The Sons of Animus Letum

by Andrew Whittle

  “What did he say?” I wondered.

  “He said that Hell is a condition that will lead good men to surrender their morality. I see now why that’s true.”

  “Apt assessment,” I agreed. “Now imagine half a year of this.”

  “Is that how long Forneus lasted?”

  “Almost exactly. Disregarding the outcome, I think the amount of time he withstood this place is almost inhuman.”

  Although impressed, Odin felt no need to compliment the man who killed his parents.

  “When was the second entry recorded?” he asked.

  “Allow me to show you.”

  Odin agreed, and then, in barely a moment, I transported Odin and myself to the next necessary scene.

  Again, the initial impact of the vision was delivered by the hiss of the Dark Pool.

  “It’s louder,” Odin noted.

  “That’s all that it gets,” I replied. “It amplifies.”

  After Odin adjusted his ears to the sound, he began to scan the scene with his eyes.

  “There,” I pointed in assistance.

  Odin turned his eyes and found Forneus walking on the very edge of the Dark Pool. Forneus was noticeably slimmer, seemingly frantic, and pacing in front of the Pool.

  “What’s he doing?” Odin asked.

  “You’ll see in one second,” I replied.

  As Odin watched intently, Forneus shook his head wildly, took a deep breath, and then dove headlong into the Dark Pool.

  A deep hush, one that seemed almost more powerful than the hiss, ensued. Two eerily silent minutes passed before Forneus’s thrashing body surfaced. As his head rose out of the Pool, he began to cough painfully and vomit out a black liquid. In desperation, he began to thrash a path to the shore. As his feet finally trudged back onto land, he flung numerous snakes off his body and then collapsed on the shore.

  With his body sprawled on the bank, Forneus took only deep, exhausted breaths. As he strove desperately for composure, five Vayne emerged from over a near ridge and set their hunting eyes on him.

  Even though fatigued, Forneus managed to rise to his feet and draw his sword.

  The Vayne converged quickly on the king’s friend, and although Forneus was an astoundingly adept warrior, his great lack of energy had tilted the fray in the Vayne’s favour. The Vayne’s initial attacks were just narrowly parried, but the subsequent assaults began to land onto Forneus’s frame. Understanding the great gravity of his situation, Forneus quickly resolved that the passivity of his defence was not an ally. So instead, he threw his skills into a blitz of offensive ferocity. Forneus lunged at the nearest Vayne, and after stabbing it repeatedly in the neck, he grasped the spear from its dead hand and launched the weapon into the chest of another Vayne. With two down, Forneus, contrary to his exceptional fatigue, seemed to grow in his rage. He swung his sword into another blaze of attacks and very quickly struck down the last three attackers.

  However, the slashes of his blade did not cease with their deaths. Forneus hacked his sword repeatedly into the Vayne corpses until his hands, body, and face were caked in crimson spatter.

  His fit of madness endured for quite some time.

  When his sword came to a halt, whatever had become him did so too. As Forneus’s eyes seemed to lift from an iniquitous spell and he surveyed the aftermath, the king’s friend was taken by a genuine fear. His expression was of true horror, and as he began to shake his head against his actions, his heart beat in shameful rhythm. Forneus began to wildly wipe the blood from his face and hands, and the breaks of his voice were more emotion than word. Erratically, he turned in a panic and rushed into his shack.

  As Forneus finally emerged, his body had been washed clean of the blood, and he was holding his journal. Forneus’s purple eyes were set hard into the distance, but behind their amethyst hue was a pain of very close proximity. Forneus, deeply ashamed of his actions, held his gaze for minutes, but when he finally broke, he collapsed on his stoop and opened his journal.

  “Read,” I instructed.

  Odin obliged.

