"And what of your experiments? Have they found their own success?"
"Quite so, My Lord. The insects will prove a vital and valuable weapon at The Stone Keep, as will the mud. Of that, I have no concern. I should say that with the efforts of my Necromancers, we should not need the Hounds or Ravens to be victorious,” he arrogantly stated.
"Mordin, I know you ache to release the well of power within. I know it is your greatest wish to send forth the complete force of you and your necromancers to finally show those arrogant fools the truth about the nature of power. I feel it too. Yet, while that struggle is real and strong, we must resist and adhere to our Master's desires. We have not been instructed to destroy, but to build. There will come a time when you will get the chance to show your true power, but we must remember this vital teaching. The true measure of hate is not to destroy what stands against us, but to subdue it, control it, and dominate it. The propagation of darkness is a much truer measure than the simple elimination of light. How much more will it hurt God to see His people turned against Him?" he concluded with a rhetorical question. A question Mordin knew the answer to, for he had borne witness to it over the years of Jesolin's rise.
Jesolin, the Unifier of Gypsies, rose slowly and steadily. But it was not until the first time he had beaten him in Gool that he noticed his empathy for the once young and frail boy had subtly changed into admiration. He was, of course, not alone in the changing of his emotions over the years, and while not all fell under the boy's spell, most of the gypsies had, including many of the elder council members. Jesolin was always around trouble, but not the type of trouble he caused himself, rather trouble meant for others that he was able to somehow thwart before the trouble turned into damage.
On one particular occasion, not six months into his stay, and while the rest of the clan was in a frenzy attempting to organize a search party to find the Elder Councilman's young daughter, Jesolin emerged from the forest clearing, bloodied and again near death; however, this time, he was cradling the young girl as tenderly as if he was her own brother. As Jesolin was being nursed back to health under the care of the Elder Councilman himself, details emerged of how he single handedly fought two wolves with only a dagger. He ignored numerous bites and scratches to emerge victorious and bring back the girl. When asked how he found the wolves, he told of how he was washing in the river and heard the faint screams of a small child. He passed it off as fate and fortune.
While vaulting his acceptance to a much higher level within the distrustful ranks he was now calling home, this single event was not enough for him to be included as a family member. He was still seen as an outsider, but now he was an outsider who was thought of fondly and appreciated for the talents he possessed. Over the next year or so, Jesolin made an identity for himself of always being around to assist those who had need. Sometimes this was pre-arranged and other times seemed to be the result of fate and fortune. Though there was no single repeated event of heroism to the degree of saving the young girl, he was still able to create for himself a pseudo-heroic legend; but not one built upon a few great deeds, but instead an uncountable amount of small events. In that years’ time he went from being hardly an afterthought to holding a place of prominence within all their minds.
But as prominent as he had become, he was still leagues away from being thought of in any leadership capacity as well as being given any greater responsibility beyond that of a glorified errand boy. And then came the winter of his second year, a winter that would see the cold chill to the bones of not just the old, but of the youthfully strong as well. Mordin himself was afflicted by a particularly strong ailment. In fact, most of the gypsy tribe had fallen to the same sickness. Even the Chief and the whole council of elders did not escape the cold induced fever of the foul disease. Those spared were a handful of people, two of which were Jesolin and Vismorda. Though their contact had been somewhat limited by circumstance, the bone chilling cold, and the insurgence of the powerful sickness gave the two of them ample time to connect while treating the whole of the tribe.
Over the course of the winter, several of the council members fell victim to the harsh winter as did several of the other gypsies. But through the efforts of Jesolin and Vismorda, many more of them were saved and given a second chance at life. Jesolin, who previously had no knowledge in the healing arts, had furthered his position in gypsy lore as something much more than a helpful and fortunate boy. He was becoming a legend, and was largely regarded as something, if not wholly gifted by divinity, then certainly falling under its touch.
"Mordin, do I detect a portion of defiance within your silence?" Said Jesolin as he turned to continue donning his hell blessed armor.
