He sat alone in the darkness for what seemed like an eternity. Outside, the sounds of an organ echoed throughout the hall. Dimly he could make out the hymns and chants of the faithful, each giving up their praise and dedication for a figure that gave them hope and guidance. To his left, just beyond a whicker panel, he heard a door open and a man sat beside him. There was a soft prayer before the man spoke. "May the Silver Prince, ever watching, shepherd this soul, that he may find peace."
Ehoron sat in the booth, his hands clasped over his lap as he stared out into the darkness. Wordlessly his lips moved as he struggled to form the thoughts that screamed from deep within his heart. After much effort, he managed to bring forth a single confession to begin. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." He spoke with quiet reverence, respecting the holy place he sat within. He had never considered himself a religious man, but when he saw this church he felt compelled to come inside. Perhaps here he might find some sliver of absolution his soul craved.
There was a sound of old leather shifting and wood creaking. Although he could not see the old man on the other side of the wall he could hear him breathe rhythmically while nodding, a move that caused the rosary beads around his neck to jangle like windchimes.
"All who breathe have sinned, my child. But none are beyond forgiveness." There was a warmth to the man's words, a feeling of charity and welcomeness that made Ehoron's chest burn. Nowhere within the man's voice was there room for judgment or condemnation. It made his heart warm, a feeling of acceptance that was not yet truly earned but given freely.
"This is my first confession. Or... Rather, it is my first confession that I can remember." He could almost see the old man pause in slight confusion before nodding to himself for Ehoron to continue. "I have had... thoughts. Anger stirs in my heart and I find myself wishing harm upon many I see each day." His hands tightened into fists as that confession evoked thoughts that he could not banish; images of people and places that caused his blood to boil for some unknown reason.
"Anger itself is not a sin, my child. Even our most holy of saints and prophets have been made to anger. Righteous anger is something directed at the wicked and often is a guiding light for others to see. The darkness that comes from those with wicked intent and wicked hearts are an affront that rightfully brings anger. Do you think those that you see are wicked?"
Ehoron opened his mouth to speak and yet instead of his own voice, there was something else that came forth. Someone else spoke through his lips, an ancient and rasping voice that guided each word off of his tongue. "La mallumo marŝas en miaj sonĝoj. Mi ne povas halti ĝin." From deep within his chest, a pressure suddenly began to build. A hand came up and clutched his chest, a ragged, choking gasp escaping his lips as his whole world seemed to darken.
"What was that?" The priest shifted in his seat suddenly, jostled from the solemn warmth that had filled the confessional booth. In fact, the air was noticeably cooler now; much more so than it should have been given the time of day and year. It made the thin rivet of sweat that rolled from his brow all the colder when a frigid breeze seemed to come from nowhere... Outside of the confessional booth, the chants and hymns had abruptly fallen silent as the organ struggled to sing its enchanting music to the masses.
"Miaj koŝmaroj fariĝis karno kaj miaj manoj estas makulitaj en sango. Senkulpuloj estas mortigitaj kaj iliaj vizaĝoj demandas kial. Mi ne havas respondojn. Armageddon venas kaj mi timas, ke mi estas ĝia impostisto." The words spilled forth like a torrent, each syllable rolling off his lips in a fountain of dark syllables and ancient meaning. With each word uttered, the temperature of the air plummetted. The very hairs on the priest's neck began to stand on end and the color drained from his skin.
Before he could move or speak a word, the thin wall separating the two was suddenly splintered as a jagged lance of black ice erupted from the wood paneling and pierced his chest. He could only gape in shock as the wall disintegrated, leaving him an unobstructed view of his confessor, his assailant.
Ehoron stood over the man, barrel-chest exposed through the shirt that had seemingly ripped abruptly. His skin had a deathly pallor to it, even as his muscles bulged underneath in a display of raw vitality. His coat billowed against arctic winds that stormed within the confessional, the ends tattered as if repeatedly caught on jagged edges of ice and steel. A hardness shone in his eyes, even as they seemed utterly devoid of emotion or life.
"Morto vokas. Morto venas." The words were barely more than a whisper off of his tongue, and yet the effect could not have been more pronounced. All at once, the confessional booth exploded as if a bomb had gone off. Outside of the booth, the church hall was in a similar state of ruin. Obsidian icicles hung like great gothic chandeliers from the ceiling. Frost covered the tiled floors and great pews throughout. The very flames themselves of torches used to illuminate the hall were abruptly frozen in place, chilled beyond measure by some outside force.
