Bliss

by Daniel Lawley

  A space above the below,

  One in dysphoric evolution,

  One in kindness and sorrow,

  One to end the illusions

  - Master Arlandus

  The boy had endured much, to Armatrine’s hidden surprise. He knelt at her feet, quivering in the dark as scared as a child, as dangerous as a man could be yet broken into subjugation. There were no tears. They had been shed, he'd none left. No substance left to connect to the torture with. The latest rounds had been to sate her satisfaction. To take her revenge in his suffering. He'd ended her life, limited her very existence. He deserved so much more. Yet part of her sympathised. He'd suffered for days. She had rage for eternities. She wondered if part of her journey would be learning to forgive. She shook the thoughts from her mind. He'd got inside her head. He was responsible for her misfortunes, he should pay the penalty prescribed by her eminence.

  She found herself surprised he'd managed to last as long as he had without giving his mind over to insanity entirely. Being destroyed and rebuilt but once had been enough for her. It remained the sole fuel for her vengeance against him. Despite her vigilance she found herself growing a strange admiration for the boy. He'd endured against the odds. Did the Three not teach such people should be honoured? Shivering she put further doubts from her mind. She would need to steel her resolve for what was to come.

  The Order had strengthened its response. A show of unification, a show of power They had been victims and they would be victims no more. Once bathed in the light of divine love they had shone. Now the glimmer seemed somehow dull. In their fight for survival, in the pain of loss they had hardened themselves to task. Militant they strode, survival at all costs. A sadness came over Armatrine, momentary and fleeting. What they had been, what they had become? Where did it leave the Three?

  The high priestess approached as the boy shook upon the ancient stone floor. His quivering body fetal and soaked with sweat. The stench of urine rose from the mass of flesh as the fever broke upon him. All he could manage was a whimper. A whisper of baseless protest. More from habit than defiance to their demands. She spoke sweetly as she wiped his brow. The cruelest of cares.

  “There, it really isn't so bad once you give over your will to the Three.” That was smart, Armatrine mused as she watched. Using the man’s faith as a pivotal point in turning his own will on itself. He rasped at her through his lips, shallow breath from his throat. Unable to summon enough strength to respond she continued. “The Three, they love you child. Their compassion for you knows no limit. Your betrayal hurts them child.” Her words knocked Armatrine cold. She couldn't imagine leaving behind the love of the goddesses. “There is a way back, you simply must help us, help their children now in their time of need. In the time they are most troubled, what say you?” He continued to wheeze, the shallowest of breaths, unable to settle. He whispered, moving his weakened arm lightly he gestured her closer. The priestess moved closer, making a show of her compassion. “I. have not… any more… nothing more…” he sighed between breaths, catching him short he struggled to capture them.

  “You only need tell us what we need to know, what the order needs to know, what the goddesses know you know, in their wisdom.” She encouraged, surmising he was inching closer by the moment to full disclosure. Inching moment by moment toward the end. She knelt back toward him, her waiting ear to his dry mouth.

  “There is nothing more, I know, nothing more I can offer,” he began, “there is simply nothing to say that you don't already know, your Eminence.” He rasped. Unease settled over the order. There was a darkness to his words. They sensed it. Either he was reluctant and awaiting the return of his crew, perhaps they knew of this place, perhaps they were all in peril and had not realised it. Or perhaps he was honest, the implications being her eminence was wrong. Her posturing and procession undermined by the truth of the situation.

