Among Gods and Monsters

by S D Simper

  Then, light. Relief filled her at the hope of an exit. She increased her pace, shading her eyes as the light grew blinding, the sun’s rays bursting through—

  A crystal emanated a light at the dead end, a mockery of celestial light. On the floor were chipped fingernails and evidence of blood on the walls.

  Flowridia stumbled back, breathing labored, and kept her left hand on the wall as she backtracked. Whatever she had been meant to find could wait; her nerves were frayed from the ghastly torture. Every whisper upon the wall caused bumps to rise on her skin. Oh, she missed Demitri’s warm fur. She could come back again, his amusing belligerence enough to lighten the atmosphere.

  The pathway didn’t turn left. It turned right. “No, no,” she muttered. “That isn’t correct.” She touched the seam of the wall, expecting it to open, or perhaps to detect some magic spell. The entire labyrinth radiated energy, enough to prickle against her skin when she sought to feel it.

  The crippling reality that she was lost settled, but she refused to panic yet.

  Though her gut screamed the stop, Flowridia took the path to the right. Stagnant air sickened her stomach. She summoned her voice to sing again, though she knew not the words to the tune. Another crossroads, and again she turned left, forcing her breath to steady—

  And jumped back. Smashed into the wall were fractured bones and the remains of a corpse. Splattered blood smeared every side, dried and caked along the wall.

  Her breath left her. Heart racing, Flowridia ran. Left, right—what did it matter? Desperate to escape the ghastly vision, Flowridia raced down the forsaken path.

  A distant howling met her ears. Metallic banging bespoke life. Flowridia’s breathing grew erratic as she turned.

  A dead end. Evidence of dried blood and gore caked the walls, along with the remains of hair and a corpse torn apart.

  Flowridia ran. Gasping, panicked, she moved as fast as her lithe legs would take her. The stone walls were untouched, but bits of hair and bones littered the corners.

  A light shone ahead. Tears welled, spurned by relief, and adrenaline pushed her to run faster.

  The light radiated from a room, one that held no door, but an archway bearing the painted words: The light shall burn away all your fears.

  She stepped into a nightmare.

  A magnificent room with sweeping stone ceilings and a putrid smell bespoke grandeur and terror. It held the architecture of the Theocracy’s cathedral yet stood in stark mockery of divinity. Flowridia’s feet ran across rich carpet, but she froze, gasping at the monster before her.

  A masterpiece of macabre beauty, Sol Kareena stood still upon her pedestal, serene in death, lifelike in a way that nearly caused Flowridia’s stomach to upheave. She bore the intricacy of finely crafted leather, gems attached to the face to serve as metaphorical tears, her robes nearly transparent as they draped across her body. Her blackened hands were held out in welcome, and her chest bore an open wound, blood and organs preserved and eternally spilling, a spear puncturing the exposed heart.

  Every piece of her sewn corpse had once been alive, and Flowridia whirled around—

  Only to find the exit had been shut.

  All around, her overloaded senses absorbed the ghoulish artistry, cast in shades of sickly red and brown, the results of a mind unhinged. At the windows, instead of painted glass were quilted patches of leather, depicting scenes of demon gods and their pantheons; in the pews of polished wood and velvet, richly carved, were patrons set in ghastly poses, some sewn into unnatural states. Flowridia’s eyes landed on one in particular whose garb pulled memories from a lifetime ago, of a man who dared insult the pride of a monster he would not sleep within a hundred miles of.

  When she looked at his face, gaunt and lifeless, it was one and the same.

  Statues of bone and dried sinew stood stationed in corners and upon shelves, of animal forms and aberrations, of screaming skulls spliced together to form horror unmasked, of gangrenous rot sealing tight stitches.

  Behind the bastardized Godly mockery, Flowridia saw a door slightly ajar and ran.

  Her eyes veered away from the statue of flesh, instead glancing past the altar before her gaze, where stained in blood was the elven word for burn.

  Through the door, the wailing grew deafening.