"No, My Lord. I was simply considering the vastness of your wisdom and aligning myself with it. How symphonically your rise to power has been and how great is our Master's knowledge of all that was, is and will be. How could we not, as mere men, follow his directions with a humble knowledge?" asserted Mordin in what he thought was an equally rhetoric response.
"Hate," Jesolin returned flatly.
"My Lord?"
"Hate, Mordin. Hate is the cause of disobedience. Have you not considered why control is a dictate of hate?"
"Certainly, My Lord. If one hates something, one seeks to control it. Control is a method employed by hate as its very nature."
"Yes, yes, you are quite right Mordin, but have you paused to ask why?"
"Why does hate control? I assume it is because of the hate itself."
Jesolin turned with pity inside his eyes, for pity was derived by pride in one's stature above another, and stood as yet another expression of darkness, "My little Mordin, how shallow your sight and understanding is. Let me ask you this question: Do you know love?"
"Love? What do you mean?"
"Do you know what it feels like to be loved?"
"No, I do not."
"Do you know what it feels to be hated?"
"You know that I do."
"Yes, so do I. And what is the response you feel when you are hated?"
"I hate in return."
"Now, let me ask another question: what would be your response to me should I be unable to control you?"
Mordin stood considering for a moment. His nature was to be deceptive and so his first response was to lie and state that he would be the loyal servant he always was in an effort to avoid a confrontation with is superior. But in the consideration of that, he knew Jesolin would be able to detect any deception he offered. And as before, his retribution for deception would be fast and fierce. So, he had but one response to offer, the truth. And then he understood. He was not truthful because he existed in an environment concurrent with the propagation of honesty for honesty's sake; he was truthful because he existed in an environment altogether the opposite. He was going to be honest because he was controlled. He chose to follow because he was controlled, and should that control ever be lifted, he knew what he would do.
"My Lord, I would strike against you in the most heinous manner I am capable of. I would release upon you all that you have released upon me and more. I would dismantle every aspect of you until you were left utterly desolate. I would exist to control you," answered Mordin in a flat and matter of fact manner, meeting Jesolin's gaze moment for moment.
"So you see," replied the Hand of Satan, "obedience must be maintained through control when in an environment of hate. Only hate is bred by hate. Without control, there would be no obedience. Without control, there would be no law. And the measure of control is power," Jesolin finished as he backhanded Mordin across his face, leaving his bottom lip broken and bleeding. "Never forget this lesson. Never forget the necessity of control."
After Mordin had learned his harsh lesson and exited in silence, Jesolin completed donning his armor and stood as the hideous reflection of Satan made mortal. The armor, though metallic in construct, was fluid and seemed to ooze within its boundaries in an ever changing pattern of darkness. Faint
patterns of featureless faces, grotesquely misshapen, would ebb and flow intermittently with equally misshapen geometric patterns. All black, all dark, and all evil. Light and thin, the armor nevertheless carried the fortitude of Satan's hate matured through the endless ages of his compounding pride. He carried this pride with him as he traversed the caverns leading to the outlook where he would address his Legion as the fully manifested Hand of Evil. He and he alone was given the power necessary to control the multitude that would bring forth Satan's great harvest. He and no one else shared in the depth of hate resonating within the Devil himself.
Long has he waited. So long, in fact, there was no memory open for recollection that was missing the link to vengeance. And the longer he waited, through his endlessly painful years, the greater the effect of the resonating echo forcing the tides of his desire for vengeance to grow. And now it was beginning to wax to a crescendo beyond the mortal capability to harness and hold within the framework of the feebly insufficient, organically physical form. In fact, so dominate was the rising sun of his vengeance, its dark illumination blinded all else from the presentation of his aspect. In this moment, he not only felt and commanded vengeance, he became it. And through this vengeance, he would inflict wounds impossible to suffer upon mortality. Death was too quick, too forgiving and too releasing to fill his unquenchable desire for devastation. Better it is to devastate while allowing continued life to linger slowly until it reflected the darkness without any remnant of light remaining. And so he would speak. And so they would follow. For contained within his words would be the fluid and vicious magic of his fountain made alive to affect his legion and seal them to his Master's desire. The tumblers to their heart would be forever locked and cemented as his liquid words solidified. They would assemble, they would hear, and they would obey.
