by Pearl Love
“YOU may not know this, my boy, but during the dark times, sacrifices to the elemental gods that protect the village were common.” The priest spoke nonchalantly, as though he was tutoring an attentive acolyte. “Criminals, as well as the willing devout, faced different torments depending on which deity was to be appeased. Some were left exposed to the relentless bite of the winter wind. Others were set adrift to be claimed by the sea and its creatures. Still others were buried in the depths of the earth, destined to succumb to the smothering press and become naught but food for the worms.” He turned to the young beauty standing beside him and allowed his gaze to caress the boy’s doomed figure. “And then there were those who were sentenced to be consumed by flame.
“The scriptures tell of a powerful god that resides in the liquid flames that burn within the mountain’s heart.” The priest continued his monologue as he motioned the guards to continue forward with their prisoner. “Even in the past, offerings to him were never frequent, but they were necessary on occasion to quell the rage that sometimes rumbles within the earth. As the years became centuries and the mountain remained long dormant, the practice nearly vanished from memory. Yet still the pyre remains, waiting in readiness for its next sacrifice.”
Though he was well aware that such an oblation was unnecessary, the priest felt no guilt as he watched the guards chain Alen to the wooden structure, the boy’s arms and legs stretched to the four corners and bound with the heavy fetters. The cleric traced one of the sigils etched into the altar—the symbols of spectral flame identifying the deity to whom the sacrifice was destined to pay homage—before resting a gnarled hand on one of the thick logs. The grain of the bark was rough against his palm, the texture reminiscent of the sharp rock upon which the wood sat. “These are fashioned of a peculiar type of wood, you know, designed to burn hot but slowly, leaving the condemned with plenty of time in which to contemplate the nature of his sins.” When the guards had finished fully securing Alen to the pyre, the priest stepped closer to the ancient altar and looked down upon the perfection that was soon to be forever abolished. “And contemplate them you will, my lad, as you roast in the merry flames. When your flesh is blackened and charred and your agony at its most profound, then you will know how foolish you were to refuse me.”
There was a faraway look in the boy’s eyes, as though he gazed upon something only he could perceive, something wondrous that made the reality of his condition a mere trifle. Was the boy an imbecile? Did he not understand the torturous death that loomed before him? The priest scowled, clenching his jaw as he was summarily ignored. Perhaps some would admire the boy’s courage, but the old man’s bloated ego blistered at the perceived slight. The end of the lad’s tiny, insignificant life merely awaited his pleasure, yet still the whelp was defiant! The priest snatched a pewter flask from the hand of the guard standing at his side and tilted it over the boy’s face, watching with attentive pleasure as the youth sputtered and grimaced from the malodorous oil that stung his eyes and filled his nose and mouth.
“How I have longed to see you thusly,” the priest murmured, “spread out beneath me and at my mercy.” He moved his arm and poured the fluid over Alen’s chest, letting his gaze linger on the way the boy’s wet tunic clung to his slender torso. The cleric glanced toward the youth’s beautiful face, entranced by the droplets that shimmered on his pearlescent skin. He traced a twisted, knotty finger through the oil beaded upon the smooth cheek before running the coated digit across the supine youth’s full lips. “Do not imagine that this will hasten the end of your suffering. The fluid is special, for it will not make the fire burn faster. No, it will only make the bearing of it all the more painful for you to endure.” Leaning over, he braced himself against the pyre so that he loomed over his beautiful captive, eager to see the reaction to his dire promise twist those lovely features. But as he stared down at the lad’s face, soon merely looking was not enough. The boy turned his head away as the priest’s hand delved beneath his tunic, long lashes falling to shutter his azure eyes.
Cruel fingers wrenched viciously at a sensitive nipple, and the cleric bared his teeth in a mocking parody of a grin when his presumption drew forth a pained cry. He gave the rosy nub another twist before skimming roughly down the boy’s flat stomach and delving into his breeches. One of the guards stepped forward, his expression uncertain.
