“No. I am not finished yet!” she said as she began riding him.
He tried to reach up, to grasp her the way she had grasped him, but she caught his wrists and pinned them to the bed. As her thrusts pushed the envelope of physical strength, he felt his orgasm build only to be suppressed on five different occasions. It was torturously delicious the way she was controlling him, denying him, using him. He felt her quiver, felt her convulsions build in the fevered pulsing of her hips and knew she was close. The bed rocked. Their bodies ached. And their wills exploded. In unison, they bellowed from a depth of utter bliss born from the fullness of their hate driven lusts. When she had finished, when her back could arch no more and her muscles gave in to their fatigue, she collapsed next to him leaving him in a state of utterly exhausted shock. He slowly donned his black silk robe and walked to his meditation chamber, still marveling at her power.
Once there, he knelt down and sliced his right thumb with the small dagger he kept next to his kneeling pad. Although there was no need for him to draw blood-runes to access the dark fountain and connect with Satan, he found the connection was stronger and more alive when he sat within them. Most of the abilities and powers related to the imbuing and manipulation of the dark fountain were instructed and guided by Satan; however, this was not one of them. The enhanced emotional state he received from connecting to his fountain while surrounded by the blood-rune of hate he discovered on his own. While Satan loathed individual explorations, he must have held at least a small amount of approval for Jesolin’s new technique because he allowed it to continue; and he allowed nothing to continue that did not meet with his approval.
As he followed his rage to its centered hate, a hate still blindly focused on his father, Eriboth, he felt the blood-rune begin to pulse in time with his heart. But his heart was not identifiable as the soft emotional center that most of mortality identified it as. To him, it was simply a machine responsible for sustaining his life. Though he did wonder, if given enough time and influence of the dark fountain, if it would continue to be a necessity at all.
Heart. Soul. Mortality. These were the truths he was consumed with during his dark meditations. He had progressed beyond the thirst for power and the desire to learn more techniques to manipulate the dark fountain and into the physical manifestations of hate. Long had he felt the need to understand, to a much greater degree, the beginnings of all things. If he could do this, then he could understand the very beginning of hate, and with that, he believed his power would surge exponentially. What was the genesis of Avendia? How had it come to be? What was its nature in the beginning and how had it devolved into the filth that produced the evil within him from the small, sickly boy he had once been? The very thought of a world capable of producing something so terrifying and able to perform such acts of evil from a once innocent and gentle youth had been enough to ignite his hate to blaze, even if that small boy and object of evil was himself.
In his early years, the explanation that it was Satan’s desire was enough to quench his curiosity, but as he grew, things began to slowly change. And after meeting Eriboth on the battlefield, that change began to accelerate exponentially. Yes, hate was still the ever-present governing dynamic consuming his identity; however, he needed to know more, to understand more, of himself, of Eriboth, and of Satan, his master. He had inquired into Eriboth previously, and although he was given an explanation, it did not end his need to know more. Yes, Satan had removed any burden Jesolin felt regarding him and told him their meeting on the battlefield was his master’s design, but the more he thought about his father, the more inadequate these previous explanations were becoming. So, his intention was to approach his master with more questions regarding his father. Not just to understand him more as his sole end, but to understand himself more, thereby increasing his awareness of his hate. For in that, the further understanding of his hate, he could and would become the perfection of his Master’s desire, the perfection of hate.
As he followed the descent of his own fountain into the all oppressive eternity of Satan’s unending vastness, his own clarity surged and he felt his identity detach from everything that was himself and dive deeply into the fathomless depths of absolute hate; a hate without beginning or ending, a hate that altered the very convictions of all it touched to mimic its own. Even if he had not desired it, there would be no consequential resistance. It was in these moments when he utterly understood the absolution of futility. Nothing mattered when pitted against this degree of hate.
Long had he learned not to try and hide anything from his master while submerged inside the all-powerful entity of unbounded evil. So, he opened himself up and confronted Satan with his desire to learn more about Eriboth. Who was this man? What exactly were the stories of his life that lead him to face Jesolin, his own son, on the battlefield after almost twenty years of removal? Did Eriboth even know he had a son? And possibly the greatest question of them all, what part of Eriboth’s identity did Jesolin share? For within a shared identity and intent, there is formed a bond, one that cannot be broken. And Jesolin detested the thought of sharing anything with the man who abandoned him leaving him to a life of hurt, pain, rage, and hate.
He prepared himself for an admonishment from Satan, such was the reward for questioning beyond what Satan had already deemed sufficiently concluded. But no admonishment came. There was no pain filled presence, no piercing stab into his mind, and no gut-wrenching constriction of breath. There was, in deed and in worth, no response from Satan altogether. However, it was not just the admonishment that was absent, but all other communications as well. Perhaps Satan remained silent because the matter was truly completed to him and any further questions were beneath his regard and acknowledgement. Sure, Jesolin had pushed before, when he was younger, but the lesson he was taught left his joints aching for over two weeks. So tightly did his muscles clench in response to the pain, that he was surprised his back had not been broken and his muscles had not been torn from his bones.
