The Abomination

  The sun broke through the clouds and warmed the city of Albina-Suzdal—its walls, towers, streets, and tiny gardens bathed in golden light. Distant mountains, green-yellow at their bases, gleamed with fresh snow. Trees bristled with bright leaves, and a cool breeze carried the whispers of rustling branches. Yet beneath it all, only Khariija sensed the earth’s quiet warnings. The city’s peace felt drawn tight - a thin string that was beginning to fray and come apart fiber by fiber.

  She slipped out from the hollow of a lonely tree in a lonely corner of the city’s slums. When her feet touched the ground her legs buckled, and she managed only a few steps before falling to her knees. Black blood gushed from the Herald’s nose and fell in large, poisonous drops onto the ground. When she touched her face, her fingers came away with strips of rotting skin clinging to them.

  Panic flared. Her spells had never drained her like this before. Her body was failing, unraveling with every miracle she cast. Soon, she would cease to be Cirina, the only face her daughter had known. But not yet. There was still time - time to find her, time to beg her for forgiveness. Vasilisa…

  Cirina caught her breath, then broke the glyph over the lonely tree. The gnarled wood twisted, supple as flesh, and sealed the passage.

  Strength returned to her with every step she took down the alleyways, following the sounds of the distant market crowd. A drying line caught her eye; with a flick of her finger, a tunic floated down. Over her ruined face she wrapped a scarf, and in a matter of moments Cirina of Belnopyl became another nameless soul in the city’s streets.

  The market’s bright colors loomed ahead. Her breath hitched. Her hands trembled. She was afraid—truly afraid—for the first time in years.

  She swallowed her fears, and stepped into the city square.

  The roar of the fairground swelled deafeningly - the summer market was in full swing. Traders were called for buyers or to each other; peasants frantically clutched limp wallets; hawkers at every corner jostled for the choicest spots in the market. It was a scene of pure, frantic chaos - a chattering mass of sheer humanity that nearly swept Cirina off her feet.

  Townsfolk parted unknowingly before her, their eyes skimming past without truly seeing. None perceived the decay beneath her hood. Her lingering power worked subtly—she could command fascination or cast a fog over minds, steering attention elsewhere. She had no need for terror, no desire to rouse the Dreamers from their slumber.

  It seemed that only the wayward Herald of Vaal knew exactly where she was going as she navigated the market, keeping her hood held low. The townspeople parted unknowingly before her like waters under the keel of a boat. All were blind to the sloughing flesh and rot beneath her hood. Her lingering power worked subtly—she could command fascination or cast a fog over minds, steering attention elsewhere. She had no need for terror, no desire to rouse the Dreamers from their slumber.

  The shop stood as she remembered - a squat, timbered hall with windows half-obscured by curtains. A small sign hanging above the heavy wooden door marked it as a place of business for ship captains - those who needed loans and binders to protect the value of their goods from the Shipbreaker’s Tide. When Cirina had come by last, the shop had dealt in tomes and books - but perhaps its master had grown tired of the monotony of ink and old parchment. More likely however, he had simply read every book there ever was, and decided he would move on to some different pastime to wile away the years.

  After all, it was a boring lot to be an immortal.

  When she stepped into the merchant’s hall she was immediately hit by the scent of a dozen burning candles and lamps - a strange, exotic mix of different incenses that twisted together into a queer smell. The shopkeep - a stocky, black-bearded, jovial fellow - seemed elderly only because of the wrinkles that thickly covered his face. But each one of the lines upon his face found use when he laughed, and his neighbors knew him to laugh much in life.

  He was humming when the door swung open. At first, he took her for another merchant, but when he saw her, the tune withered in his throat. A shadow passed over the face of the insurer. When it cleared, his eyes had become vast, lightless pits that draw in the light of the burning candles. With a flick of his hand the door slammed shut, and a divine glyph flared upon the heavy oak—its magic gently turning away any who had come with business, sending them elsewhere by unseen command.

  “Here you are, sister-slave,” said the shopkeep with poison in his voice. “And just as I thought no other worms would turn up from this shit-stained earth.”

  “You speak as though you yourself were not left behind,” Cirina remarked with reciprocal hostility, pulling up a seat in one corner of the shop. “What’s your name this time?”

  The merchant smiled wickedly. “Abzu was the name given by the Majesties, and shall always be my true name. Though Vitomir will not offend, if you need to call upon this shell.”

  “So you, Vitomir, are still a merchant?” Cirina spoke, casting her eyes about the shelves of spices, fine cloths, and the pile of scrawled contracts and ledgers that lay on the table before Abzu. “So many papers - I could never hope to bother. Don't you grow tired of the hassle?”

  “There are certain…benefits to partaking in the mortals' commerce. They gossip like you wouldn't believe, if you pretend you've even half an interest in their babble,” spoke Abzu, sliding out from behind his table. He treaded lightly in her presence - he was unaware of her gnawing weakness, she realized. “What about you, Khariija?”

  “Call me Cirina - that is my only name,” suggested the Herald.