Now it comes to it. Blending into his steps as two restlessly powerful yet subservient entities, both Vismorda and Mordin fell into his oppressive gait without hesitation or direction. They were but steps away from emerging into the light at the end of his formidably long progression. Welling from within, Jesolin heard the familiar voice, alluring in its presence, assert itself into his mind.
Now, little one. Now it truly begins. Listen to me, I will be with you. I bid thee to speak as I would speak
Jesolin was silent yet spoke in return, Yes Master. Lead me unto the words of your hate. Bring forth in me all the power of you. Let me reflect all that is you.
He felt his fountain instantly leap to his command almost overflowing with excitement and anticipation. Holding it at bay, in this moment was almost more than he could endeavor, yet he heard again the voice of seduction.
Do not doubt. You are mine. In this hour, I call you Son
Hearing that word created, no, revealed an emotion he had never felt, but somehow, always knew was there. He was unable to put a single word to what he was feeling, but its effect bolstered his confidence and signaled his arrival. He was the second portion of a family with a steadfast and unchangeable inheritance. He answered with a single statement, Father, I will make you proud
Fluid in his confidence and elated in his frenzied fountain, he stepped onto the ledge overlooking the vastness of his legion sprawling like a sea of black sewage to the end of his visual acuity. Observing the assembled horde, he felt a sense of pride within, not reflecting all he had done, but all his father had done for him. He had lifted him from his horrible existence at the orphanage, rescued him from a life confined to the prisons of the land, delivered him unto the caring gypsies, and elevated him to the single positon of authority over all of what would become his unholy empire.
Why do you hesitate, My Son
I do not hesitate, Father, I simply am grateful for all of this
Embrace My hate, and Embrace my power. Pause no longer.
He then felt and instant surge of power from his fountain, but its signature was so vast he knew its genesis was not confined to himself and must have been sent by his new Father. It was aching to be released, and so he did. As it seeped from him, it flowed down from the ledge and made a mist like progression toward the expectant legion. As it flowed, so did his words, "Blood, upon which all promises are made. Blood, upon which all hopes are formed. Blood, upon which all dreams are manifest. As it drips from our swords, as it is made poison from our power, let the deep life giving red be made into a blackness so dark, no light will be shone from the sun. Time, relentless in its progression. Time, formless in its affect. Time, ageless in its beginning. As it continues to unravel its spools of webbing, let it be now that our web of influence is released and called to birth."
Yes, Yes! shouted the silent voice with approval and applause as the mist continued to coalesce around each of the individual members of the gathered legion.
"Our time is now! Let our hate and rage be poured out upon this land such that none will confront us! We have all suffered greatly at the hands of those who would spurn us. But spurn us no longer for now our master has bid us to a bloodletting fit to dispense the justice of our unholy vengeance. And as we march, as we drench the land with blood darker than the sunless sky, let us always remember our hate. For in our hate we are reborn! And through our hate we connect with He Who Is Hate!"
More, More! The voice continued. Jesolin saw as the dark fountain continued to pour forth its misted power. He saw it solidify around and seep into the hearts of his followers. None evaded its fingered grasp. All were consumed.
"As we leave these unholy lands, let us carry it with us to consume and control. The time is now! Our Unholy Master has given this moment to release all of His desires. And we, WE, have been chosen to be his fist of judgement; His Legion of hate filled power. And he sees us with Pride! Yes, let us release now, upon the Stone Keep and watch it crumble as the Silver Empire will soon crumble before our might. For none can resist our hate. None can resist. We march, now, for time and blood. For Time and Blood!"
Well done, My Son. Now, witness!
As Jesolin's words concluded and the resulting echo of uncontrolled, hideous elation commenced, he began to feel a great stirring in the energies surrounding him and within him. Reflective of his dark fountain of blackened, tarlike liquid turned mist, he saw rising from all around the gathered throng, an equally dark mist. The totality of its weight, when all of the infinitely small particles of this new mist were gathered and set upon a scale, outmatched the summation off all the gathered hate within the tens of thousands beneath. As the young leader stood upon his promised precipice, overlooking the scene, he became aware; Satan had come.
