Margzor almost felt like a boy again. But instead of the nostalgic innocence he knew so long ago, he felt only fear. Shadows dripped from every branch and tree, saturating his world. Darkness thickened like blood in water, and the silhouettes of trees writhed to the tormenting moan of the wind.
No matter where he ran, he was haunted by chilling memories. Hundreds of them swirled in his conscience, a cyclone that threatened to tear his sanity apart. In the eye of that storm, one memory in particular brought him peace.
That memory was perhaps the most enjoyable and hideous of them all.
His dreams brought him more joy than anything in the world. However, it was a bittersweet feeling, for his pleasure was always accompanied by dread.
Beauty plagued his mind each night, dreams that fed on the vulnerable thoughts of love inside, only to become a nightmare. The emotional confusion transformed Margzor into an explosive disaster waiting to happen. What would trigger him?
He could not remember how he became so obsessed with love, nor could he determine if it was possible to reverse this process. It impaired his ability to sleep, to think, to survive. It threatened his most vital functions.
He could imagine nothing more horrendous than never bringing to reality the essence of his dreams. To never know the warmth of a lover or the kiss of a woman was unconscionable.
Yet, he could not shake the feeling that he was hideous. The demon had inspired the most potent hatred in this tortured soul. It had not created the violence in his heart; the demon was merely awakening it.
No matter how hard the demon attempted, though, it could not pierce the defense mechanisms of his mind and discover what had produced such animosity. It ceded at last to the fact that it could not look that deep inside him. Instead, the demon focused on how it could manipulate him further still.
Your sexual obsession is sinful, it hissed. Margzor paused in his steps at the disturbing accusation. He could not imagine why these feelings inside him were wrong. Sex encompassed more than pleasure; he imagined it was the most affectionate, loving, and beautiful thing in this dying world.
He yearned for someone he could kiss, make love to, and fulfill. She could undo this, everything that had befallen him since his childhood...
No, you cannot love, the demon harshly expressed. What you mistake as love is only lust and physical desire.
Margzor’s green eyes reflected sorrow, and he repressed a stab of shame. He knew he should not feel guilty about his feelings; they were in no way immoral or selfish. He imagined what he could bring into another person’s life, how he could bestow a woman the same love he so desperately sought.
There is nothing worthy of love in this world, the malevolence whispered within him. Humans do not love each other; men and women hollow out their hearts with hatred. You are surrounded by a world of hate, where every man is an enemy and every woman despises you.
Margzor retreated a step at the hurtful notion. Omnipresent hatred lurked out there, beyond the forest, coagulating like a disease in society and its festering cities. Their vain and superficial culture bred hatred, the value they placed on one another based on beauty, social hierarchy, and dominance. There was no denying this, he knew.
You are disgusting in their eyes, something less than human. A creature.
Slowly, Margzor walked across the forest and he contemplated his insecurity. He came to a stop as he approached a shallow pool of water in a hollow stump. Margzor studied his reflection in the water. He did not look like a creature.
His fingers disturbed the opaque surface, sending ripples to disfigure his reflection. He looked like a mature man, not the fragile boy he once was. These green eyes were not the unfeeling eyes of a monster, and his face was not deformed. He would arguably be considered handsome.
Yet, he could not deny his inhuman feelings. He did not share their social norms, their hopes, their dreams. He was not a woman’s definition of a man. He was not a human’s definition of sane.
Neither did he share society’s goals.
No, you do not belong in society. It is much too dangerous, superficial, and dominant. They are destined for self-destruction.
Margzor didn’t dare dispute the demon’s analysis; he had arrived at similar conclusions as his childhood withered.
Humans are a violent and callous breed that only loves one another in the carnal sense... but nothing will quench their lust for blood. Force is the only way to change society. You can control your pain by eradicating those who would do you harm. Eliminate the potential abusers.
It flooded Margzor’s imagination with fantasies about harming and controlling people. Violence and murder was all he could see.
It coaxed him to sleep, inventing more sexual fantasy. Every dream seemed to undo the eternity he spent in isolation and anguish. Just one more dream, one more fantasy and everything would be all right. Her fingers traced his lips, her eyes plunged deep into his, she welcomed his hands across her body, and with smoldering desire, she…
Margzor sighed morosely. And the more he focused on hatred, the more the demon rewarded him with dreams.
If he could never feel the pleasure and joy of love, he would devote himself to hate.
The sunlight decayed and night unfurled. His darkest fantasies awakened as he wandered the night. Hate would always be there for him.
Animosity would fill the void.
The sounds of the forest grew around him, reaching a crescendo, crickets screeching in the darkness, noises blending into a raging chorus. His footstep sounded like an explosion to his ears and the world fell silent.
He was alone once more.
Chapter 27
The great exodus poured into the streets outside the temple. One woman looked apprehensively over her shoulder, confused by the evacuation. Ava had assured her that Astalla authorized the exodus and it was vital to the safety of her followers.
The faithful would be summoned when it was safe to return to the temple. While the followers were evacuated, many clerics would remain behind.