  Inside, all semblance of civility, abominable as it was, disappeared. A laboratory of sorts, with metal tables and blood-stained walls. A gruesome figure shrieked in the corner, two torsos sewn into one form, half-rotted yet still full of malevolent undeath. Metals bars banged as it fought to escape. Flowridia jumped back, recognizing hate in its tortured cries. Her arms landed on something soft and warm.

  Blood.

  The figure strapped to the table could hardly be called that—carved and exposed on every plane, the entire front seemed peeled away. Ribs were cracked, pinned open, exposing each red-rimmed bone; lungs breathed; the heart beat. A network of veins—the entire cardiovascular system—lay exposed. Meticulously pinned aside, each section lovingly preserved and labeled, some were held up with small hooks, creating an elaborate, visceral mockery of the human form.

  The face was carved to pieces, hair shaved. Flowridia glanced at the figure’s eyes; intelligent, human, they held her gaze.

  She sobbed, screaming she stumbled backwards. Along the wall were diagrams, notes, drawings, well-lit and pristine. A bookshelf, a line of knives lovingly arranged on the table, bloodied hooks hanging from the ceiling, dark leather on the walls—all of it embedded into her memory. She began hyperventilating, until bashing metal pulled her attention. The monstrosity threw itself at the door with all its might, shrieking erratically.

  Flowridia stumbled back, falling against what she prayed was cloth. It ripped at her step. She collapsed to the ground, tangled in embroidered fabric and weeping in terror.

  Heavy steps in the distance flickered in her mind. Flowridia continued bawling, desperate to block out the ghoul, the smell of blood, the burning lights.

  Cracking wood bespoke the shattered door. Casvir rushed at the caged creature, summoned mace in hand. It broke through the bars and the undead monster, smashing it to pieces. The howling stopped.

  Flowridia’s cries were all that echoed now. A gentle rumble of a voice, only a few feet away, reached her ears. “You are safe, Flowridia.”

  Vision obscured by tears and translucent cloth, Flowridia dared to peek up. Casvir knelt before her, purposefully blocking the view of the figure on the table. Anger raged behind those red eyes, and Flowridia shrunk back, shying away from the hand he offered.

  Casvir pulled away. “Demitri sensed your distress and sent me to find you.” He glanced down at his hand, and Flowridia saw teeth marks emblazoned in the sickly blue color. “Demanded, rather. But it is good he did.”

  Flowridia fought to free herself of tangled fabric, quivering as she whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

  “No. She should be sorry. Not you. You were never meant to see this. And for you to stumble upon it accidentally . . .” He trailed off, his expression fierce.

  She did not correct him. “What is this place?” she whimpered instead.

  “Her hobby. A place for her to fuel her chaotic streak away from my populace and keep her quiet.”

  “This really was hers?”

  Casvir nodded. “She spent all her free time here, until she met you.”

  Horrified, Flowridia choked on her sob, coughing painfully. The last of the fabric fell beside her, but though free, she clung to it, bunching it into her fists. “Why, though? Why did she do this?”

  “Any answer I could give would only break your heart.”

  “It’s already shattered.” Flowridia’s voice broke on the last words.

  In the ensuing silence, she looked down at the cloth in her hands, realizing dust from the floor had stained the white, translucent material. It bore an embroidery of flowers, a rainbow of colors with the softest of green to connect them.

  Casvir’s reserved words startled h
er. “In my research on Ayla Darkleaf, everything I found spoke of a highly intelligent and sadistic monster who charmed and brutalized her way into legend. Her curiosity is insatiable. She allowed me, once, to read some of her research, perhaps hoping to scare me. What I learned is she is thorough and gleeful in her torture.”

  Strange, the numbness that filled her at those words. Ayla had been thorough and gleeful in all things—her meticulous work in the kitchen, her merciless slaughter of the dwarves and the Skalmites, even the perfect placement of candles in Flowridia’s room. Patient, no. But thorough.

  “I know nothing of her history with the Theocracy, only that the display was a project she took pride in. She would bring her victims there, for what purpose, I do not know.

