Chapter 45: A Rapture of Desolation

It hurt. Everything was in pain—throbbing, aching, dull-white pain. Kail did not know why he had resisted before, why he had even bothered. Everything around him died, everything around him was in shambles. He had killed the boy, he had killed the girl. His heart was broken, his spirit crushed. He wanted to die. He wanted to be at peace. He did not deserve death. He did not deserve peace. He deserved this suffering, to atone for his sins. He hated the suffering, wanted it to end. He was just so tired of it all.

He was tired of crying, tired of pain. He was tired of hope and tired of wishes. He was tired of living. Will death never come for me? He wanted so desperately to die. Then, at the very least, it would all be over. And yet, even that would not be granted to him.

He heard footsteps walking closer, echoing off the walls. He did not care. He smelled the sweet scent in the air, but he did not feel anything but apathy. He could look, but his eyes were closed. He dared not to open them, dared not to use what had cost him too much. He did not deserve these eyes, did not deserve to see. She cupped her hand against his cheek, whispering something in his ear. He did not hear her, did not bother to try to listen. What was the point of listening? He was broken. He wanted to die. Tears rolled down his sunken cheeks, burning the skin.

She traced a finger down his chest, crooning gently as she drew a circle. His mind wandered, he dreamed about the outside, about the sun and the stars. They seemed so distant now, like mere stories. Were they truly what he had seen? Were those memories truly real? It seemed all a lie now, all a fleeting dream. He remembered the boy, who had wanted to see the sky so badly, and his heart tore all over again. His shoulders heaved, his breathing heavy. He had already cried until his eyes burned; he had no more tears left to give. He had no more fear, and no more strength. He was merely tired. He felt empty inside, his will completely shattered.

He heard her murmur in his ear. "Does it hurt? Do you want the pain to stop?"

He was tired. He wanted an end. The feeble resistance that stirred in his heart was no longer enough. He nodded feebly, head lolling to the side as he took in a shuddering gasp.

"Good." she purred, fingers leaving his skin. His eyes were closed, unwilling to open. The image of the boy, the boy that he had failed, was still burned into his mind. It followed him, never leaving him. He began to hear whispers, stirring from the past. He heard Sir's voice, from a time long past. He heard the boy's voice, still soft and bright. He wept silent tears, apologizing. He apologized for failing them both, apologized for his weakness. He was too weak, to be falling like this. He was truly too weak, to be so broken. Yet he was too tired for shame, to weary for guilt.

He heard her return, felt the room grow cold as the air snapped and buzzed. Opening his eyes feebly, he saw her holding a mantle of black, a cloak of shadows darting around an ornate golden collar fashioned in the shape of a skull. It thrummed with energy, thrummed with power that numbed his mind and froze his heart. He remembered it, remembered the feeling that pervaded his body. He had been offered it before; he had refused. See now what that resistance had given him. See now what that strife had bought for him. See now the price that had been paid.

She promised him salvation. She promised him an end. An end to the pain. An end to all of the suffering. She promised to him release. Release from his bonds. Release from his life. Release from the shackles of his sins. Release from his worries. He was broken. He wanted to die. She promised to him death.

It was such a simple word: death. It was such a soft word, a gentle sounding word. Yet it was so final. It was that finality that he craved, that he demanded. So it was with a similar word, a hoarse word, that he accepted.

She placed the mantle over him, let the metal and bone rest on his shoulders. It was an elaborate collar of gold, resting on his shoulders. It was light as a feather; it was heavy as a mountain. The shadows writhed darting about, tasting like the tongues of serpents before suddenly piercing his skin. He howled in pain as they tore his flesh, ripped apart the skin and let the blood spill to the floor. Death was coming. There was no numbness to this; he felt every sensation as he was killed. He felt his body being shredded, his bones being snapped. His lungs, his heart, all wreathed and strangled by suffocating shadow. Death was coming. He accepted it, wanted it. He waited for the end, waited for his promised release. He wanted to die, wanted an end to the aeon of suffering. He waited for his death.

It did not come.

He felt the pain slowly fade, felt his body leave him, but he did not die. He opened his eyes slowly, unsure of what he expected to see. Looking down, he saw wispy, black flesh smoking gently, charred the color of ash. His fingers smoked gently, tendrils of the darkness worming out of him. The cloak billowed out around him, shadows nestling inside of him. He could feel their presence.

He was no longer human. He no longer held a heart. He felt the power flowing through him, felt the strength in the shadows and the darkness. He was incorporeal, drifting through the shackles that had held him for so long. This body of his was flesh no longer, and it was with a dreamlike trance that he stood and stepped forward. He gazed around him, at the room filled with his blood and suffering. I had wanted to die, he thought. Even now, that is denied to me. With this body, now can I even die?

As he turned, he saw an unexpected spectacle before him. His tormentor lay before him, gaze filled with rapturous wonder as she looked up at him. There was a madness swirling behind those too-wide eyes, her beauty unnatural as he gazed at her with apathy. "The mantle accepted." she whispered, eyes aflame with zeal. "The will of Atal walks once more." Sinking into a low bow, she proclaimed with fanaticism, "Hail to my Lord." Her body trembled, her breathing shallow as she knelt in his presence.

He looked at her figure, once thought to be so strong, once feared so much. Curious, how she looked weak before him now, looked flimsy. Her skin was so easily broken. Her heart was so easily crushed. The very blood that flowed through her was so easily boiled. I had wanted to die. Was it that you wished to do so in my stead?

