Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
A World Bereft of Song
First, the death of Ippizicus. Then – the rippling.
***
The once-man cocked his head to one side. Was the planar tempest abating? He listened, his heart beginning to beat more rapidly with each passing moment, as the sound of the storm’s fury lessened. He returns! The once-man sprinted down the corridors, his hooves leaving bloody gashes in the backs and faces of those bodies that comprised the floor of the demi-plane.
The once-man had forgotten what it was like to run. For hundreds of years he had simply willed himself from one place to another – whether that be from plane to plane, or from corridor to antechamber. Sweat – sweat! – sprung from his alabaster skin.
The once-man slowed his pace, flexed his hands, and watched as the sinews contracted beneath the skin of his wrists. Tapered, ebony talons pierced the soft flesh of his palms – oh glorious pain! His face twisted into an orgasmic grimace. He had forgotten what it was like to feel. The wound instantly healed, but it was no matter – he bled, as the world would soon bleed.
The storm was not abating! Never did the planar maelstroms lessen in their rage. If the sound died – as it did now – such could only be a harbinger of Him. For He would not suffer any distractions – even that of nature itself.
***
A tickle upon the edge of his consciousness. Over thirteen hundred years of waiting were forgotten in an instant.
It begins. Again. He opened his eyes.
The sand pressed down upon him, the very firmament of the world upon his massive shoulders. The blackness was absolute, the heat blistering. Mere annoyances.
He brought his fist toward his face in the darkness, pushing aside tons of rock in the process. He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, smiled as the sound of groaning joints and cracking bones reverberated throughout the stone.
A day passed. Two. A tenday. He waited. He had waited a millennium. A few more weeks or months, even years – this was nothing. He possessed two traits rare for his kind – patience and loyalty. He had displayed them both; he displayed them now.
And his reward came fifty-three days after his eyes had opened.
Above him, faint but growing stronger, the sounds of pick and shovel could be heard.
***
The man stopped his advance.
His enemies – hundreds of misshapen demons – did not pause to question their good fortune. In the respite they clawed and gored one another to escape from his wrath.
Carceri flamed around him. The umber sky shot through with flames of crimson. The ground bubbled and popped like lava. Geysers of steam and ash exploded at random, throwing the bodies of less-quick fiends hundreds of feet into the air.
The man knelt, oblivious to the primal fury being exhibited around him. He pressed his face against the hilt of his sword. He had not wept in spite of everything. He wept now.
His vigil was long. Above him, the sky turned orange then black then red once more. Again and again, always changing and always unchanged.
He opened his eyes, hot from the tears, and looked down upon his body. His armor was dented, smeared, covered with gore and soot. His fingers ached, for they had clutched his sword for what seemed an eternity.
There was little hope for his world. None for him. He felt as if the Circles of Hell and the infinite pockets of the Abyss vomited their hatred and spite at his presence, his promise. Indeed they did.
And then he recalled a thought – a memory – of the time before his Betrayal. He had watched, during the second year of the siege, as a cow wandered from one side of the cobbled street to the other. The beast was emaciated and weak, the flesh hanging from its bones. Diseased, else it would have been eaten as other…as others had been. It was starving, its tongue swollen from thirst, its eyes mad with the coughing sickness. But…but it did not lie down. Nor would he.
He stood.
***
The Abbot sat down, the refectory silent.
Around him his flock watched. He knew their own emotions, their own resolve, would be based upon what he would now show in his face. He was not strong – he knew that now – but he believed he was strong enough for the pretense.
“Eat,” he commanded. It was the first word spoken within the cloister in over two years, since she had first faltered in her Song. “And talk.”
He needed to repeat his command three more times before his fellow monks began to speak. Their words were stunted, confused. The vow of silence had been comforting in its own way. Men who cannot talk cannot so easily despair.
Only Brother Martinicus had not been sworn under the vow of silence. It was he who conducted business with the townsfolk and the lay persons of the monastery. The Abbot noted that Martinicus did not talk now, regardless. The Abbot glanced at his friend and brother, his eyes inexorably sliding downward to stare at the wooden box sitting innocuously beneath his chair. No, he thought, I would not speak, either, were I him.