  “To ask ‘why’ is to cry into an abyss. I do not doubt she once held the intention to hang you from the walls.” He gestured to one such victim, dried and vivisected, organs displayed, head and limbs nowhere in sight. “But you evoked something new in her.”

  He looked down at the cloth in Flowridia’s hands, the only spot of beauty amidst the ruthless scene.

  She let the cloth drop. With her arms limp at her side, she stared at the remains of the cage. Purple mist swirled where the bars had been severed.

  Again, Casvir offered a hand, and this time Flowridia accepted. Standing, she slipped her hand out of his and slowly stepped toward the table, eyes darting about at all the diagrams and models pinned to the wall.

  Casvir’s voice broke through her muted thoughts. “Flowridia, you will not like—”

  “I know,” she said, sharper than she intended. “But I need to see it.”

  She grabbed a scalpel from the desk and looked down at Ayla’s victim, strapped to the table. It held no eyelids to hide behind. When their gazes met, Flowridia mouthed, “I’m sorry,” before slitting the knife across the exposed throat.

  Eyes glazed over; the heart stopped pumping. Flowridia noticed, then, the oddity, that stitched in gorgeous script, visible among the visceral layers of split flesh, was a name. It penetrated only the delicate top layer of tissue: Flowra.

  And there, beside it on the table, Flowridia stiffened at the drawing. Gorgeously detailed in ink, her entire muscular system was labeled, her name written in perfect script above.

  Flowridia’s eyes narrowed, shivering at the thought of Ayla’s hands caressing her back. She brushed the paper aside. Underneath, just as thoroughly detailed, was her own cardiovascular system, with some question marks here and there. Revulsion rose, and she set that aside as well.

  Below, another diagram, with skin on, thankfully. Spread and entirely technical, her naked form lay labeled and detailed. Little notes—“kiss here,” “bite here,” “slow down,”—were scribbled throughout, and hearts danced around her name.

  Flowridia crumpled it with her fist. Fighting tears, she swallowed her nausea and looked up to see other procedural diagrams pinned to the wall—a De’Sindai, a Celestial, a half-elf with a knife stabbed violently through the parchment, and more. Hand-drawn patterns decorated the far end of the wall, and as Flowridia stepped closer, she saw dress pieces, shoes, and more. There, next to them, a drawing of a child, the patterned pieces of shoes sketched into its back.

  On the far end of the table lay a half-sewn book, but the dress form standing on the floor beside it stole her attention. Curious, she paled when she saw how the shoulders and neck were sewn together. It was garbed in the beginnings of a translucent gown, one that matched the embroidered veil she had discarded. But the lithe human torso, perfectly preserved, was too long to be meant for Ayla—

  Oh.

  Flinching, Flowridia stepped back, her hand landing on the book at the table. Embossed in fine script, the leather cover bore two words: Flowridia Darkleaf.

  Hesitant, Flowridia trembled as she lifted the handmade book, noticing immediately the incomplete binding. But the soft leather brought reminders of the tanned leather on the walls, the dress form, of the patterns calling for the skin of a child—

  She set the book down. “I’ve seen enough.”

  Casvir drew a line at the far wall beside the cage, and Flowridia wrapped her arms around herself as the wall parted, revealing a set of stairs. He beckoned.

  Flowridia spared a glance for the laboratory, for the doorway leading to the cathedral hell, and realized she’d hardly skimmed the surface of the macabre display, of Ayla’s mad mind. She tore her gaze away, eyes swollen from tears, and went up the stairs.

  At the top of the staircase, Ayla’s bathroom awaited. Flowridia left Casvir and the bathroom behind, hiding her tear-stained face from any servants she passed as she hurried down the hallway.

  Ayla’s doorknob was ice in her shaking hand.

  Demitri nearly trampled her the moment the door clicked. He curled around her body, collapsing to the floor. Trapped, and too shocked to speak, Flowridia’s arms wrapped around him.

  I felt your fear. Where were you?

  “Underneath Ayla’s bathroom,” Flowridia whispered. “I can’t say anything more. Please.”

  Then don’t try yet. Just know that you’re safe.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she buried her face in his fur. “You went to find Casvir.”