He strode in front of her, cupping her cheek with one hand. Her eyes looked up, gaze filled with wonder and adoration. They glistened with devotion and exaltation that bordered on madness and hysteria. Her lips trembled, her breathing a light fluttering in the presence of her god. He gently blew out a soft puff of air into her face, black mist covering her skin. The shadows writhed in delight as he had them feed. They tore her apart, gouging open muscle and flesh and crunching bone. Her face was caught frozen by the black fog, a beautiful expression of terror and sublime dread. An ecstatic scream tore out of her throat, her body convulsing as if it was in the throes of pleasure. In a manner of seconds, there was nothing left, not even bone.

Absentmindedly, he plunged his fingers into a lump of flesh that had swelled near his heart. Brown blood gushed out, splattering onto the stones and staining his nails. When his hand came out of his flesh, there was a squirming mass held in between his fingers. Grey and pulsings, the two worms were intertwined so tightly they could have been mistaken for a single misshapen creature. The blood from the wound he had made inside of himself dried quickly, and he clenched his fingers into a fist. Blood and gore showered out of his hand, dripping thickly onto the floor.

Mixed in between the guts were masses of white eggs, throbbing and twitching as they fell. Some began to break, translucent worms crawling onto the stone with stubby, segmented legs. Their hook-like teeth began digging into the dirt between stone tiles, instinctively burrowing before he crushed them with an uncaring heel. The grubs were reduced to a paste under his foot, their bodies too soft to have resisted.

A quiet apathy stirred within him at the sight of blood and gore. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind, his flesh tingling with the coiling shadows. When he finally spoke, his voice was faint and hazy.

"I am no lord. I am a Sin. May I carry the weight of my burden for an eternity." he whispered to her corpse.

Kail—no, rather Sin—left the ground that had held him prisoner for so long. A time unknown spent in pain, spent in torture, and he left it as easily as opening a door. Without even flesh, he strode through the stone as easily as breathing. Silent as the shade that he was, he drifted through the corridors, feeling the surface calling to him, feeling his will drive him. He left the sewers, wake of blood and corpses in his path. His shadows feasted on the rat things that he had feared so long ago. Now they broke against his strength, buckled before his power. Finally, after an eternity of endless struggle, he could see the end in sight. The light that glowed in the darkness, beckoning him to come forth. Heeding its call, he traveled outside, beholding in wonder as the light shone in his eyes.

Pain. Sharp pain. A burning agony. It covered his body. He saw the shadows around him shirk from the sun, the light driving them away. he saw his image burst into flames, the blaze igniting on his arms and chest. It was excruciating and he was forced to return to the sewers, back to the dark. Even this one small comfort was denied to him. Even the light was denied to him. Even death was denied to him.

He felt the shadows darting around him, steam filling the air as they sizzled and shed the heat. They wrapped his body, knitting and twisting his body back together. It hurt, but he did not care anymore. He would find no happiness in this world. He would find no satisfaction, would seek out no pleasure. Life was nothing but suffering and pain.

Break it, he heard his god whisper. He felt his heart harden, the shadows around him fanning out as he grew resolute. This world of torture, he would break it. Destroy it. He would spread the gospel of his god.

He heard a tapping behind him, claws on steel. He turned to see Hope kneeling before him, head down upon the ground. His torturer, now on knees before him. It spoke, gravelly voice no longer filled with contempt but rather fervent submission.

"My lord, the Cult of Atal stands before you. We are your loyal servants, vassals to your every end. This one apologizes for his crimes. This one will die if the lord wills it."

Sin felt himself recoil in shock. Murderous intent swelled up inside of him, shadows writhing in eager anticipation as they felt his desire, but it faded just as quickly as it had came. Use him, spoke his god, and he understood. He would use this creature as a means to an end. He would see this world break before him and if he could use this thing, then so be it. Sin commanded the beast to rally his forces, every shadow around him flickering as he grasped for the power inside of him. He would raze this city of depravity to the ground.

Fanatics at his back, shadows at his command, he left at night. Overlooking the town, he beheld the place of his birth: Maris Tor. He did not feel nostalgia, did not feel regret. He did not feel anticipation, did not feel excitement. He felt hollow, felt nothing. Raising his fist, he felt power surging through every inch of his being, every shadow of the city under his command.

His eyes glowing black as he felt the magic surge out of him, he saw the land before him devoured in an instant, swallowed by a tide of roiling darkness. The shadows were silent in their feasting, but the dying city howled so loud the sky shook. Screams of terror and pain filled the air, the crumbling of stone and the crunching of bone percussive against the sounds of the night. In mere seconds, the longstanding harbor of perversion and duplicity was consumed utterly, a gaping void of black shadow filling the space where it once stood.

Releasing a slow breath, Sin felt the last remnants of the power trickle out of his fingers, the shadows slowly twitching before stopping their feast. He turned gradually, letting his gaze settle on each of the zealots gathered before him. The Cult of Atal would obey him. They would heed his will and die for him willingly. He saw the gleam of wonder and fear in their eyes when he looked upon each of them. They were a small army that spilled over the hillside, with Hope standing next to him as a general does to a king. Sin raised his hands, addressing his troops.

"Servants. This is my power. This is my will. Tear this world apart. Raze it to the ground and see it broken before you. This endless cycle of strife and ruin, I will have it broken."

"Go now, carry out my will. Carry out the will of your god."