Yet, he still had more questions, questions that were slowly progressing from slight curiosities into needs. Although he trusted his master’s initial insistence that Gogoziel had been sent to assist him, he was beginning to see that the demon’s motives might not be all his master had claimed. Yet, his questions did not center on the demon’s intent. Instead, Jesolin wanted to know more about the nature of this demon. What exactly was Gogoziel? In his assessment of the demon, he knew he was made of mortal substances, at least while he was present in the mortal world he was, but he did not know the exact nature of this demon, and because of that, it posed an innate threat. People, mortals, humans, all races even, were so predictable because he shared in the genesis of their nature. Hence, he intimately understood their motivations and all facets of their actions to be ultimately rooted within the design of mortal life. Imbued with the dark liquid and the innate understanding it gave him, it was nothing for him to exert his control over them, to take advantage of what commonalities he and they shared. Thus, it was nothing for him to remove any threats they might pose. But this demon, Gogoziel, stood outside of his comprehension of mortality. He, or it, or even she, was otherworldly. And because of its otherworldly nature, its motivations would be foreign to him making it much more difficult to control, if not impossible. So, until Jesolin understood more about the nature of this demon, it would always pose a threat, a threat he was finding increasingly difficult to abide.
But still Satan chose to remain silent. Was this silence part of Jesolin’s instruction? Had he angered his master with his questions on issues that had been previously concluded? As much as he was reluctant to broach these topics, he needed more sufficient answers. Since the duality of learning about Eriboth and Gogoziel, both presenting as insurgences into Jesolin’s life, he had felt a sort of malaise set into his thoughts. It was nothing really, just small questions on the tail end of his random, mortal musings that would unsettle him. Before, he was fixed and firm in his position as Satan’s end goal to c
arry out his plans, but now, with incomplete answers, at least according to his estimation of complete, doubts insidiously invaded his confidence. And then there was perhaps the greatest unknown and unspoken plague - his mother.
Meeting Eriboth, once the exhilaration of defeating him in battle and claiming the Stone Throne for his own had settled and no longer presided over his emotions, had triggered a natural link awakening questions about his mother. Now there was a focus of hate upon which he could build an empire. There was something to be said for a father abandoning his child, but a mother deciding to cast away her own baby was an altogether different level of neglect and abandonment. It was the mother who had carried him inside of her for all those long months. It was his mother who fed him from her own bosom, and it was his mother who was supposed to hold him while he cried, nursing away his fears, fears that were inevitable in the cold world he had known. And most of all, it was his mother who was supposed to protect him from all the hideousness and self-loathing he had come to feel in the wake of her absence. Oh, the ecstatic joy he would feel from more fully manifesting her identity thereby allowing him a physical assignment for his hate. She indeed would propel his power beyond the bounds of mortality and perhaps thrust him in league with Satan himself.
Perhaps that is the reason Satan remained silent. Perhaps Jesolin really was a threat, or could be, if given enough reason for his hate to swell even more. His fountain was already impossibly large, and though still dwarfed by Satan’s endless ocean, the addition of his mother would provide him with such a boost, perhaps he would claim Avendia for himself. But such thoughts would not go unpunished. He knew this and expected the influx of soul piercing pain to follow. Still, the only sensation he felt was nothing, only silence.
As hideously demeaning as Satan was, he was at least there when all else was absent. But why now was he silent? And how long would he be silent for? It was nothing for his master to interject thoughts and words into Jesolin’s mind and soul, nothing for him to communicate and reassure his most favored and devoted disciple. And he knew Satan felt what he felt. So why, in the face of all of these questions, was Satan choosing to remain silent when Jesolin’s need for him was growing? He could not imagine any situation that would prevent Satan from communicating with him; therefore, the decision had to be a conscious aspect of choice. And in this realization, Jesolin’s connection to Satan’s ocean of hate and power faltered.
“My Lord?” came an uneasy voice from his door way. But the voice seemed ethereal, lacking any substance of mortality. “My Lord,” came the uneasy voice again, this time a little louder. And again, to Jesolin’s ears, it seemed as tangible as a fleeting dream moments after waking. “My Lord,” said the voice for a third time, “you have the Head Constable here asking to speak with you. Should I send him away?”
The third time was indeed the charm, for it pulled Jesolin back from his devolution into greater malaise from being ignored by that which he thought would never ignore him and into a matter upon which he could place his attention. Though he knew his malaise would return to him soon, as soon as there was nothing left to occupy his concentration, he still embraced this timely interruption and turned to address his servant, “Please inform the Constable that I will be with him shortly. Take him, and anyone else with him, to the throne room. Make them as comfortable as possible. Offer them our best wine and cheeses while they wait.”
“Yes, My Lord. Right away, My Lord,” said the servant nodding as he backed out of the doorway. Before he could complete his turn, however, he was halted by an unexpected question.