  I am an ashamed man. Victory is earned, not by prayer nor hope nor barter. It is won with an unflinching conviction that loses nothing to its bane. I, for a moment’s trespass, strayed from that conviction. Victory was robbed of me today. And I know the culprit. I, having now submerged myself in the Dark Pool, know Hell’s voice. It was like all my past anxieties – each and every rational or paranoid fear – had never been conquered or overcome, but rather cast into the Dark Pool to stew in longing of a resurrection. They were resurrected. I must confess that while deep in the Pool I was afraid. But the fear felt altered – as if someone or something was manipulating my fear. This inexplicable second party has stoked my paranoia. I hate to report that while submerged, it felt as though my heart unwillingly admitted my fears to the Pool. My foolishness would have me believe that fate would not allow such a forfeit. But I know the fears were received. I could feel it. My hope fights but stumbles against that truth. And instead I breathe heavily, terrifyingly aware of the haunting degree to which the Pool now knows my heart. However, there was an even greater horror in my plunge – as the Pool saw into my heart, so too did I see into its. My mind, not initially, but quickly by emotion, was corrupted – to this, the five disgraced corpses of the Vayne lie as a bloody testament. In the throes of my despicable violence I was neither repulsed nor restrained. I was a demon born of no mother but wrath. My king once lessoned me in truth. He said you must provoke all thoughts and feelings until they break or prove sustained. The thoughts that hold unshakable to challenge, he said, do so because they are truth. Since my plunge in the Dark Pool, I have been stricken with an ill thought. I have tried to attack this dark poison in my mind. I have locked my sights on this demon, and through my aim launched all my virtue. But still my conscience is shaded with guilt. The thought, this thorn refusing to break from my mind, is that I enjoyed the madness. The truth of this revelation, even against my vigorous challenge, is that there was great power in the bedlam: an invincibility that I crave. As I struck down the Vayne, I was fearless. I was godly. I cannot yet tell whether my affinity for this power is genuine of myself or is another seed planted by the Dark Pool. Either way I must hold strong in the conviction never again to enter the Pool. My objective of destroying the Dark Pool’s source seems more daunting with each passing breath. In the wake of the madness I endured, I am indecisive about remaining here. It is clear to me, especially after being inside, that any and all weakness is exploited by the Dark Pool. My pride begs me to endure this hell to its worst degree, to prove myself untouchable to this evil. But my reason thinks otherwise. Retreat – a notion never having been chosen by my heart – has arisen in very strong form. But I must also realize that I am better positioned now than anyone has ever been in defeating the Dark Pool. For my king, I am electing to endure, though time may soon find my steps scampered in retreat.

  With a deep exhalation, Forneus closed his journal and withdrew back into his shack.

  “His heart is fading,” Odin recognized.

  I nodded. “The serpents drove lethally at his faith. They needed him to doubt.”

  Odin almost felt sorry for his adversary. “This is a pillaging,” he admitted. “He stood no chance.”

  “And this devolution,” I reminded, “was only after one plunge.”

  “Does he make another?”

  “Yes,” I answered, “just one more.”

  “Does an entry coincide with it?”

  “Actually, two do: one immediately before the plunge and one immediately after.”

  Odin nodded. “Okay, Boatman, take us there.”

  Again, I agreed, and in the next moment Odin and I were standing at the scene of Forneus’s third and fourth journal entries. In the vision, Forneus was seated on the ridge of one of the Dark Pool’s rock barriers. His muscle mass was greatly degraded from its original form, and his purple eyes seemed dimmed of their earlier brightness. Simply put, he looked ill.
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  As he sat, he pulled his journal out from his pouch.

  “This is the first of his two entries,” I said. “Pay close attention.”

  Odin nodded, and then turned his eyes onto the third page of Forneus’s journal.

  I have been here too long. The Pool is relentless. I fear I am becoming something worse than indifferent to these serpents. I can feel myself drifting. And worse, I have succumbed to a sickness that seems to carry words onto the Pool’s hiss. One word repeats: coward. My heart, at first defiantly strong against this label, has now realized its truth. I am a coward; not because I haven’t tried to win, but because I have begun to take counsel from my fears. I am terrified of the Dark Pool. I know I must destroy it, I know I must reach its source, but my fear has kept me at bay. I remember well the mayhem that overtook my head and heart after my only plunge. And I am afraid of that madness. Its memory has begun to haunt each of my breathing moments, and it is a pain that has struck hard at my pride. The Pool challenged me, and I have cowered… I am a coward. I feel as if Serich has trusted me with a task too great. I truly believe only he can reap a victory from this hell. But I will not concede my defeat. I, against the serpents’ insult, will dive once more into the Pool. If I fall, I will fall valiantly. By either victory or death I will show my king that I was committed to his reign. Serich deserves nothing less.

