
"Aaaahhhh," Nacht says, twisting in her direction, form briefly lit up by an inner lightning strike. A grin shaped out of a storm crosses its false face. "All three. Good, good. I was worried we wouldn't have enough...fodder."
The thing chuckles to itself, then turns its attention to the man (so to speak) it is bound to-or, perhaps, it is the other way around. It speaks, and he answers in ways that have nothing to do with language.
"We can begin the briefing now. We will be team leaders for the duration of-"
"We?" Typical of the Handyman to cut them off, and so soon after the start, too. "So, it's...joint command? Or what?"
The Threefold blinks, then frowns. "We...I mean, forgive me. I was talking about myself. I will command."
Nacht starts laughing.
2003
Zhannar has been with them for two years now, and it is finally starting to feel normal. The demon can see the weak points of anyone or anything, and it used that to great effect in its realm of origin. Until it angered something it shouldn't have, and barely escaped whole.
It came to America in a moment of weakness, for demons are enamored with such symbolism. Whenever it is not focusing its attention on a given task, it tries to escape the bindings that tie it to the other three, or mocks them. Xelkhe weeps at the cruelty. Ylvhem rages. Chris takes it in stride.
You still haven't told me your purpose, hellbound. Zhannar refuses to call her 'human'. It is fine by her. In a way, it's even correct.
The other two know, have known, for years. She supposes it is its turn.
She tells it of her opinion on Hell, explains how no sinner deserves endless torment, for no one can do enough to warrant that. She confesses that she hopes to gather more demons, bolster her strength and, one day, take the Pit by storm, and rip the Devil off his throne. Make it a fairer place.
Zhannar cannot hold back its laughter.
2022
Constantin lacking faith is not something they ever expected. And yet, the priest seems only halfway sure the bear's son will make it through.
They knew the moment he asked for help, his thoughts reaching them through an old bond. Luckily, they were free at the time.
The four stand still as the priest paces, detailing his plan to save the strigoi if the other attempts fail.
They know what they will have to do, if such a thing happens. Christine hopes it won't be necessary.
2027
The world is drowning in blood-hot and cold alike. Christine would have never expected something so random-why only beings similar to reptiles, or their kin?
Xelkhe is sure that this is a plot by the Serpent, to prove his endless cruelty. But most things are, according to the lie-weaver.
David contacts them, telling them about their pupil. Their human side confused him, much to her disappointment. Let him speak to them all, then.
He describes his plight, the mad pupil he has chosen to watch over, and asks for their help-and protection, by implication. But they are far away, prowling America and putting down old, cold monsters. They will send someone else.
It will have to be enough.