All throughout the great hall, people were frozen in place by fell magic. Some were sitting, oblivious to the fate that awaited them. Others still had had but a moment to see their coming demise and recoiled in terror, their expressions forever carved in ice. Every detail was perfectly preserved in icy perfection, from the shock and surprise to what was about to happen, to the tears and screams that bared their very souls.
The priest looked back at Ehoron, his veins now standing out as blackness flowed through them and stood out against his skin. "W-why would you do this?" His breath came out in shallow gasps, a wispy thing born not entirely from the cold outside but from the cold within. His skin slowly drained of color and seemed to grow hard as if turning into ice itself.
"Because it has been ordered. Your lives, however meaningless, will be but a signal; a signal that will mark the end of an era." His voice was much deeper now, carrying a deepness that projected power and assured confidence, perhaps even arrogance. "This world has festered under the control of vermin who would seek to chain magic while not being blessed by it." He looked down at the man with an almost feral grin. "That world must be shattered for true paradise to come, Father, and your life will be one of many that heralds this new age. Rejoice, Father, for your life is given purpose."
"Y-You are a mon-monster. A demon!" The priest proclaimed weakly, blood rolling down from one corner of his mouth. Even as his body failed and the black ice seeped through his bones, still he resisted. Reaching into his robe he pulled forth a silver leaf, a holy symbol of the church, and thrust it out as if to banish Ehoron.
For a time, it seemed to do nothing. Ehoron continued to stare down at the man with his unflinching gaze. Eyes emblazed with a fiery blue spirit bore into those frail, steely grey eyes, and in that instant, something snapped between them. Fury shattered the mask of calm that had sat over Ehoron's face for so long and he let loose a furious snarl. One hand came back, ice rapidly collecting along the length of his hand before he swung down to violently sever the old man's head from his body.
Silence reigned over the hall, save the soft plodding as the man's head rolled from the steps of the ruined confessional booth. Rage still danced across Ehoron's face and he seemed to look every which way to find some new target to vent his frustrations. Yet everywhere he turned, there were only the dead and the silent. And just as quickly as the rage had come forth, it vanished, leaving a weary-looking man standing in the frozen crypt that had once been a church. He took a step before pausing, looking down at the headless man; his hand still clutched the silver leaf, a lasting testament to his faith and demise.
"I am no demon, Father. I'm just a man," Ehoron confessed softly, staring at the priest's hand for a long moment before he turned and walked down the central path, unseen by the many frozen statues that pled for salvation that would not come.
---------
WC: 1,512 / 1,500
Ehoron sat in the booth, his hands clasped over his lap as he stared out into the darkness. Wordlessly his lips moved as he struggled to form the thoughts that screamed from deep within his heart. After much effort, he managed to bring forth a single confession to begin. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." He spoke with quiet reverence, respecting the holy place he sat within. He had never considered himself a religious man, but when he saw this church he felt compelled to come inside. Perhaps here he might find some sliver of absolution his soul craved.
There was a sound of old leather shifting and wood creaking. Although he could not see the old man on the other side of the wall he could hear him breathe rhythmically while nodding, a move that caused the rosary beads around his neck to jangle like windchimes.
"All who breathe have sinned, my child. But none are beyond forgiveness." There was a warmth to the man's words, a feeling of charity and welcomeness that made Ehoron's chest burn. Nowhere within the man's voice was there room for judgment or condemnation. It made his heart warm, a feeling of acceptance that was not yet truly earned but given freely.
"This is my first confession. Or... Rather, it is my first confession that I can remember." He could almost see the old man pause in slight confusion before nodding to himself for Ehoron to continue. "I have had... thoughts. Anger stirs in my heart and I find myself wishing harm upon many I see each day." His hands tightened into fists as that confession evoked thoughts that he could not banish; images of people and places that caused his blood to boil for some unknown reason.
"Anger itself is not a sin, my child. Even our most holy of saints and prophets have been made to anger. Righteous anger is something directed at the wicked and often is a guiding light for others to see. The darkness that comes from those with wicked intent and wicked hearts are an affront that rightfully brings anger. Do you think those that you see are wicked?"
Ehoron opened his mouth to speak and yet instead of his own voice, there was something else that came forth. Someone else spoke through his lips, an ancient and rasping voice that guided each word off of his tongue. "La mallumo marŝas en miaj sonĝoj. Mi ne povas halti ĝin." From deep within his chest, a pressure suddenly began to build. A hand came up and clutched his chest, a ragged, choking gasp escaping his lips as his whole world seemed to darken.
"What was that?" The priest shifted in his seat suddenly, jostled from the solemn warmth that had filled the confessional booth. In fact, the air was noticeably cooler now; much more so than it should have been given the time of day and year. It made the thin rivet of sweat that rolled from his brow all the colder when a frigid breeze seemed to come from nowhere... Outside of the confessional booth, the chants and hymns had abruptly fallen silent as the organ struggled to sing its enchanting music to the masses.