  Stubbornly she turned away. Anger flashed in her eyes. Momentary yet existent. Turning to Armatrine she snapped. “Take him to a place of his choosing within the confines of the temple and finish him, end his life kindly.” She smiled as the words passed through her lips. “It is the cruelest of fates for a devout man such as this, to be so parted from his goddesses.” She slunk toward her throne. It was amazing to Armatrine, that this was the same woman who had supported her through her early years. Who had fought her peers to advocate her advance. Now twisted by fear she was not the same person, as if a shadow had grasped her soul, unwilling to let go it squeezed her essence. Constricting her nature. Yet she was the most holy, who would anyone else be to decide that what was happening was not the will of the goddesses. Silently she walked toward the boy. Quivering and cowardly he tried to stand. It was admirable she supposed that at the end he tried to embrace dignity where many would have showed cowardice. It was a useless gesture of defiance. She had seen him die before. Seen his body give out and void its insides. Heard the cries and groans of his death throes. It would be quicker this time. A mercy killing. It was more than he deserved yet she found herself glad. Torturing him to death while helping her anger subside, had been an ordeal for both. To kill in coldness repeatedly, to ignore please for mercy, to never be brought back. He would get what he desired this time. They both would. An end to the trauma.

  A cry came from the western watch tower “Galleon!” Her blood ran cold. They had returned. The ones who had set them upon the path of deserting their primary temple, vengeance and bloodlust on their minds. Like fevered rats they chased and had now finally caught their prey.

  “Man the watch towers and the walls” her eminence ordered instinctively. They would rain arrows upon them, cause them to retreat or cause them to die. They may even salvage a ship from the ordeal. Armatrine turned the thoughts from her mind. Coldness had become all too familiar to her recently. To gain in the wake of travesty. The most senseless of depravities.

  “Crown’s colours” came a cry from the messenger as he ran back and forth between the watch tower and the temple proper. A relaxation came over the temple. It had been a moment of panic, but now their ally, their liege lord would desire a peace between them.

  “This seems wrong” spoke one councillor, his voice echoing from the walls as he sat atop his throne. None voiced assent and silence fell upon them. “How are they to know where we are?” He continued, “We sent no missive”.

  His words struck Armatrine as true, it seemed suspicious at best.

  “The ship flies the colours of the crown, relax father.” The priestess began to calm them as each came to the realisation. “We shall ask when they arrive, what has happened they came to know our location, it is likely Prince Johan has ancient maps and records of each of our locations, it seems wise for a ruler to know the location of his religious order. It was likely archived from when we operated from here. When his emissary arrives we shall ask, I would be interested indeed to know how it works.” Her words served somewhat to set them at ease. Her demeanour settling them. “I know that things are not as good as we had them in the primary temple, but let's give the crown the best of what we have to offer!” At her words attendants snapped to action. Unravelling carpets and lighting sconces as the ship made its approach.

  “Dupree, remove the prisoner, you may carry out the order later, for now return him to his cells” her order came quickly, curtly. Her words hot on the backs of one another. Despite her assurances it appeared she too was on edge. Armatrine lifted him from the floor where he'd stumbled. After all they had been through together it amazed her that this time would come to an end so suddenly. He came, willing. The least she could offer a weakened man bravely walking to his doom was her arm in support. She led him through the door located at the back of the main chamber to a corridor. He silently shuffled along the stone floor using both herself and the walls for support. Her head spun. The dying and rebirth, the questions and answers and evasions. Her breath came heavy. It would soon be over. A figure stalked the hallway ahead. Lit dimly by the flickering of burning sconces
he cast a dancing shadow. Powerful, even from a distance she sensed his aura.

  “Master Arlandus” she addressed him “should you not be making ready with the others?” She asked. He turned, eyeing her. Trouble written starkly across his fair face. A darkened expression. Armatrine knew better than to question his senses. Shifting the weight of the groaning, incapacitated pirate over her shoulders she followed swiftly. Along the corridor he led, she kept pace as best she could. Weakened as he was, the pirate boy was a dead weight in her arms. Eagerly he led her as she struggled to keep pace. It was darker here. The scent of mildew rose from the surroundings, no sconces had been lit. This part of the temple had remained unpopulated since its reestablishment.

  “Master, what's happening?” She hesitated. He only turned, pressing a calloused finger to his aging lips. He paced slower as they struggled across the floor, heavily littered with debris from ages past, flora and fauna. Ancient fungus. Finally he bade her stop. In the dark she almost banged into him, unable to make him out properly in the dark as they had traversed the gloom.