As the mist slowly and painfully took shape behind the frenzied forces below, he could also see its awful affect grow. When the elation of his words should have worn off, and the Legion should have started returning to its previously calmed state and began making the final preparations for the march, Jesolin witnessed no such actions. Rather, what he saw was the simultaneous development of a hideously beautiful formless mass of physically manifested hate along with the growth of an equally grotesque need for evil revelry take shape within each of the individual soldiers. As the formless yet solid state of Satan finished its transformation from diffuse mist to cemented presence, the hideously hell bent cesspool of evil fornication below was reaching its summit. And Jesolin reveled in it. If this be the spoils of anticipation, he was incapable of fathoming the spoils of victory. Indeed, evil would breed well tonight, for they march with the deafening silence of the dawn as it broke through the noise of mortality. And all the while, Satan moved within them, orchestrating their degeneration, and hating them all.
Well into the night and early hours of the morning did the horrible display of wanton evil continue. Screams, groans, and pleas for mercy could be heard throughout the valley and into the cavernous halls they had all called home for the last few years. Seeds of lust, pain, and blood could be felt thickly in the air. All were subjected to the vile elevation of need by the presence of Satan. All but Jesolin, for he sought neithe
r comfort nor expression for his evil intent. No, he would harness it and save it for truly the most opportune moment. He slowly, in a haze of hate induced drunkenness, made his way back to his bedchamber where he found Vismorda deliciously waiting for him, with equal portions of lust and evil reflected in her alluring eyes. And though he would normally indulge her dreams and transform them into her seductively submissive screams and moans, he would do no such thing tonight. For tonight was his and his alone. As such, he dismissed the lusciously naked woman and sat on the edge of his bed.
How had it come to this? Oh he knew the answer to that. He knew all of this was the working and planning of Satan, but what he did not know and possibly would never know is why him? He was inferior from birth. He remembered into his childhood that he was always the smallest, sickest and weakest of the children in the orphanage. There was nothing about his personal body, mind, or spirit that dictated he would amount to any such success regardless of his path. He was, in all estimations, of lower status than his peers. And to reason it out at full length, this was why he had never successfully found a home; a message repeatedly fed to him upon the plate of Rento, The Beast.
What a feast it was to feed upon one's dictated identity at the whim of a greater will. To believe in a fictitious evaluation derived from a self-serving examination borne from a state of being absent of denial, incubated through ages of withheld tears, was a condition of life that had finally gained enough ground upon him to surface. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he felt well from within, a thickness creep into his throat. As it slowly traveled toward its hopeful exhalation through his mouth, he anticipated the coming relaxation; but it did not continue to reach the point of relief. Instead, it hung, balanced by the counterweight of an unrelentingly sweet and painful force, impossible to deny, yet horrible to accept.
Wetness, as light as a feather and as undetectable as a humming birds wings, began to slowly drip down his left cheek. He reached up to the unfamiliar sensation and was caught in mid motion as his breath was forcibly hesitant, growing thicker by the moment. He felt his lungs catch again, but this time, it was followed by a reflective and involuntary staccato of inhalation. More wetness, now openly streaking down both cheeks, was followed by an intense exhalation mimicking his intake of breath moments ago. The building thickness and now stuck feeling within his throat was pleading to be released, but Jesolin refused to give in. For in the moment of his breaking, true breaking, there would be nothing left except that which he was made to believe. And then, crashing upon the prepared acceptance of his soul's surface, he felt it. He felt nothing. And in his nothingness, he wept. Sinking to the floor and resting his back against his bed, he pulled his knees to his chest and began to rock. Back and forth he rocked upon his haunches seeking to feel something, anything of himself. But there was nothing, not even his tears were his own. With his face now buried in his hands, he broke the dam and poured forth all of his pain in a truthful yet horrific bellow of terrible revelation.
Convergence (The Dragon Within Saga Book 1) Page 60