“My lord, this is too much,” he began.
The priest favored him with a menacing glare. “Mind your business, or find yourself at his side.”
For a moment, the guard looked set to argue the point, but he backed down before the demented gleam in the older man’s eye. The priest stared at the guard, recognizing him as the one the boy’s mother had importuned for aid. His narrowed gaze promised dire retribution for the impudence, but the man’s punishment would have to be dealt with later. Just then, he had far more important matters to concern him. As his gaze fell back toward the imprisoned youth, he filled his grasping hand with the boy’s vulnerable flesh and squeezed until the lad was forced to acknowledge the infraction with a pained moan. Bending low, the priest spoke softly into the delicate shell of the boy’s ear.
“FROM the moment I saw you in the village square, throwing out your wanton lures of seduction, I vowed that you would be mine.” The soft, rasping whisper insured that the priest was heard by none of the other men gathered around them. Alen shuddered, as unable to avoid the fetid breath that wafted over his face as he was to escape the loathsome man’s touch.
“How well you played the part of the innocent, so oblivious to the yearning that you inspired with your every move, with every flash of those remarkable eyes. But your naïveté was merely a clever deceit, was it not, my boy?”
The priest grabbed a fistful of soft, light-brown hair with his free hand, and Alen was unable to repress a cry at the resultant ache. He tried to resist, but the old man only tightened his grip. Whimpering, Alen reluctantly succumbed to the pressure as the cleric forced his head around until he could no longer avoid the salacious gleam in the man’s beady gaze.
“You parade yourself about like some common whore, tempting all who look upon you. And yet, though I knew you were an unclean slut, still I desired to have you.” Twisted fingers curved forcefully around the intimate softness within their grasp, and the vile priest smiled as Alen whimpered in pained response.
“I would have given you everything,” he growled. “I would have kept you in fine clothes and jewels. I would have even provided for your harridan of a mother if only you had come to me. How dare you refuse me like you have some right? Who do you think you are? You are nothing! Worthless but for that opening in your arse!”
Ragged nails dug torturously into the soft flesh that had never before known a foreign touch. Lips parting despite himself as he gasped in agony, Alen couldn’t prevent the invasion of the priest’s tongue as it delved into his mouth. The slimy appendage seemed to possess some malevolent intelligence as it sought out every corner of his mouth, denying him any attempt to evade or hide. Alen fought back impending nausea as the tongue thrust down his throat before retreating so that sharp teeth could bite at his lips. He rasped for air when he was finally released, coughing as he struggled to draw breath. He peered up at his tormentor through mortified tears, but there was no respite to be found in the triumphant grin tinged with no small edge of madness.
“It will not be long now, boy. Very soon, you will see the error of your defiance, but your cries for mercy will fall on deaf ears.”
The scent of the oil wafted to him, heavy with the sharp aroma of anticipation, as the old man finally released him and moved away. Sighing in relief, Alen wished the priest gone, that the odious bastard and his roving hands would just vanish and leave him to face his destruction in peace. Still, he was somewhat grateful for the cleric’s unpardonable treatment of him. Alen could not deny the fear that had overtaken him when he had first seen the pyre squatting on the black altar like a beast eager to devour its next victim. The p
riest had offered him a timely reminder that this life held no promise of joy. The prospect of shedding the afflictions and humiliations of his existence, to welcome the sweet lure of oblivion, was finally upon him. What was it that he desired if not this?
The guards stood about him in a tight ring as though he would somehow free himself from his bonds and escape. The flames of the burning torches several of them held aloft toyed with the shadows, obliging the darkness to shift and move in a macabre dance, yet doing little to chase away the oppressive blanket of night.