The Abbot watched as his brethren passed victuals to one another with all the levity of a funeral. When they did speak, their words were soft – as if they feared he only tested their holy vow, and would soon announce those that broke the silence would be sent out from the monastery and into a world soon to be lit only by flame.
No, my sons. Would that I could grant you such a kindness.
For his own part, the Abbot attempted to speak in a normal tone. His words seem forced. It was forbidden to laugh or smile within the refectory, but he felt such a transgression warranted; his penance would be eternal. So he chuckled and discussed mundane matters like any tavern patron, but his laugh was grating in his own ears, his anecdotes drab.
The meal was awkward. The food tasteless. The mood unbearable. Still, the abbot fervently and silently prayed it would last – forever if need be. When the bells sounded vespers, his chest clenched and for a moment he thought he might die – please let is be so!
He looked up after a moment. His heart still thudded within his breast, and he felt shame for his inward cry for release. Yet the shame served to bolster his resolve, so perhaps the gods were kind in their own way.
He stood, and the abbey stood with him. “Come, my sons.”
He led them from the refectory, past the balneary and the cloister proper. Their procession was quiet – none of the monks spoke, their earlier vowed silence descending upon them once more. Around them laymen stood from their work and stared, their eyes confused and questioning.
The Abbot had strength enough for his brothers, but not for those others of his flock. May the gods forgive me. He ignored the inquisitive and fearful stares of the monastery’s common folk, and so did his flock behind him.
The monks walked under the gatehouse and into the aedificium. The Abbot waited, hands clasped beneath his robes to hide their shaking. Soon they were assembled.
He was not one to dissemble. “She has stopped Singing.”
He watched – the grief threatening to crack his breast – as his flock’s fears were confirmed. Some of the younger monks began to weep. It would not do.
A righteous anger grew within him, lending him strength. “Each of us knew, when we entered this Brotherhood, that one day she may stop Singing. Indeed,” he shouted, his voice now filled with the authority of a pulpit he had disdained years ago, “we knew that one day she would stop Singing.”
He removed his hands from beneath his robes. They no longer shook. “Brother, the vials, please.”
Martinicus produced the small lockbox from beneath his own vestments. He inserted a key, turned the latch, and lifted the lid. Forty-two crystal vials stared upward at the Abbot as he gazed within, and upon each he saw the faces of his brethren.
He must be quick now – ‘lest he lose his nerve. The Abbot reached into the box, grabbed one vial, and promptly hurled it upon the flagstones at his feet. It shattered. A clear liquid spread across the stones.
“Brother Martinicus will not drink with us.”
At his words, the assemblage erupted into prayers and moans.
The Abbot was quiet. He had wisely chosen his flock against a day such as this. They would recognize what must be in their own time, their own way. In the end, it took even less time than he had hoped.
Martinicus did something, then, he had not done in forty years of devoted service – he questioned. “Father, I beg of you. Let one of the younger monks take this charge. I am too old.”
The Abbot turned to him who had been his friend and fellow for half a century. “What do you say, Brother?”
“I say – I will drink.”
“You will not.” The Abbot let anger he did not feel show in his face and voice. “I have decided.” Then, under his breath, he hissed, “Do not make this harder than it is, Martin.”
The Abbot held Martinicus’ stare for a long moment before turning to his flock once more. “It is known – when the Singing ends, the Twin Prophecies commence. Our charge has finished. We are no longer for this world.”
The Abbot retrieved a second vial. This one was his. “Come, my children, each take his own.”
The monks filed forward and each man grabbed a vial. Soon, it was finished. Only Martinicus stood without. The Abbot turned to him. “Go, now, Brother. Tell those that must be told.”
“And then?”
“And then?” the Abbot echoed. He frowned with thought. “Then, pray. Pray that you do not envy us.”
Martinicus left.
The Abbot popped the lid from his vial, forty-one monks did likewise. He raised the small decanter. “For the gods and the world they made.”
“For the gods and the world they made.”
