The girl clapped and smiled a terrible toothy grin. “You truly don’t know yourself do you?”
Gajan shook as a way of saying no, but he wanted to, he desperately needed to know why he knew her and why he so fervently longed to be nowhere near her. Silent lacerations attacked his center, spreading out to the very ends of his tendrils and snapped back like a whip being cracked. It was only one of the most unpleasant things he had felt since watching his heart turn to dust.
The girl said nothing as she moved into shadows beyond the throne, somewhere beyond the moonlight filtering in through the spaces between the canopy, the only small space in her bramble castle that wasn’t dominated by twisted wood and misshapen branches.
“Who is she?” Gajan asked aloud, his question meant for the other Vultures.
They were silent ghosts, blending against the makeshift walls. Gajan waited for an answer before sinking to the ground, pain caroming through his form enough to make him pass out again. He wouldn’t let it happen, he couldn’t fathom letting those he had taken steal more of who he used to be. He fought dizziness and spots against his vision until his voice came out as a roar. “Who is she?” Sound echoed off the walls, startling the bats. Wings flapped against the air like hooves along the ground and Gajan felt something slick and cold against his tendrils. Another Vulture twined himself around Gajan, an answer muttered in low baritones.
“The small lady is Morgana.”
The Vulture detached, stealing into the shadows as the others screeched in pain at the mention of the girl’s name. Gajan didn’t recognize it. As hard as he tried he couldn’t conjure the memory of the little girl. All he had was the same repulsion the others Vultures felt towards her.
It was some time before Morgana emerged from behind the throne, fresh blood smeared on her palms, a wicked look in her eyes. She sauntered towards Gajan and he backed away until invisible strings pulled and like a marionette he was drawn towards her. The screeches in the cavern reached a deafening level and Gajan fought against the searing hunger but it was no use. White matter smoked from the blood on Morgana’s palm and he wanted to devour it, all of it. So did the others but she held them at bay.
“I told you once…you would long for this,” she whispered, holding her hand out so close he smelled the sunlight in her palm. His form shuddered, wanting it so bad, wanting to curl around her hand and lap up all the matter, but she pulled back. “First you must tell me what you remember.”
Gajan gaped, gasping at the matter, the fighting screeches reaching a crescendo. “I remember nothing,” he choked.
“You don’t remember me?” Morgana sounded innocent and hurt, but Gajan knew better, something in him told him not to trust her.
He shook again, trying to reach for the white matter but she forced him away. “Please, I want more,” he rasped.
She quirked her lips up in a wan smile, “Is this all you know?”
Gajan let out a sneering screech, his first as he tried to bat against the barrier keeping him from the glorious salvation in her outstretched, bloodied hand. “All I know is hunger and smoke.” He could barely speak he wanted it so much, wanted her. He’d never remembered ever wanting anything as bad as he wanted the smoke in her hand.
Morgana shot him a devilish glare. She taunted him, pushing the smoke near his self-contained storm but he couldn’t eat and it killed him being so close to something he couldn’t have. “Will you pledge yourself to me?”
Gajan nodded fervently, he would do anything for her if she would give him the smoke, the pure, untainted smoke. She giggled and thrust it forward as he spoke the words. “I belong to you.”
The barriers fell and he covered her hands in the cold storm, lapping up every last grain of white matter, folding it into his core until there was nothing left. The others took to the sky. Gajan went to follow but the white matter held him down and he slipped, grappling at the brambles as the memories attached to the white matter hit him like a battering ram. Taking this soul was thousands of times worse than any of the other souls he had taken.
He remembered this one.
Ambrose Telper, the Ferryman of Amaltheia.
The land tilted and blurred above him until glittering sand castles sweltering with heat filled his vision. There were two boys on white horses, and a hoard of rowdy men rallying and shouting, swords raised in the air. “Your care of the land is piss poor,” Ambrose spat at Gajan. “Vultures don’t come where they can’t be fed.”