  You need to remain silent from this point forward Dupree. I cannot press upon you how much that detail is of import. If you need to communicate. Use the talent and hope nothing senses it. There are unnatural happenings. Deaths, rebirths and something more, deeper. The veil is thinned. But you must see, you must and you will.

  Master? She questioned, her mind speaking directly to his. Not entirely troubled enough. She had become used to his unusual fits of strangeness as his acolyte.

  Remember that which I told you, stay close and find a way to keep the boy from making too much noise, I share no love for him yet I sense he is more than he seems. His role ends not here in this ancient crumbling place, there is more. Yet I cannot see it. There is more. His words bore upon on her as they crept in the darkness.

  His words chilled her. She'd been so intent upon her revenge she had failed to consult the three in what their plans may be. They continued to creep until they came to a gap in the wall, behind the alcove, she'd never noticed it from the other side, yet from inside she could see and hear everything that took place. Placing the boy upon the floor she knelt closer to take a closer inspection of the scene. The high priestess was on her knees, knelt in reference. Before her stood a handsome man she'd not seen. From him, resounding darkness. Could she not see it? Did she see and ignore? Something felt amiss. Something was incredibly wrong.

  ~ The Secondary Temple, Once Hallowed Grounds~

  ~ Fifteenth of the Sheath, Song of Sorrow ~

  In file the damned,

  The dreaded, the horde

  An end to the world

  And to all things

  - unknown source, possibly a drunkard

  From their viewing space in the hidden alcove she sensed it. The aura of darkness from their unannounced visitor. He looked familiar yet she knew he was unknown to her. A figure having lost and gained something significant stood. Before the priestess he bowed. A twisted smile painted upon his face. Behind him filed a battalion of soldiers, stood to attention the coats of their deep red uniforms seemed to flow down their backs, perfectly starched and straight in the absence of wind. Hungry muskets perched upon their hands and over their broad shoulders. An army.

  Have you seen enough child? Arlandus asked. Ignoring him roundly she continued to spy. She had to know what would happen to the masters, to the temple. To those who had revived her with breath of life in the name of the Three. The two spoke now, unable to hear she kept her attention fully upon the two central figures. The content of conversation betrayed by the facial expression he wore. Without warning he lifted his hand, launching two fingers into the air in mock salute.

  This was their signal. Quickly they took formation. Wasting no time in drawing their already loaded weapons against the masters. Shots were fired before there was time to react. Musket ball pierced flesh, blood coursed through the air as the ancient, wise men murdered in their temple slumped upon their thrones. Murdered on sacred ground. Now the temple, ruined, was consecrated in naught more than blood. The priestess was the last in the chamber to die.

  Don't watch. Arlandus warned. His orders coming from concern, yet she had to see. She had to know. To understand what had become of them. Had become of her family. A witness to the terror she could not tear her gaze away, deep within her something forced her to keep watch. The man drew a long dagger and with vicious zeal he pushed it deep within her excellency’s heart. Blood poured from the wound and her mouth. Confusion and anguish crept across her face. As she fell to the floor he caught her, unable to make out his words as he spoke them Armatrine watched the high priestess intently. Her expression shifting from one of confusion to one of terror, abjectly painted upon her face. He wants her to know who he is, what is happening. He's won. The torment is his to dole out to whomever he pleases.

  The soldiers were already reloading. The shots had attracted the Order’s own archers. Bows ready they launched upon their attackers. Shafts of wood, heads of iron. She watched them strike. One or two fell, struck in the eye. Yet most survived. Heavily armored under their coats. The fight was already the crown’s.

  Why would the crown? She began.

  Ignore that for now, this place is about to become a bloodbath, we must hasten our retreat. She admired his level headedness. The high priestess had been his mentor. Many of the other masters his friends. Yet he responded to the situation with a rationality she was unsure she could muster despite her loss being lesser than his own. Arlandus was a man built for survival.