“Am I?” asked Jesolin.
“Pardon me, My Lord,” responded the servant, unsure of Jesolin’s exact meaning.
“Your Lord. Am I?” he asked again, turning to look at his servant.
“Of course, My Lord,” said the short man, as he flashed an uneasy grin.
Jesolin paused holding the man hostage from his assigned duties long enough to make the awkwardness of the moment for the servant grow even more. “Please continue and tell our guests I will be with them shortly. Thank you,” he said finally.
The man exhaled before he moved so deeply that it was not only his actions, but the man’s very breath that was held captive until his dismissal. Not risking another question from his lord, the servant quickly collected himself and turned to scurry down the long corridor. As Jesolin watched him go, he heard rustling from his bedchamber as the two young women were beginning to stir. As much as he would have liked to explore what it would feel like to indulge in them within one of the blood runes, it would have to wait. And in all reality, they would not be ready for him again for a long while, for they had to heal. Their bodies needed to, their minds needed to, and most of all, their souls needed to; for it was their souls that received the most damage at the tips of his fingers extended by a will consumed with hate. Calling upon them too soon would cause them to break, and he rather liked these two. Yes, he would enjoy them several more times before the flame of their use would be extinguished. They would serve him well, at least until his two little Ravens were returned. Then, he would enjoy their breaking. He would enjoy and indulge. But that was not now. Now he was called to action. He dressed himself in his formal clothing of deep blacks and greys, strapped his belt around his waist, fastened his sword to it, and strode powerfully out of his bedchamber to greet his guests.
The Constable. It was not Jesolin’s idea that the workings of the city proper and its surrounding areas continue as if there was no exchange of power whatsoever. And while he might not have understood his master’s purpose for allowing the continuance of their lives, he understood that disobedience carried consequences. So, as an act of simple obedience, he allowed the Constable to retain his position and to oversee the daily operations of the city. As the days passed, he saw the wisdom in Satan’s plan because it would have been impossible for him to address the nuances of the city’s needs and still continue to prepare for the impending, further insurgence into the Silver Empire. So, as it was, he had come to appreciate the knowledge the Constable possessed, although not the man himself. Truthfully, he found the man disruptively annoying. He was constantly trying to pander to the new Lord of the Blood Keep.
While Jesolin did indeed enjoy praise, even that of an inauthentic nature, he was beginning to tire of it. Not because the praise no longer fed his deeply seeded need for approval born from a childhood rife with neglect, but rather, because he was beginning to need more than just the empty words from those who were far beneath him. He stood so far beyond what this simple man was that his pandering words were becoming equivalent to a child’s. It was nothing for a child to wonder and marvel at even the most insignificant accomplishments of man. What was a child when compared to him, a fully developed man firmly rooted in the truth of all truths penetrating the deceptions and illusions other men fall victim to? He found himself either dismissing anything that did not serve to deepen his need for more, or listening to it with only a fraction of his focus. Anything that interrupted his burgeoning desire for more was now considered a distraction, and he did not abide distractions. So, as a matter of progression, the Constable’s pandering praises were beginning to test his tolerance for things annoying. Even the man’s voice was enough to charge his tendency to eliminate such annoyances on a permanent basis. So, when Jesolin entered the throne room and the Constable bowed extremely low, bidding his entourage to do the same, the muscles on the side of his jaw and head tightened betraying the elevation of his anger.
“Dear Lord, Jesolin Kahl, The Savior of the Stone Keep, and ruler of the Blood Throne, I, your humble Constable, am forever in your service,” said the man with a voice and intent laced with deceptive authenticity. While this man was able to convince all those around him, Jesolin, aided by the powers of his dark fountain, could easily see through him to his authentic intent. This man was a survivor. And as such, he would assume whatever role he must, say whatever he must, and do whatever he must to survive. You see, Jesolin sa
w just how pliable the will of a survivor could be. Before he saw the man clearly with his power-enhanced sight, he would have said the man possessed no identity, no morals, no principles, of his own.
But that was not the case. In all reality, The Constable contained possibly the most devoted identity and self-substance of any mortal he had come to know. This man was singularly dedicated to surviving so much so that survival itself became the standard by which all things were decided. His very continuance did not just dictate his moral code, but became it. This allowed the man to assume what others would see as the ultimate flexibility within his morality. Indeed, many would see him as having no solid morals whatsoever. But to look deeper, into the fathoms of intent and dedication, Jesolin saw and initially liked him, which is to say he thought he would have a use for him. But as his desire for substance beyond the inclusions of mortality grew, this man’s value, and hence, likeability, diminished; for he was utterly rooted into the fabric of everything Jesolin was beginning to hate. And because of this, Jesolin’s barely visible nod of continuation to The Constable, as he sat on his Blood Throne, made the man pause. He was clearly hoping for a recognition equal to his greeting.
He paused to look at the members of his entourage, hoping they had not noticed the slight, at which point Jesolin said, “Why do you look to them? Is not your focus and attention to be on me?”
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