Gajan had been there, he had been right there. Ambrose was his kin, and now his enemy, and now he was nothing because Morgana had ended him and fed his soul to Gajan. He opened his eyes, the little girl with black lightning eyes leaning over him. He couldn’t think straight but he needed to escape her before she stole what little of himself he had left.
***
Chapter 3
The land was nothing but an icy mass stretched across what used to be homes, fields, villages, lakes, and seas. Gajan couldn’t feel anything but the hunger, the smell of white smoke on the air, like burnt apples, sweet but bitter. The swarm did nothing but eat and with every soul Gajan took he felt lighter, different, less burdened by a past he could no longer remember. It was easier letting memories fly into the air like flocks of birds traveling south. All his memories were in the south, some place far from his current form where they couldn’t hurt him anymore.
The soul Morgana fed him hurt. Visions compacted themselves into his brain, words turned to mush and he forgot everything about the soul as it added its white matter to the mass. He wasn’t sure where it went once it was contained within him, but these were mindful things and he had no use for the mind.
They were descending again, being pulled out of the sky like little winks of waves on the ocean, one minute there and the next gone. Gajan didn’t know how that worked, being in one place at one time and then somewhere else, but when Morgana beckoned, the swarm found her.
The sound of an explosion jarred Gajan back to the charred land below him. He swooped around and around the stone building, watching fire spread with awe. As far as he knew this was the first fire he had ever seen and yet it felt familiar, the way the explosions reverberated in his form, the way rocks and debris found the sky, the way flames climbed higher and higher until they faded into black smoke, forming dark clouds overhead.
He felt the few souls inside but they weren’t dying, they were running. Anything alive made Gajan curious; since he hadn’t seen anyone alive in…he couldn’t tell how much time had passed.
Come to me my pets, Morgana crooned.
Gajan was jolted out of his stupor, finding the little girl standing in the field far enough away from the blast. Someone limped towards her, his gait uneven, his hair slicked back into a long ponytail. He wore black trousers and a ratty black tunic, the edges frayed. Gajan felt nauseous, an instinctual longing to be nearer to the man ricocheting through him. Gajan felt himself falling out of the sky but there was no such thing as impact. He smelled tar, smoke and blood on Morgana’s hands as she petted his form, her voice soothing and sensual. He couldn’t make out what she was saying as the man squeezed his fist and his body shuddered, seeming to be transparent for a second before it reappeared, solid.
Morgana’s laughter filled the air and Gajan wanted to recoil but her hand was fixed on his tendrils and he felt paralyzed to her side. He tried to understand the distinct urge to vomit, mixed with a deep hatred he had no right to feel. As the man coughed, the feeling only put Gajan on guard.
You will like this, my pet, Morgana sneered, her voice ringing through him like needles piercing his mind. He slipped a little, surrendering to her will. Morgana began clapping, the blood on her hands smacking together, stray iron drops suspended in the air until they fell. Morgana kicked up the mud, sending clumps of it in the man’s direction and he let out a battle cry, low and menacing.
Gajan didn’t like this at all.
He wanted to be fed, he couldn’t be fed here. All he felt was the crushi
ng sense of nauseous churning his insides and he wanted the sky and smoke to numb all the hunger and cold in him. The other man fell on his knees and Morgana skipped around him.
That made him dizzy.
He wanted to hate Morgana, but she provided everything he needed, she owned him.
“Awake! Awake! You have many things to do, Tor,” Morgana sneered.
He had a name, Tor. Gajan was stuck on that for awhile, running the name over and over in his mind, hoping he could remember him; remember why Tor made him feel so sick.
Tor shot her a mangled look. “Where are the others? Have you summoned them to this duel as well?”
Morgana shifted towards Tor and sent a low pulse through the land. Gajan felt it quake through him, some kind of warning. “You think this is a duel?”
“There’s no other reason to attack my compound and pull me into this forsaken wasteland is there?” Tor countered.
Morgana tsked. “You are much too old to fight me, Tor. Have you any dust left?”
Tor righted himself. “I have enough to end you.”