  “I do not like the sound of it,” Abzu winced. “A mortal name for a mortal shell. Khariija, Chirlan, Eridu...those will always be your true names.”

  “The true names of slaves,” Cirina retorted. “All of us are slaves. Our only difference is that I find my collar too chafing to bear."

  “What a firebrand,” Abzu smirked. He stepped closer towards her, his hands falling to his side. “The brave Khariija, who dared to spit in the eyes of the gods. Too bad it was all for naught, in the end.”

  “Five hundred years of peace isn’t for naught,” spoke the Herald, standing up from her seat and drawing up to her full height.

  “Five hundred years is nothing,” snarled back the Apostle of Vaal. “You think with the tiny mind of a mortal - what did you get for those five hundred years, and the damning of your name? Did the slave race find some great salvation? Did they discover some higher truths, or a way to turn back the Majesties? Did they prove themselves worthy of anything more than wanton violence and their disgusting, endless rape of this world?”

  The Apostle’s hatred rolled off his mortal form in thick waves, intoxicating and suffocating. Cirina almost felt herself pulled into the darkness, but she steeled her mind at the last moment - peering over the precipice, but not slipping into it. There was an ancient hatred within Abzu’s soul, but had not always been so. It had first begun as disappointment in the creations of the Majesties, but in time disappointment gave way to frustration, and frustration to hatred.

  Wrath, ignorance, greed, pride…humanity’s myriad failings ran on for bleak eternity, never changing, never rising above their base instincts and their imperfections. And over the years, in the absence of the Majesties, the endless cycles brought new, dark thoughts. What if humanity did not wish to find enlightenment?

  What if the Majesties’ retreat from their perfect world was all for naught?

  What if the millenia spent lost and adrift in the cold and the darkness had been for nothing?

  What then?

  What then?

  Suddenly the darkness pulled back, and Cirina sensed no more, save a tinge of embarrassment from Abzu over the baring of his naked soul. Once the last tendril of shadow crept back into his human form, the Apostle shrugged his shoulders. “Either way, it doesn't matter. The question of humanity was decided long ago - and this time, the Majesties’ return is certain.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  His lips parted into a mocking smile. “Old allies have become enemies, and there remain no more lovestruck fools to be deceived, Khariija. Your five hundred years were for naught, regardless of what delusions you might cling to. This Harvest shall be the last - and the mistake that is humanity will be corrected, or erased.”

  The Apostle's declaration hung in the air for a still, silent moment. Then Cirina spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, “And yet you do not speak the whole truth.”

  Abzu's eyebrows drew together as he fixed her with a stern, questioning gaze, his teeth bared in annoyance. “What, have you some other desperate trick? Or were you somehow able to seduce Eridu away from the path of fate this time?”

  “It's nothing that I have done,” hissed back Cirina. “You sense it too, don't you? Or perhaps not - you are not a Herald. There is something different this time. Something has changed - the Harvest has changed.”

  “How so?”

  She let her mind sink into the ground, probing for the same feeling she felt when she had become one with the earth. The string of peace and calm was fraying, to be sure, but…

  “The Harvest has been slowed,” she replied at length. “No, not slowed - it is struggling against something. It is like a pebble holding back a rockslide, but there is something holding it back, and I do not know what it is.”

  Abzu looked at her with suspicion. Cirina met his eyes and tried to peer into his soul again, only to crash into a mental block - the Apostle had remembered his magic, and would not suffer the same embarrassment twice. Still, she sensed genuine concern in his voice when he spoke again at length.

  “Do you suspect a third party?” he wondered aloud. “No, no other force would have the strength to resist the Majesties and their coming. Not even the children of the woods, or the Yllahanans. But who, then?”

  “It does not matter,” counseled Cirina grimly. “A pebble cannot hold back the full force of a collapsing mountain forever. You will get your Harvest, but do not be so impatient. It will come slowly, perhaps in a year, perhaps in ten.”

  “But,” she sighed, drawing closer to Abzu. “That is not why I am here. You are right - I no longer have the strength to resist the Harvest, not alone. But if the prophecy will come to pass, then I at least wish to die with peace of mind on one final matter.”

  Cirina met Abzu's eyes once again, and drew back the blinding shroud over her mind. “Vasilisa. His body’s- my daughter. Chirlan has taken her, and I do not know what fate has befallen her.”

  For a moment Abzu stood stock-still, his expression unchanging as he searched her soul for the truth. Then, realizing her answer was not in jest, the Apostle threw back his head and gave a loud cackle.

  “Your daughter?” Abzu managed through fits of cruel laughter. “Your human whelp? That is who you seek in your heart of hearts?”

  The Apostle passed a hand over his face in mourning. “Oh, how low has the Herald of Vaal fallen…you have become more than corrupted, Khariija. You have become human - an abomination lying with other abominations!”

  “If that is what you call me, then I will carry it with honor,” spat back Cirina proudly. “But I ask for your help, Abzu.”

  “Help?” Abzu's tone was incredulous. “The great Khariija the Unloved, asking for help? Could you not find this whelp of yours yourself - or have your powers waned along with your wits?”