It felt surreal to her that the temple was emptying. She would feel so alone without the smiling faces of people she had come to know as family. Who would she consult for guidance when her friends left? Ava wanted someone to stay, someone to talk with and share her feelings. She didn’t want to repress the doubts that tormented her heart.
However, Ava would not be alone.
A brother and sister watched from the balcony as clerics escorted hundreds from the prayer hall. The troublemakers smiled at each other as they observed the strange procession. They could not even begin to fathom what the clerics were doing. Maybe the adults were in trouble. The very thought made them giggle.
The friendly pair had been taken in by Ava two years ago. They were too young to even realize their parents were deceased.
“What is she doing?” the boy asked, indicating Ava.
“I think they’re playing a game.”
“Let’s play with them!” he exclaimed. “Let’s hide! They’ll never find us!” He retreated from the balcony in excitement and spun around to take in the surrounding terrace.
He often played a similar game with Ava, hiding among the upper levels until she found him. She didn’t seem to understand the concept of the game. Ava would always gently scold him and escort him to the first floor. He tried explaining to her time and again that he was supposed to hide and she was tasked to find him. His sister understood the game so much better than the silly adults.
“Where would we hide?” the sweet girl asked. The boy smiled impishly and took his sister’s hand.
“Come on! I’ll show you!” He shepherded her across the temple and they darted up a flight of stairs. He knew of just the place where no one would find them. Sometimes he would disappear into this secret chamber when the adults prayed.
An ancient door awaited them in the dim corridors. The boy had discovered the room several weeks ago. As far as he knew, no one was making use of it. He exchanged an innocent smile
with his sister.
Ava would never find them.
* * *
Sometimes, Margzor wondered how he was able to kill another human. He was not desensitized to violence. He knew precisely what he was doing and he took sole responsibility for his actions. Instead of guilt, he felt as though he had only killed a lesser life form, like a parasite.
He knew such a lack of empathy reflected hideously on him. How could a man so cold and heartless be certain that he could love a woman? He dismissed the insidious doubts inspired by the demon. He refused to believe he was a murderer without a conscience.
He felt justified in every act of violence he perpetrated, and he knew the crimes he committed did not reflect on the love he was capable of. In his mind, society was his nemesis and its inhabitants were disposable.
They were guilty of feeding a religious conspiracy founded on sexual guilt and slavery to priests.
He smiled to himself as he considered his plot. In some ways, he wanted to test their faith and see if they would still believe. Would they offer themselves as martyrs for their religion? Did they believe the sanctity of virginity was something worth dying for?
He viewed himself as assaulting the values they represented rather than targeting the humans themselves. Their elitist concept of purity would no longer cast its oppressive shadow on him. He would not feel guilt for his sexual feelings and passion, and they would suffer for spreading persecution.
Margzor studied the fiery sword in his hand as night stretched across the forest. The unnatural blade nearly hypnotized him, forbidding him from looking away. It seemed to grow closer and closer, or perhaps he was slipping away from reality again. He could vividly remember the first time he held this... beautiful weapon...
Years ago, Margzor had brooded for many nights before the demon insisted he take further action. It hissed to Margzor and he listened intently.
Create a bonfire with the bones of a wolf. It continued to instruct Margzor to spread the ashes in intricate patterns around the flames.
His fingers gingerly scattered the ashes among the forest floor. The cold, black vestiges sunk into the dirt like a disease overtaking its victim. He knelt reverently before the scorching flames and its fiery pall glared into his eyes.
Reach into the fire. The very notion confused and alarmed him. He refused, but it became abundantly clear that he did not have a choice in the matter. The demon wrestled away his control and forced him to closer to the flames.
When Margzor thrust his hand inside, shock consumed him. He was greeted by pleasant warmth. His skin did not burn. His fingers closed around something solid within the flames. He hesitated. Finally, he extracted the object from the bonfire. A sword of demonic origin rested in his hand. The voluptuous blade radiated in the firelight, its sharp edges pursed dangerously to kiss wounds on living flesh.
A massive pommel acted as a counterweight to the long blade, and its grip was wrapped in black leather. Its deadly design entranced him, arousing the violence within that writhed to explode. He clasped the weapon viciously, breathing life into his sadistic fantasy.
That fantasy began to take hold of his imagination as the dark hours changed to early morning.
The demon persuaded Margzor to waylay a caravan. Use your weapon against humans.
He lurked beyond the edge of the forest where he could survey the road. His green eyes saw them approaching now, six men and a wagon. It would not be difficult for Margzor to overtake the merchants with his speed and agility.
Suddenly, he focused on something he hadn’t seen before. A knight hired to protect the merchants followed the caravan, clad in amour with a sword sheathed at his waist. Margzor had never faced an opponent of this caliber before.
At last, he advanced, slowly creeping on all fours beneath the trees. He assumed a biped stance, walking only on his feet, treading over the twigs and ferns. His legs moved faster as they raced pendulously across the forest floor.
Margzor erupted from the trees with a cry of rage.