Morgana laughed. “You have nothing…”
Gajan cringed as the rumble became a pounding, snarling and whinnying hitting the air with a myriad of crescendos. Morgana began whispering some kind of incantation under her breath but the words were slurred and reminded Gajan of clouds. He felt himself being tossed on the breeze, moving from one place to another with subordination, finding sustenance in the darkest of places. He thought he heard a bone crack as Tor fell to one knee, and the ripple effect washed over him, turning everything that was once demonic into something else—human.
Morgana neared him and Gajan tasted swamp water on her mouth. Morgana leaned in, so close to Tor that Gajan smelled the leather, salt and metal on him. “Bring me the Amethyst Flame.”
Gajan was lost in those three little words. The Amethyst Flame. Vertigo turned the sky to a series of black spots as he fought to stay awake. He couldn’t pass out; he couldn’t go back to that place. There were more, dozens more souls than there had been the last time. He couldn’t let them take this too, whatever this was. It was at the edge of his memory but he couldn’t pull it towards him. The Amethyst Flame, it meant something, it was something to him.
But what?
Tor swung but she darted away, flitting gleefully through the mud, cackling laughter rising between snarling beasts. “You expect your small minded tricks to work on me, Morgana?”
The little girl stopped in her tracks and whirled. “My tricks have already worked. Go on Tor, try to escape, try to transport.”
Gajan looked at the smirk on Morgana’s face as Tor clenched and unclenched his fist, the sheer embarrassment and shock crossing his leathery features. Tor belonged to Morgana too, and Gajan hoped she would be kinder to him. The pounding and rumbling seemed to fade as Tor’s humanity took hold, everything about what he used to be seemed nonexistent. It made Gajan feel slightly better, but it didn’t cure the hole where his heart used to be, the crackling feeling to envelope something—someone—in his arms too impossible to ignore. He wanted the sky more than ever, unable to understand why Tor had such an effect on him.
“What treachery is this?” Tor demanded. Gajan smiled to himself, Morgana had defeated him—made him hers, like she made the swarm hers. He was nothing but a simple pawn. She seemed so innocent for someone so dangerous.
Morgana lingered until she spoke many moments later. “A trap, a trap, you’ve fallen prey to the spider and she’s got you in her web. Find the thing the spider needs and you’ll be free. Find it not and forever will you walk the earth—a human until the apocalypse.”
Tor growled. “Do you think you’ve taken anything that truly matters to me?”
Morgana scoffed. “I’ve taken everything else.”
Tor turned and Gajan felt the rest of the swarm hit the ground, taking on human forms like seasoned veterans. Gajan felt more like a wolf at Morgana’s side, he wasn’t skilled enough to emulate human forms.
“Do you truly think you’ll find them both?” Morgana called after him.
Tor stopped and Gajan felt the air change. It smelled like rain, soot and flesh. “I’ll find your wayward Horsemen, but the Flame is gone.”
That word again, that name—Flame. Gajan went to follow Tor but Morgana restrained him. He wanted to reach out—Tor knew the Flame, he knew where it went, and Gajan wanted it more than he wanted wispy white smoke. He whinnied and a loud screech erupted from his form, Morgana’s bloodied hand gripping his form hard.
Don’t forget who your master is, she hissed.
Gajan’s screech died, but the hole in his form only expanded as Tor became a small speck on the horizon and his only chance of recovering his memories, of knowing why he wanted the Flame, went with him.
***
Chapter 4
Morgana kept him on little strings for an incomprehensible amount of days and summers all blending into each other. She forced him into battlefields, his will to resist the white smoke becoming weaker and weaker. He tried to tell himself he shouldn’t be gluttonous, that there was a reason not to devour souls, but no matter how much he reasoned with himself the hunger won and he poured liquid sunshine through his form, savoring the sweet, tangy flavor until it dwindled down and the retching, horrifying hunger returned.
The land changed so quickly after the ice cleared and civilizations rose up around it, pyramids in the desert and slaves mining for gold and jewels. He followed the setting sun, existing in dark places between days, the death toll and bloodshed enough for him to stay giddy on white matter for days. Fragmented pieces of other people’s lives played behind his eyes, an endless monotony of battle strategies, agriculture techniques and greed for gold, adding to the hoard inside his form.