They drank.
First, the death of Ippizicus. Then – the rippling.
***
The once-man cocked his head to one side. Was the planar tempest abating? He listened, his heart beginning to beat more rapidly with each passing moment, as the sound of the storm’s fury lessened. He returns! The once-man sprinted down the corridors, his hooves leaving bloody gashes in the backs and faces of those bodies that comprised the floor of the demi-plane.
The once-man had forgotten what it was like to run. For hundreds of years he had simply willed himself from one place to another – whether that be from plane to plane, or from corridor to antechamber. Sweat – sweat! – sprung from his alabaster skin.
The once-man slowed his pace, flexed his hands, and watched as the sinews contracted beneath the skin of his wrists. Tapered, ebony talons pierced the soft flesh of his palms – oh glorious pain! His face twisted into an orgasmic grimace. He had forgotten what it was like to feel. The wound instantly healed, but it was no matter – he bled, as the world would soon bleed.
The storm was not abating! Never did the planar maelstroms lessen in their rage. If the sound died – as it did now – such could only be a harbinger of Him. For He would not suffer any distractions – even that of nature itself.
***
A tickle upon the edge of his consciousness. Over thirteen hundred years of waiting were forgotten in an instant.
It begins. Again. He opened his eyes.
The sand pressed down upon him, the very firmament of the world upon his massive shoulders. The blackness was absolute, the heat blistering. Mere annoyances.
He brought his fist toward his face in the darkness, pushing aside tons of rock in the process. He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, smiled as the sound of groaning joints and cracking bones reverberated throughout the stone.
A day passed. Two. A tenday. He waited. He had waited a millennium. A few more weeks or months, even years – this was nothing. He possessed two traits rare for his kind – patience and loyalty. He had displayed them both; he displayed them now.
And his reward came fifty-three days after his eyes had opened.
Above him, faint but growing stronger, the sounds of pick and shovel could be heard.
***
The man stopped his advance.
His enemies – hundreds of misshapen demons – did not pause to question their good fortune. In the respite they clawed and gored one another to escape from his wrath.
Carceri flamed around him. The umber sky shot through with flames of crimson. The ground bubbled and popped like lava. Geysers of steam and ash exploded at random, throwing the bodies of less-quick fiends hundreds of feet into the air.
The man knelt, oblivious to the primal fury being exhibited around him. He pressed his face against the hilt of his sword. He had not wept in spite of everything. He wept now.
His vigil was long. Above him, the sky turned orange then black then red once more. Again and again, always changing and always unchanged.
He opened his eyes, hot from the tears, and looked down upon his body. His armor was dented, smeared, covered with gore and soot. His fingers ached, for they had clutched his sword for what seemed an eternity.
There was little hope for his world. None for him. He felt as if the Circles of Hell and the infinite pockets of the Abyss vomited their hatred and spite at his presence, his promise. Indeed they did.
And then he recalled a thought – a memory – of the time before his Betrayal. He had watched, during the second year of the siege, as a cow wandered from one side of the cobbled street to the other. The beast was emaciated and weak, the flesh hanging from its bones. Diseased, else it would have been eaten as other…as others had been. It was starving, its tongue swollen from thirst, its eyes mad with the coughing sickness. But…but it did not lie down. Nor would he.
He stood.
***
The Abbot sat down, the refectory silent.
Around him his flock watched. He knew their own emotions, their own resolve, would be based upon what he would now show in his face. He was not strong – he knew that now – but he believed he was strong enough for the pretense.
“Eat,” he commanded. It was the first word spoken within the cloister in over two years, since she had first faltered in her Song. “And talk.”
He needed to repeat his command three more times before his fellow monks began to speak. Their words were stunted, confused. The vow of silence had been comforting in its own way. Men who cannot talk cannot so easily despair.
Only Brother Martinicus had not been sworn under the vow of silence. It was he who conducted business with the townsfolk and the lay persons of the monastery. The Abbot noted that Martinicus did not talk now, regardless. The Abbot glanced at his friend and brother, his eyes inexorably sliding downward to stare at the wooden box sitting innocuously beneath his chair. No, he thought, I would not speak, either, were I him.