  Indeed, she had tried before - just as soon as she had taken her first breath on the muddy riverbank, she cast her mind out far and wide, searching for Vasilisa along earth and waters. But where she sensed there was something wrong with the Harvest, so too had there been something at odds with her visions…

  “Something shrouds her from me,” Cirina replied. “It is like a fog - impenetrable to my eyes. I could spend a thousand years with my Sight and still not navigate through it all, and I do not have a thousand years.

  “But you,” Cirina spoke, her words tinged with magical suggestion. “You are still favored - and your command of the Sight is beyond mine, perhaps even Chirlan's. And I sense that whatever force conceals Vasilisa from me is the same as that which holds back the Harvest. If we find who hides her from me…”

  “You would help me accelerate the Harvest for the sake of a child?” muttered Abzu. He shook his head in thought, but knew better than to try and probe her mind. “No…that will not be enough - what’s another decade after five hundred years? The Harvest will not be turned back, and whoever strains against it now will fail, that is certain. No, if you want my help, then the price for your whelp is…”

  Cirina did not have the power of foresight as Chirlan, but one did not need to be a Herald to know what price the Apostle of Vaal had on the tip of his tongue.

  “Your knife.” Abzu said with a grin. “Eridu cast hers into the Forgotten Sea, and Chirlan’s…I am not worried about. Tell me where you’ve hidden yours, and I will tell you where your beloved spawn is hidden, if my vision affords it.”

  “Why do you want the knife?”

  “Because I have seen visions,” replied the Apostle of Vaal. “A future. One of many that Chirlan showed me when we last met. But that does not concern you, Khariija the Unloved, for it shall no longer be yours. Tell me where you’ve hidden it!”

  It only took a moment’s hesitation - a moment of sorrow, and a moment of defeat. None could hold back the Harvest for long, this Cirina knew, and she felt tired - tired of running, tired of watching for twisting shadows, tired of being hunted. If the world were to be sundered, then at least one might meet the sundering with a sense of closure. Vasilisa needed to know - and then they might meet oblivion together, if she could find love for a monster in her heart.

  Cirina met Abzu’s searching gaze and said in a soft voice, “The Cradle. I cast it into the depths of the Cradle. It seemed fitting - a tool of death to be cast into the place where the first flower had wilted, and where the first beast took its final breath.”

  “Sacrilege! You cast that foul thing into the Mother’s own domain?” hissed the Abzu in reply. He swayed on the balls of his feet as he thought, and eventually sighed. “But I sense no deceit in your words. Very well - now comes my hour.”

  The corners of Abzu's lips twitched upwards in an excited smile, and then for the first time in five hundred years, the mask fell. The Twelfth Apostle of Vaal let his stolen flesh twist and warp outwards, and along the laugh-lines of his face the visage of Vitomir the merchant split apart into a dozen fluttering ribbons, unleashing a writhing mass of black and crimson. A thousand vines wriggled like worms in the hollow of the merchant’s face, twisting with the cadence of the Apostle’s voice, which now pulled close the shadows of the room, and snuffed out the candles all around.

  Abzu cried out as he turned his face to the ceiling, and cast his Sight beyond the confines of his mortal form.

  Cirina felt an invisible presence swell outwards from the frail body of the merchant - it felt as though it would crush her against the walls of the store, but then it exploded outwards from every window, every crack in the wall, every time-worn hole in the ceiling of the merchant’s hall. A fragment of the Apostle’s spirit remained tethered to the collapsing mortal shell as he searched, and at length Abzu’s voice spilled forth from writhing fleshy hulk, now pure and song-like in its divinity.

  “You cannot save her, Khariija. She is far beyond you. Far beyond any of us.”

  Cirina felt her blood run cold.

  “She is blessed, Khariija!” cried the corpse with the Apostle’s voice. “Glory and praise to the Majesties, she is blessed! It is not Chirlan who conceals her from your Sight - no, the divine strings, I can see them, endless and perfect in their machinations! The Harvest has not been halted…it is split. Split between two Vessels, one true, one false.”

  Chirlan, what have you done?

  “You don’t mean-”

  “Yes, yes, YES!” howled Abzu the Twelfth-Called, growing drunk on her despair. “Your whelp is no longer yours, Khariija! She walks the path of the Last Book - the path to drown the world. Oh, how cruel, how just are the Majesties!”

  Abzu’s laughter echoed maddeningly in the confines of the merchant’s hall. Cirina gritted her teeth, then flicked one hand through the air. The collapsing shell ripped in twain, severing the divine spirit from the rotting flesh and cutting his madness short.

  In an instant, the shadows began to peel away from the walls. The darkness gathered into a pinprick like water down a drain…and then it was gone. The Apostle of Vaal disappeared into the world of dream, no doubt in search of another vessel. Sunlight filtered once more through the windows, warming the cozy interior of the hall.

  By the time the people of Albina-Suzdal discovered the mutilated body of the insurer Vitomir, Cirina of Belnopyl had long disappeared into the depths of the city.

  There is much work to be done.