He didn’t let himself pass out a second time.
Passing out was the only thing he feared as a Vulture. It didn’t mean death, or non existence, but it meant facing himself, facing the souls he had stolen from Terra, the Lands Across the Stars. It meant seeing their angry faces and accepting their blunt force trauma, their fingernails digging into the flesh of the man he used to be, gouging out his eyes, ripping out his tongue, searing his bones to ash. He couldn’t be what he was and accept the backlash of consequences that came from getting too lost and falling prey to that awful dark chamber.
He rumbled over the land, a series of sage bushes and cacti amidst oily slick dirt and upturned green onions, carrots and potatoes. The village was a wasteland, people screaming and running, fire skating across their homes as men on horses adorned in enough gold for two lifetimes slashed at them with swords.
Morgana never tired of men that slaughtered other men.
She sat by the shadows, skipping, whirling and clapping, singing songs that wafted through the air with trepidation. Most of the people were too busy dying to pay attention to her, but Gajan felt her inside his mind, tugging on those strings, keeping him in line. His form passed through that of a man on fire and he braced himself for the feeling of charcoal across his lungs, smoke inside his mouth, and the crack, pop and sizzle in his eyes before they went blind.
The man fell and Gajan entered his sternum, pulling all the white matter out before it wafted to the sky. He devoured the soul before it had a chance to die and Gajan was sick on the saccharine taste of it. The body burned until the bones were blackened, skin and muscle wrapped around it like tar. He rose out of the body, noticing the village had grown quiet. The swarm had left and Morgana with them. Gajan was alone. He went to follow but stopped, contemplating his next move.
He turned, forcing his form to mimic feet, hands, and walked in the opposite direction down a washed out muddy road, nothing but trees and grayish black sky in the distance. He walked for a long time and realized he could have transported or flew, but those disorienting methods made him too dizzy and for once he wanted time—time to live inside the man’s memory.
He had a daughter, beautiful thing with blonde hair and crystal blue e
yes, fair skin and a tight smile. She wore an angelic beige dress with blue bodice. She was helpful in the fields, and stables, and there wasn’t a boy that didn’t want her. The man was reluctant to give her away, waiting for the right one to come along. Gajan didn’t remember the girl in the village, he would have remembered it if he had taken someone like her. He flipped back to the man’s memories, a last picturesque view of the girl being carted off by one of the barbarians clad in gold playing across his mind. The man was defeated, he couldn’t fight the men and if he tried he’d lose his life in the process.
A summer later the same men returned and burned the village to the ground, taking all the fresh vegetables and anything of value. The man was set ablaze and there was Gajan, a reflection of himself in the man’s eyes, this night storm, something the man couldn’t fathom and couldn’t help but scream about as fire rolled along his clothes, searing his body to ash. He would have begged Gajan not to take him if he could have, but by the time Gajan entered his body, the man didn’t have words left in him.
Gajan stumbled across the land, through the forest, emerging near a stream. He hovered across it like it was nothing and pushed through tangled branches. He couldn’t feel Morgana anymore, or the rest of the swarm, their screeches and high pitched squeals were something that haunted him. He was about to give up when he heard a whip crack and stepped in line with a large stone wall overhead a sprawling city. He’d never seen anything so vast, carved out sand castles for building stretching to the horizon. The best and worst thing was the sunrise. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the sun and he thought it would do things to him, adverse things, but when it hit him it was like a crescendo lighting up his form with a thousand sparks. It didn’t feel good by a long shot, the hunger crunched into the crevices of his form, the souls he had trapped inside himself begging for freedom, their voices a cacophonic slur against the wild braying alarm the sun had become. The whip cracked again and he eased over the sandy stone ledge, falling. A cold chill caked the ground in a thin sheet of frost, but Gajan ignored it as he trailed the streets, men in leather and armor, women in fine dresses, children in scrubby tunics and breeches playing with wooden swords.
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