  Forneus’s pen stopped, and after he tucked the journal back into his pouch, he threw the bag back onto the shore. As he rose and surveyed the Pool from his elevated position, he looked skywards in pleading.

  “Use me, fate,” he prayed. “Before it is too late.”

  With a deep breath, Forneus poised himself on the rock and then dove once more into the Dark Pool.

  Again, a silent hush overtook the cavern. As Forneus’s second plunge endured to an inhuman four minutes, the hush began to feel threatening. The hush had a silent energy that although invisible to the senses, brought a sickness to the soul. As both the hush and Forneus’s submersion refused to relent, dozens of Vayne began to appear on the bank of the Dark Pool. Their yellow eyes remained fixed on the Pool, searching the serpent waters for Forneus to surface. Then, after his fateful second plunge into hell, Forneus’s head emerged at the center of the Dark Pool. In contrast with his first dive, Forneus was considerably more calm. Instead of panic, there seemed to be a relishing and invigorated flare in his eyes. As his feet found the bank of the Dark Pool, his final strides onto the shore were devilishly poised. Once he had completely emerged onto the bank, strangely, the Vayne on the shore did not attack him – nor did Forneus challenge them. Instead, some form of stalemate had nullified their quarrel. As Forneus eyed the Vayne, he began to exhale deeply – not with an exhausted respiration, but rather an exhilarated breath, thrilled in the throes of his re-emerging madness. His purple eyes shot around the bank until he found the pouch that he had thrown to the shore only minutes before.

  As the exhilaration and madness quickly grew, Forneus’s desires were dominated by the craving to write another entry. And then, defenceless against his own spellbound mind, Forneus pulled his journal from the pouch, and in a hellfire of madness, he scorched his possessed pen onto its parchment.

  I am awake. I am at the dawn of myself. I am alive. My heart, for as long as it has beat, has suffocated. Not by pain, but by ignorance. But now, I am breathing. Now, my mind races with the gales of a higher creed. Now, I am aware. The power that reigns in me now is unstoppable. I have fought against this might, I have driven my will against it, but it persists. It thrives. Serich lessoned me in the unshakable. And this is that. This thrilling, thirsting, throne-worthy force screams of truth. My ears are attuned. My soul is amazed. Even Serich, a great deity, would envy this most becoming of bedlams. But Serich will not have it. His fate was given to him. His fate was inherited. Mine is earned. And by my earning I shall be over all and beneath only the crown on my head. One mere deed divides me from that destiny. Tonight, I pledge, my truth and terror shall begin their reign.

  As Forneus’s pen stopped, he beat his chest and yelled wildly over to the Vayne in front of him

  “Rest yourselves,” he called, “for your fight has now become mine. The dawn of your victory is fulfilled through me. Your messiah is born today!”

  The Vayne raised their right hands, pledging their allegiance as a wicked hiss sounded from their mouths.

  With a callous smile, Forneus cast his eyes into the far distance. He had only one promise for the far off king.

  “Serich,” he seethed, “tonight I take your throne.”

  In anticipation of the most unholy of sacraments, Forneus turned and retreated into his shack.

  Odin’s eyes were locked onto his every step.

  “He spoke of tonight. What happens?”

  “A baptism,” I replied. “This night he forges a bond between his own mind and the heart of the Dark Pool.”

  “Is that where the final entry is made?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  Odin nodded, inviting me to invoke the final vision.

  “Brace yourself,” I warned, “this vision is perhaps the most grisly.”

  Odin nodded again, and after I had employed my power, Odin and I stood at the scene of Forneus’s final journal entry.

  Again, we were at the Dark Pool.