"Miaj koŝmaroj fariĝis karno kaj miaj manoj estas makulitaj en sango. Senkulpuloj estas mortigitaj kaj iliaj vizaĝoj demandas kial. Mi ne havas respondojn. Armageddon venas kaj mi timas, ke mi estas ĝia impostisto." The words spilled forth like a torrent, each syllable rolling off his lips in a fountain of dark syllables and ancient meaning. With each word uttered, the temperature of the air plummetted. The very hairs on the priest's neck began to stand on end and the color drained from his skin.
Before he could move or speak a word, the thin wall separating the two was suddenly splintered as a jagged lance of black ice erupted from the wood paneling and pierced his chest. He could only gape in shock as the wall disintegrated, leaving him an unobstructed view of his confessor, his assailant.
Ehoron stood over the man, barrel-chest exposed through the shirt that had seemingly ripped abruptly. His skin had a deathly pallor to it, even as his muscles bulged underneath in a display of raw vitality. His coat billowed against arctic winds that stormed within the confessional, the ends tattered as if repeatedly caught on jagged edges of ice and steel. A hardness shone in his eyes, even as they seemed utterly devoid of emotion or life.
"Morto vokas. Morto venas." The words were barely more than a whisper off of his tongue, and yet the effect could not have been more pronounced. All at once, the confessional booth exploded as if a bomb had gone off. Outside of the booth, the church hall was in a similar state of ruin. Obsidian icicles hung like great gothic chandeliers from the ceiling. Frost covered the tiled floors and great pews throughout. The very flames themselves of torches used to illuminate the hall were abruptly frozen in place, chilled beyond measure by some outside force.
All throughout the great hall, people were frozen in place by fell magic. Some were sitting, oblivious to the fate that awaited them. Others still had had but a moment to see their coming demise and recoiled in terror, their expressions forever carved in ice. Every detail was perfectly preserved in icy perfection, from the shock and surprise to what was about to happen, to the tears and screams that bared their very souls.
The priest looked back at Ehoron, his veins now standing out as blackness flowed through them and stood out against his skin. "W-why would you do this?" His breath came out in shallow gasps, a wispy thing born not entirely from the cold outside but from the cold within. His skin slowly drained of color and seemed to grow hard as if turning into ice itself.
"Because it has been ordered. Your lives, however meaningless, will be but a signal; a signal that will mark the end of an era." His voice was much deeper now, carrying a deepness that projected power and assured confidence, perhaps even arrogance. "This world has festered under the control of vermin who would seek to chain magic while not being blessed by it." He looked down at the man with an almost feral grin. "That world must be shattered for true paradise to come, Father, and your life will be one of many that heralds this new age. Rejoice, Father, for your life is given purpose."
"Y-You are a mon-monster. A demon!" The priest proclaimed weakly, blood rolling down from one corner of his mouth. Even as his body failed and the black ice seeped through his bones, still he resisted. Reaching into his robe he pulled forth a silver leaf, a holy symbol of the church, and thrust it out as if to banish Ehoron.
For a time, it seemed to do nothing. Ehoron continued to stare down at the man with his unflinching gaze. Eyes emblazed with a fiery blue spirit bore into those frail, steely grey eyes, and in that instant, something snapped between them. Fury shattered the mask of calm that had sat over Ehoron's face for so long and he let loose a furious snarl. One hand came back, ice rapidly collecting along the length of his hand before he swung down to violently sever the old man's head from his body.
Silence reigned over the hall, save the soft plodding as the man's head rolled from the steps of the ruined confessional booth. Rage still danced across Ehoron's face and he seemed to look every which way to find some new target to vent his frustrations. Yet everywhere he turned, there were only the dead and the silent. And just as quickly as the rage had come forth, it vanished, leaving a weary-looking man standing in the frozen crypt that had once been a church. He took a step before pausing, looking down at the headless man; his hand still clutched the silver leaf, a lasting testament to his faith and demise.
"I am no demon, Father. I'm just a man," Ehoron confessed softly, staring at the priest's hand for a long moment before he turned and walked down the central path, unseen by the many frozen statues that pled for salvation that would not come.
---------
WC: 1,512 / 1,500
- Translation:
"The darkness walks in my dreams. I cannot stop it."
"My nightmares have become flesh and my hands are stained in blood. Innocents are slain and their faces ask why. I have no answers. Armageddon comes and I fear I am its precursor."
"Death calls. Death comes."