Alen stared, hypnotized by the brands, his body tightening at the thought that, soon, he would finally be able to lose himself in the burning haven his soul craved. Perhaps, when the flames had liberated his flesh into swirling ash, he might, at long last, catch a glimpse of the face that that haunted him for so many endless nights. Forgiving himself for the fanciful musing, for perhaps the first time in his life, he felt entitled to give himself over to selfish longing.
Deep down, Alen knew that the man in the flames was nothing more than a fantasy born of his crushing loneliness. It was likely that the pyre would witness only his death, but he would not weep. Even if he were denied the reward of that long awaited meeting, still he was content with his fate. Though his physical form lay captive, his mind remained as yet unfettered, and he readily called forth the beloved fantasy. The beautiful, golden eyes gazed softly upon him, and he smiled as they again proved their power to comfort.
The priest gestured sharply toward one of the torch-bearing guards, and the man lowered the flaming head until the heat began to singe the coarse fibers of Alen’s breeches. As the priest had warned, the strange oil did not accelerate his immolation, but rather only added to the intensity of the burns that were pervading his flesh. Flinching at the painful sting, Alen felt a stab of shame at his frailty. The heat, aided by the oil, was more intense than he had expected, but still he did not fear it. Rather, the warmth caressed him, tempting him with the seductive promise of being enveloped in its lush, welcoming embrace. Glancing over at the priest, who stood a safe distance away from the slowly spreading fire, Alen met the other man’s gaze. As he stared into the clouded eyes so devoid of the piety he professed, he wondered why he had ever feared the pathetic old fool. The only power the cleric held over him was that which he chose to allow. He was done with being at the mercy of others. This, he vowed, would be the last time he would have to look at the priest’s contemptible face.
“The notion that I could ever belong to you was nothing more than a delusion borne of your own sick mind.” His voice was steady and strong, revealing nothing as the heat from the flames penetrated the cloth covering his legs and slowly ate into the vulnerable flesh below. “There is only one man that I love,” he said with the quiet certainty of a youth chastely speaking the yearnings of his heart. The truth of his conviction was written clearly in his soft gaze, and he watched with disinterest as unbridled rage crossed the older man’s incredulous visage.
Ignoring the danger to himself, the priest rushed forward, and Alen inhaled sharply as pain blossomed suddenly from the savage blow that landed upon his cheek. Yet the resultant ringing in his ears merely signified his victory. He felt vindicated as the priest closed his fingers around his palm, still stinging from its encounter with his face. A burgeoning smile tugged at his lips as the priest stumbled away from the intense heat of the growing blaze.
“Finish it!”
Flecks of spittle flew from the priest’s lips as he spat the command. His presence was quickly replaced by an encircling ring of guards, but Alen ignored all but the flame-tipped shafts they wielded.
THE guard who had attempted to stay the priest’s hand turned away, unable to watch as the remaining torches were applied to the slow-burning pyre. He couldn’t forget the way the boy’s mother had pleaded with him to save her son, and he lamented his cravenly refusal. If this was justice, then he had lost all stomach for it. The priest’s voice grated on his ears as he invoked the final piece of this mockery of a ritual.
“May Firnal, god of the mountain, find this offering acceptable. As your body is consumed by his holy fire, know that you are sacrificed so that we may live, and may that knowledge grant you peace.”
The guard fell into line along with his fellows as they turned to follow the priest back down the mountain and toward the town. The penalty for desertion would be severe, but he was determined to gather his family that very night and leave the village and its mad pontiff far behind. He tried to close his ears to the inevitable screams that he was certain would haunt him for the rest of his days, but when he continued to hear nothing but silence, he chanced a glance back toward the obscene glow that barely pushed back the inky darkness. Forcing down the bile that rose into his throat, the erstwhile guard hoped that the boy had, at least, passed swiftly from this world. And though he did not deserve it, he prayed to the fire god for a measure of absolution, for he knew that he would never be able to forgive himself.