  The skies were painted with a devilish dark orange, and the roaring winds tore through the cavern like a hellish swarm of locusts. The sea that surrounded the Dark Pool crashed mightily against the cavern’s barrier, but strangely, the water within the Dark Pool was of an eerie calm. There were even more Vayne present at the Pool than in the previous vision, and at the forefront of the Dark Pool’s bank, Forneus stood with his journal in hand.

  Only three sentences would be written.

  It is time now to rid the crown of the weakness it rests upon. I now bind my fate to the destiny of the Dark Pool. Great malice, give unto me all of your power.

  With an arrogant wave, Forneus threw his journal to the bank and declared his intention with a furious scream.

  “Dark Pool!” he commanded. “Embrace your messiah!”

  Instantly, heavy pelts of rain began to assault the Dark Pool. As the rain pattered over the Dark Pool like metal drums, orange lightning cracked on the bank, lighting the scene with a haunting orange glow.

  Bathed by the eerie glow, the serpents in the middle of the Pool began to part from its center. It was strange to see. It was as if nature had choreographed the moment many moons ago.

  In rhythm with the serpent’s rite, Forneus dropped to his knees and waited intently for his prize.

  Within seconds, a pure black serpent with glowing orange eyes surfaced at the center of the Dark Pool. The serpent was the great master of the Pool’s madness – its source and conspirator.

  As the snake’s four foot long body waded in lateral arcs towards the bank, Forneus snarled in content and drew one of his daggers. Slowly, the snake approached, and as its tongue darted in and out of its mouth, Forneus lowered his dagger onto the mud of the bank. As the snake slithered close and the rain gleamed off its black scales, Forneus hissed, and the snake began to coil itself around the waiting dagger.

  Staring at his prize, Forneus caressed the snake and then touched the blade of the dagger to his other forearm. With a grimace, he began to saw, carving a slow and gruesome incision across his left forearm. As the blood cascaded down to his wrist, Forneus began to laugh maniacally, and as he cackled into the storm, he guided the black snake to the mouth of his open gash. The snake flicked its double-pronged tongue against Forneus’s seeping blood, tasted the crimson flow, uncoiled from the dagger, and then slid itself into the open cut. As the snake slithered gruesomely through the depths of the gash and its body bulged under Forneus’s dark skin, the traitor began to convulse from the great pain.

  In his madness, he seemed to be enjoying it.

  The snake was sliding purposefully to Forneus’s spine.

  As Forneus laughed and star
ed madly into the horizon, the snake reached its destination. Almost instantly, the wicked bond of serpent and man began to take effect. Forneus arched backwards, and with his spine bending impossibly, he bellowed hoarsely into the night, embracing the moment as the lightning, rain, and thunder swelled into a tempest of godly rage.

  At the next crash of thunder, Forneus’s arms struck out to the heavens, and his eyes opened.

  They were completely orange.

  The goodness and loyalty of Forneus’s purple eyes had surrendered to the evil, infinite hollow of the amber hue.

  Forneus was gone; the Serpent Messiah had arrived.

  The new incarnation rose furiously to his feet. He turned his orange eyes to the distant blue glow of Serich’s Soul Cauldron.

  With a snarl, the wicked Serpent King elected war.

  Sensing their Messiah’s aim, the Vayne on the shore as well the many emerging from the Dark Pool began to follow the Serpent King, shadowing him on what would be his merciless march.

  “This was never a fair fight,” Odin said as he watched Forneus’s army assemble. “No one could stand against this onslaught.”

  “You’ve greatly underestimated your father,” I said.

  “He was really that strong?” Odin asked, his tone based more in hope than scepticism.

  “Odin,” I said, “your father was a god. He was beyond the power of a hundred of Forneus’s armies.”

  Odin was proud, astounded by the father he could never meet.

  “Your father’s might is something you really need to have seen to believe,” I said. “It would be my honour to grant you that privilege.”

  “Okay,” Odin said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  After a deep breath, I concentrated the power of my green eyes onto the next scene, and in an instant Odin and I were standing in Serich’s Throne Room.

  I was actually present twice in the vision. I was observing with Odin, but I was also a character who played in the events of the scene. My past self stood with the queen, watching as the Serpent Messiah arrived to face the king.