  Yes master. She had seen enough. She knew what came next. She knew of crumbling buildings. Of battle. She need not see it again. Tearing herself away from the carnage she followed. Her conscience screamed that she should do something, yet there was nothing. To become a sacrifice oneself. She shuddered at the thought. She had seen the other side, there was no hurry to return.

  With me. He gestured she follow further along the corridor. Shots rang out again, followed by screams and sounds of falling bodies. The archers were beginning to fail. The temple would fall. As she had known it would. Lifting the boy over her shoulders she obeyed. Sweat breaking her brow of tension. It ran down her face stinging her eyes. She wished she had worn her dressing. Her red locks now clung to her with perspiration. Hurry he chided. The added weight caused her some distress as she moved swiftly. I have made provision. He assured her as he led them along darkened corridors and rooms untrodden in centuries. They smelled of musk. On more than one occasion she felt a crunch beneath her boot. She was thankful for the dark. She’d no desire to know what had found itself destroyed under her heel.

  Her heavy steps echoed along the stone. Each one a triumphant cry of defiance telling all the gods and all the world that she would not fall here. She would not die. She would not be snuffed from existence in a cold-blooded assault. Then, her steps began to soften. The floor changed. Consistency no longer that of stone but that of wet sand or soil. The scent of the air had shifted too, musk replaced by something more earthy. The scent of death replaced by the scent of living. Deeply she filled her lungs, appreciating the taste, the freshness as it filled her. Then suddenly, light.

  We must hurry he warned.

  I need to rest. The boy had worn her down. He groaned as she placed him upon the soft dirt, allowing herself space to breathe. She knelt, taking her own weight on her knees.

  Do you want to live? He asked.

  Foolish question, master. I am already among the dead. She reminded him Loaned back to the realm of mortals for a time. This you know. Yet this you risk your life for. It matters not whether I am or whether I perish, the outcome is the same. Dread filled her as her thoughts filled his mind. She hated it. Hated that she would fade, back to whence she had been brought.

  Dead or nay, there is more to you in this than meets the eye. You were returned and now must see it through. To doubt is to be human but why not be something more! The truth of his words struck her like a blacksmith hammer against an a
nvil. Sparks ignited the hatred inside her.

  Why me? Have the gods not taken enough? My childhood, my spirit, my life! Anger and angst filled her in equal measure as the words spilled forth.

  My dear child. Was it not the Three who gave you that very life to which you claim ownership, to which you claim to do as you wish? Yet it was theirs to take and while you cling to it you fail to see you were brought back to finish the purpose you were set here for in the first instance?

  What if I don't want it? She asked. Sadness filled her.

  There is little that can be done. The ways of the Three are as much a mystery in this instance as any. Stay close. They will be here soon. Tarry not, we must make haste.

  ~ The Secondary Temple, Once Hallowed Grounds~

  ~Sixteenth of the Sheath, Song of Sorrow~

  Cometh home and come to dine,

  On the flesh of the beast and panic

  For in the end of days

  All shall perish

  - Forgotten Proverb

  Though Euricles Arlandus ran quicker than one of his advanced age should there was much else that struck him as odd. The physical aptitude of old men did not matter. As he pushed one strong leg off the ground ahead of the other he eyed Armatrine, his once ward. Now carrying the boy on her shoulders as they made their escape. It must be so strange to consider yourself among the dead and be running for your life, to be moments from executing the man who put you there and now be fighting to save him. He mused on the peculiarities, dodging a thick jungle branch as he pushed on. The boy’s case was particularly strange. He had been captured by the people he'd been sent to slaughter and defeat. He been tortured repeatedly in ways he dared not think and had been moments from the sweet release of death. Now he found himself, being rescued by his captors who sought to kill him. He pushed one foot into the soil. Springing forward with deft agility. This would not be an easy escape.