Elder Sion had been alive for a thousand years. He had seen empires rise and fall, mortals become as gods and then erased into the abyss to be forgotten for the rest of time. He had seen and known all manner of magic from all schools that had existed before the Great Scourge, and yet this time things were different. A sense of foreboding dread had hung in the air for an entire year now, as though the fabric of the world were itself quivering under the weight of something from beyond it. He could feel the pressure exuding through space from the crack that had appeared last winter. The energy had no qualities to it at all, as though it were merely the weight of something pressing down rather than any kind of active technique.
It scared him to the core of his being. This foreboding tension present in the air felt as though the fabric of space itself could tear at any moment and cast him into a black eternity unprepared to die. He could tell there would be a warning shot before the fall of this world, but Elder Sion hoped that he would not be there to see it.
All these hopes were dashed when a small and worm-like man was carried in by the shoulders by two of the Scourgeborne— those poor souls augmented by magic to reap devastation wherever and however ordered. He could tell exactly what this man’s nature was, and could feel the connection to the tear in space now known as the Great Scourge. Though the leader of this fortress, Xevis, Hand of the Scourge, now bore that title after the magic he wielded in its likeness, Sion could always tell it was nothing but a cheap facsimile of the real thing. It was entirely unrelated magic augmented by an entirely separate patron that just so happened to resemble that which would destroy this world simply by coming into being. It was night and day to compare that which had erased a village merely in approach and that which required scores of blood essence to summon even the most basic technique. To tear the fabric of the world was impressive, but to make it quiver as though scared was something else entirely.
“Yaldabaoth help us all,” he muttered as Henry was brought to stand beneath the foot of the altar at which Elder Sion stood in a small chapel of stone and painted-glass. Ordinarily he was tasked in aiding those who had gained power from gods beyond the world in growing to understand it, and ordinarily it took some quantity of skill and precision to contact the patron of these nascent godkin, but this time Elder Sion understood the danger in such a proposition. He knew all too well that some gods disliked being contacted by those unrelated to them which were often viewed as nothing but worms, but ordinarily his many centuries of life, skill, and experience were capable of supplanting even the most stubborn of gods’ will to be left alone. It was too much of a hassle to do what a worm or wasp viewed as mortal combat in complete acceptance of death when all it wanted was a second of time. All Elder Sion needed was a name and a power in order to awaken the abilities of those who came here. This Rite of Awakening was used to procure soldiers for the great cause of Master Xevis and his Triumvirate of the Willing. Those who came here would unlock untold power and in exchange they would serve.
No, putting it like that was too simple, he knew. This was a coercive act, but what choice was there? In this new world whose God had left and only squabbling gods remained, he understood the consequences of inaction. Only one God could rule this world, and Yaldaboath had left many eons ago. It had taken an agonizing number of centuries for new gods to populate this world, and yet now that the time of awakening was at hand it was understood by all that the quest to rule was nothing but a Great Scourge that would lay it all to waste.
And yet in this thought Elder Sion felt a faint glimmer of hope. It was the hope that the worm before him could control the will of its great master who had torn the fabric of the world asunder in this way to unleash such madness, at least to a small extent. He knew this hope was likely in vain— what could a worm do aside from the will of its betters?— and yet could not suppress it. There was little choice but to believe, for while one hungry enough for power to conquer all would never do so peacefully and without bloodshed, he hoped at least that in the end it would stop before everything was reduced to ash and dust— cosmic debris floating in the void between worlds.
But thought could only go so far towards understanding. He knew that action was required now, and that he would never escape alive if he tried to shirk from this duty. He could take his own life in inaction to avoid setting off the end of all things, or he could attempt to guide the hand of the destroyer of all toward something just a bit less violent. Elder Sion resolved himself to action with the understanding that if he could but slightly direct the force of a lethal blow it may strike something recoverable instead.
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With this he spoke,
“You must have a million questions, child.”
Henry looked around to his captors who did not move. The two guards stood to either side of Elder Sion, behind him by about five feet to the wall behind the altar at which the ancient and short man stood in his flowing purple robe accented with gold trim. It fit him and his long, salt-and-pepper beard rather nicely, and gave off a dignified impression quite unlike the beads of sweat that profusely dripped from his bald head toward the floor.
With the opening and raising of his arms Elder Sion spoke his name and assured Henry that it was ok for him to speak and that nothing would harm him here.
“You see, these guards are here for my protection, not to harm you. Many of those taken here react violently to me for… whatever reason.”
They both understood full well what the statement implied, but Henry likewise knew that so long as he did not attempt to assault this wizard he would likely be safe. He was, after all, seemingly here to be forced into an army of some kind. If they wanted him dead they would have… well, he supposed they would have to lock him in a dungeon somewhere and wait to see if age or hunger had any role to play in Henry’s immortality.
“Well, what am I here for?”, Henry said as his stomach rumbled. Elder Sion did not respond to his apparent discomfort, but gestured to one of the guards who stepped out through a door behind the altar.
“You see,” Sion began to explain, “as an archon— highly experienced mage, that is— I am expected to help awaken the power of those in whom gods have taken root.”
“I have god inside me?” Henry interjected, and the elder seemed to have expected this question, for he immediately continued as though never interrupted,
“Yes, and you’re here to awaken it, but first we must make contact and determine the nature of its powers.”
Henry supposed the effort would be harmless enough. This unknown god had transported him here and granted him immortality so it was unlikely to be malevolent, at least towards him as its avatar.
From below his altar, Elder Sion produced a small bowl and brought it to Henry. The bowl was filled with blood, at the sight of which Henry grimaced.
“This little test will help determine the nature of your power,” Sion began, gesturing to the bowl held in his left hand with the right.
“Place your hands inside,” he continued, but Henry already knew what this was and had already placed his hands into the bowl before Sion had a chance to finish speaking. The elder seemed somewhat surprised but said nothing, and then the blood began at first to ripple and then to boil. Within the span of a few seconds it had not so much as evaporated as been absorbed. Henry had felt nothing touch his hands, and when they emerged not a single drop of blood was upon them. It was as though the moment the liquid made contact it had been absorbed, air traveling up through the remaining blood to give it the appearance of evaporation, but since no mist had formed and no residue remained it was quite obvious what had occurred to both parties.
Sion did not speak, but turned around to place the bowl on the altar and to procure a small knife. He touched the tip of the blade to the tip of his thumb and gestured toward Henry’s mouth as thumb approached a now-visible tongue.
“With this we will overload and prepare you for the rite of contact that is to come next.”
The blood fell to touch Henry’s tongue and as it did the guard returned with a plate of food. By the time the food was placed upon the floor in front of him, Henry’s hunger was already satisfied and his stomach rumbled no more. He did eat, but more out of habit than any visceral hunger. He would miss this if he ever lost the desire to eat regular food. It had always brought him some solace in his past life, but as the guard placed a plate whose contents’ closest equivalent was a sweet fried and breaded chicken paired with some semi-gelatinous blob of what tasted like rice into Henry’s hands, he could feel nothing. The taste was mild and pleasant, of course, but it brought him no joy. While sometimes in the past his depression could cause food to lose all taste, this time it was different. This time it was as though the food was simply unnecessary and his body was rejecting the premise of needing or wanting it at all.
“Good,” Elder Sion spoke as Henry finished the last of his mechanically-eaten meal, “Now we shall see what the nature of this god of yours is.”
With an expression of pain intermixed with a sparkle of hope in the deepest reaches of the eyes, Elder Sion began to draw something in a circle around Henry using the blood of his thumb as ink.