As he trained his gaze forward once more, he saw the cleric likewise pause to take one last look back toward the pyre. For the first time, he understood the peaceful expression that had come over the doomed boy as the fire took him, for surely any fate would be preferable to being a slave to that lunatic’s vile whims. The priest stared meanly at the radiance which he had longed to possess and would never hold, and the erstwhile guard silently toasted the boy’s triumph.
NEITHER the final scripted words of offering, nor the discordant sounds of the departing men, reached Alen’s ears. All sound was lost in the roar that rose from the pyre as the wood caught aflame, the oil that covered it and him slowly feeding and enriching the greedy blaze. In a blinding flash, all was gone. All of the taunts and suspicious stares, the demeaning advances, the covetous sneers. He suddenly pictured his mother as she once had been: face alight with the glow of youthful beauty, brown hair unstreaked by grief, and her lovely, gray eyes full of untroubled laughter.
Then even those visions were erased until there was nothing for him but an all-encompassing warmth. It surrounded him and filled him, chasing away all lingering vestiges of the sorrow that had long chilled his soul. This was what he had craved since he had been a mere child, fretful of the burning flames yet fascinated by the promise they held. At long last, that oath was fulfilled, and Alen rejoiced as his useless flesh was slowly seared away.
If only I could see him and hold him, just this once.
The useless thought amused him, his rueful laughter briefly overpowering the shrieking of his assailed nerves. Faced with imminent death, Alen decided it was time to finally let go of the fantasy, to let the fire carry the beautiful dream to the heavens along with the ashes of his physical form. There was nothing left for him on this mortal plane, not even the succor of his delusions.
The flames that crackled around him, the sickening smell of his skin as it blistered and scalded, the fierce heat that was rapidly shifting from pleasure to agony—this was his reality. The end approached ever nearer, riding on the glowing embers that swirled and eddied above his incipient tomb. The last verse in the hymn of offering was sung by the wretched gasps and rattling coughs that wracked his bound form as his tortured lungs labored against the thick, black smoke that threatened to drive away all breathable air.
Only it seemed his end was not content to find him in such an unspectacular fashion. Alen stared with stinging eyes at the apparition that approached him out of the darkness beyond the edge of the pyre’s glow. Even death is not kind, he mused, the thought flitting sluggishly through his mind as his capacity for thought rapidly dwindled. Rather, it seemed that hell had sent its demon servant to gather its prey, lest he attempt to resist the clutches of eternal slumber.
The beast stalked toward him, great and terrible, its flame-wreathed form seemingly sired by the conflagration raging beneath him, yet Alen felt no trepidation. He never once entertained a single thought of resistance. As if he would now forget all of his pretty declarations and spurn the fate
he had so willingly courted. Longingly, he gazed at the creature, silently pleading that it might release him from his torment.
Time froze upon the instant, the fire encroaching upon him no further as it paused in its rapacious dance. Alen stared in wonder as the creature came near, enchantment overcoming all pain as he perceived its full magnificence. The beast shone even more brightly against the dark sky than did the burning pyre, its glowing mane flowing like tendrils of licking flame. Alen was forced to narrow his eyes, reddened from the heat and smoke, lest the brilliance blind him. The creature paced with feline grace beside his prison, the demon-red hide that rippled over powerful sinew and muscle akin to the molten rock that lay within the mountain’s fiery depths. Massive forearms twitched as claws, long and thick as well-hewn swords, dug fitfully into the ground. A low growl sounded from the beast’s throat, rumbling in its broad chest with a resonance fit to shake the earth beneath them.
A long muzzle dripped slaver of red embers onto the pyre as it filled Alen’s vision. It came so close that he could see the fine, cat-like whiskers that bristled from either side of the broad nose. Alen expected the hot breath that brushed over his face to be rancid with the remains of the beast’s kills, yet it carried only the homey scent of sweet wood chips. Blackened lips drew back, revealing menacing fangs, and as the ivory daggers neared his throat, Alen contemplated the inexorable ease with which they would rip into his vulnerable flesh.