The merchants stopped and stared. It was not immediately clear what riveted them in shock; the prospect of an ambush or the fact that their assailant was nude. He rushed toward the nearest merchant and ducked low, swinging his sword as he spun, slicing the man’s legs out from under him. The man screamed as a hot deluge of blood bathed his leg and he plunged into the dirt.
Margzor spun toward another caravaner and his eyes transfixed him with a hypnotizing glare. The man knew he was dead before the demonic blade bit into his ribs. The remaining merchants cried out for help and ran into the forest. Margzor enjoyed the idea of hunting down the fools that escaped into his domain. He almost plunged into the forest in pursuit when movement out of the corner of his eye arrested him.
A long blade careened at Margzor with cutting speed. Agility alone saved him from the sword tearing his arm off. He continued to retreat from the knight’s sword, barely evading its sharp edge. The knight relentlessly advanced, obviously experienced in combat. His defense was impenetrable and his offense only built momentum with each blow. Margzor’s weapon snapped against his adversary’s, not once striking home. He feared he would soon be forced to flee.
No. Failure was not an option. All inner weakness must be subdued.
Margzor broke into a run and catapulted toward the knight. Before his feet landed on the road, he gyrated and his blade sheared through the knight’s neck. The knight’s body staggered forward and collapsed. The torso continued to exhibit signs of life, its limbs twitching. At last, the knight became still.
Margzor crept closer and reached toward the corpse. He quickly withdrew his hand as though he expected the body to reanimate. Finally, he touched the armor with his fingertips. Blackness seemed to corrode its edges, transforming it into a darker husk. Tarnished with the demonic presence, the metal merged with his sickly energy.
He began to don the apparatus with shaking fingers. His heart throbbed against the breastplate that melded with his flesh. Like an infection, a dark stain consumed the metal, embracing Margzor like the infestation that had taken hold of his mind.
The memory faded as the sword slipped from Margzor’s fingers. He gazed into the distance, spellbound by the feeling of his first murder. That moment had changed his life forever, extinguishing what remained of his innocence. He felt an overwhelming urge to vomit as he considered the dozens of murders he carried out. He could still hear his victims’ screams echoing in his brain.
What indeed had he become?
It was during this vulnerable state that the demon confirmed everything he did not want to hear. The violence he imagined was becoming more vivid and pleasurable in his mind, and guilt was replaced with twisted rationalization.
They deserved it, the demon hissed from the depths of his sentience. Their lives are dispensable compared to your future. Margzor swallowed the bitter taste of shame.
Become a god, the demon said more forcefully. Slay one of their precious deities and take its place. It will give you the power to rise above your emotional pain. Destroy their source of joy that you can never hope to achieve.
Margzor contemplated the opportunity with skepticism. It would be impossible to defeat a god—but perhaps not a demigod, an entity both mortal and divine. The demon began to pry at his deepest resentments in efforts to exploit his desires.
It soon discovered what it sought.
* * *
Nishka closely followed her guide as he continued along his course. A lush forest beckoned them with curtains of leaves parted to grant them passage. Suddenly, Arxu jerked to a stop.
“What was that?” he said, the words exploding from his lips. His hand darted for his staff.
“What?” A keening wail pierced Nishka’s mind like a dying animal. It mellowed into silence, itching at the crevices of her brain like a departing memory.
“There was a strange disturbance nearby,” Arxu said. He scanned the forest, every muscle knotted with tension. A more primitive part of his brain signaled dange
r. Nishka studied her companion uneasily, waiting for him to attack. She almost reached for her crossbow when she heard him sigh.
“Let us continue.” He stepped inside the maze of trees. A fading sunset glazed the forest foliage in warm tones, almost immediately sucked up in shadows. Petrified in the embrace of twisting vines, the trees seemed no more than empty shells void of life. Their ancient, alabaster skin gleamed like bone in the dying spasms of dusk. Arxu wound toward the south as the road rose in an incline.
At the top of the crest loomed a strange arch. It looked too precise to be natural, yet its surface was eroded by decades of wear. The closer they drew to the archway, more stone formations reared up on the horizon. Nishka and Hrioshango stood in awe of the city remains. It was beautiful to behold and eerie in its splendor.
Mystic arches loomed in the background, robed in evening mist. A dome-shaped structure resided further in the distance, centered by the resplendent architecture. Arxu blinked as he saw movement within the ruins. He was certain he saw something. He crept forward.
“Arxu...” Nishka protested.
He glided down the paved walkway, the surface giving way to an ancient courtyard. The gray tiles beneath his feet were worn by age, providing uneven ground.
He gazed across the wreckage and his jaw slowly dropped. He felt something here. An emotion very different from anger.
A memory was swirling into his mind, emerging from the fog of amnesia.
A figure lurked in the obscurity, not daring to move. Though Arxu could not see it, he could feel its eyes piercing him. Arxu stood transfixed at the sight of the unusual shape. What was it doing in this melancholy place all but robbed of life?
“Who is it? Do you know what it is?” Nishka asked. She took a step forward when his hand lunged out and seized her. She looked fearfully into the Nightwalker’s eyes. Arxu replied in the most chilling and calm manner.
The Undying God Page 18