The Abbot watched as his brethren passed victuals to one another with all the levity of a funeral. When they did speak, their words were soft – as if they feared he only tested their holy vow, and would soon announce those that broke the silence would be sent out from the monastery and into a world soon to be lit only by flame.
No, my sons. Would that I could grant you such a kindness.
For his own part, the Abbot attempted to speak in a normal tone. His words seem forced. It was forbidden to laugh or smile within the refectory, but he felt such a transgression warranted; his penance would be eternal. So he chuckled and discussed mundane matters like any tavern patron, but his laugh was grating in his own ears, his anecdotes drab.
The meal was awkward. The food tasteless. The mood unbearable. Still, the abbot fervently and silently prayed it would last – forever if need be. When the bells sounded vespers, his chest clenched and for a moment he thought he might die – please let is be so!
He looked up after a moment. His heart still thudded within his breast, and he felt shame for his inward cry for release. Yet the shame served to bolster his resolve, so perhaps the gods were kind in their own way.
He stood, and the abbey stood with him. “Come, my sons.”
He led them from the refectory, past the balneary and the cloister proper. Their procession was quiet – none of the monks spoke, their earlier vowed silence descending upon them once more. Around them laymen stood from their work and stared, their eyes confused and questioning.
The Abbot had strength enough for his brothers, but not for those others of his flock. May the gods forgive me. He ignored the inquisitive and fearful stares of the monastery’s common folk, and so did his flock behind him.
The monks walked under the gatehouse and into the aedificium. The Abbot waited, hands clasped beneath his robes to hide their shaking. Soon they were assembled.
He was not one to dissemble. “She has stopped Singing.”
He watched – the grief threatening to crack his breast – as his flock’s fears were confirmed. Some of the younger monks began to weep. It would not do.
A righteous anger grew within him, lending him strength. “Each of us knew, when we entered this Brotherhood, that one day she may stop Singing. Indeed,” he shouted, his voice now filled with the authority of a pulpit he had disdained years ago, “we knew that one day she would stop Singing.”
He removed his hands from beneath his robes. They no longer shook. “Brother, the vials, please.”
Martinicus produced the small lockbox from beneath his own vestments. He inserted a key, turned the latch, and lifted the lid. Forty-two crystal vials stared upward at the Abbot as he gazed within, and upon each he saw the faces of his brethren.
He must be quick now – ‘lest he lose his nerve. The Abbot reached into the box, grabbed one vial, and promptly hurled it upon the flagstones at his feet. It shattered. A clear liquid spread across the stones.
“Brother Martinicus will not drink with us.”
At his words, the assemblage erupted into prayers and moans.
The Abbot was quiet. He had wisely chosen his flock against a day such as this. They would recognize what must be in their own time, their own way. In the end, it took even less time than he had hoped.
Martinicus did something, then, he had not done in forty years of devoted service – he questioned. “Father, I beg of you. Let one of the younger monks take this charge. I am too old.”
The Abbot turned to him who had been his friend and fellow for half a century. “What do you say, Brother?”
“I say – I will drink.”
“You will not.” The Abbot let anger he did not feel show in his face and voice. “I have decided.” Then, under his breath, he hissed, “Do not make this harder than it is, Martin.”
The Abbot held Martinicus’ stare for a long moment before turning to his flock once more. “It is known – when the Singing ends, the Twin Prophecies commence. Our charge has finished. We are no longer for this world.”
The Abbot retrieved a second vial. This one was his. “Come, my children, each take his own.”
The monks filed forward and each man grabbed a vial. Soon, it was finished. Only Martinicus stood without. The Abbot turned to him. “Go, now, Brother. Tell those that must be told.”
“And then?”
“And then?” the Abbot echoed. He frowned with thought. “Then, pray. Pray that you do not envy us.”
Martinicus left.
The Abbot popped the lid from his vial, forty-one monks did likewise. He raised the small decanter. “For the gods and the world they made.”
“For the gods and the world they made.”
They drank.