  I love you much more than I hate him. I thought that was obvious. Her fingers tightened in his fur.

  He stood, and she clung to him, finding he could support her quite easily. The dim recesses of Ayla’s room soothed her tired mind, but the glass spheres held no joy. The bar of soap, the teacup, each perfectly preserved flower . . .

  All these trinkets; a shrine for love. Yet her heart wondered now if Ayla would have made a trinket of her as well. She had done as much for others.

  Yet, Casvir himself had said she was Ayla’s redeeming trait, that Ayla’s love for her had been pure. Flowridia looked about the room, away from the stolen articles and to the pictures on the wall. So many of her sleeping, one with roses on the windowsill. Another of she and Demitri in the garden, beside a patch of tulips.

  And some that weren’t memories—depictions of them together, of Ayla kissing her by the light of a fireplace, of a cottage in the woods, secluded in trees.

  Tears welled in Flowridia’s eyes, recalling the shattered dream to run away. She couldn’t be here.

  Flowridia opened the door, unsurprised to find that Casvir had followed and quickly approached. “Casvir, I can’t stay in here.” Too many memories, too much pain, too much time to sit and contemplate . . .

  He gave a curt nod. “Wait here.”

  Within the hour, she laid herself upon a fresh, non-descript bed, a guest wing meant for foreign politicians. Realistically, where she would have stayed were she anyone but Ayla’s beloved.

  It came with the promise of something new in the future. “Accommodations more suited to your taste,” Casvir had called it, but Flowridia had no energy to care. With Demitri wrapped in her arms, darkness descended upon her fatigued body. Sleep was not her enemy.

  Her enemy waited in her dreams.

  * * *

  “You were never meant for that life.”

  Even in the dark void, Flowridia felt a pounding in her head, claws clutching her hips and back. Nothing amorous in the touch; merely desperation.

  Weeping filled her ears. “I love you, Flowridia,” the broken voice pled. “Please, never leave me.”

  Cold hands caressed her cheeks; a weight on her chest trembled and shook, threatening to suffocate her—

  Flowridia awoke to a burning headache and exhaustion unparalleled. Demitri snoozed beneath her. Even Ana curled silently against her.

  By every god, she was freezing.

  She sat up, taking care to not jostle Demitri, then lifted her skirt. Upon her skin, at the crux of her hipbones, were vicious red lines, as though Demitri had scratched his nails—not breaking skin, but leaving a lingering, stinging mark. From her bodice, she withdrew the ear, the voice in her dreams filling her with fury and guilt.

  She watched the severe
d ear dangling at the end of its chain, silently daring it to speak instead of listen. To ask why was to cry into a void, Casvir had said. But she would try. She shut her eyes, summoning an absence of energy within her core. She felt Ana beside her, acutely aware of her undead presence. In her hand, the ear pinged as some vestige of dark energy, but she felt no presence, no awareness. Nothing to grasp and harness.

  Nothing to plead to for answers. Perhaps another tactic instead.

  She stuffed the ear back down her dress, then gently jostled Demitri awake. “Demitri, will you come with me?”

  The large wolf opened his eyes. Where?

  “I don’t know. Somewhere to find out more about Ayla. I have to understand.”

  Demitri, bless his heart, didn’t ask. As he stood, Ana stirred, immediately hopping to her feet and bumping against Flowridia’s leg.

  A helpful hooded figure told her to try the third floor. That was where Casvir did his sparring.

  It appeared similar to her second-floor living accommodations, with carpeted halls and stone walls, but Flowridia saw a pair of skeletal guards positioned at a large doorway. With trepidation, she approached, but though they stared, they did not appear hostile. “I was told Casvir was up here.”

  “Stay out of bounds,” came an echoing voice, but the guard pushed the door opened and gestured for her to follow.

  Within, Flowridia saw a spacious room with walls of stone climbing hundreds of feet into the air. Two figures clashed in a titanic battle, and the terrain shifted to match. Stone floors, where Flowridia waited, melded into dirt and grass. Imperator Casvir, fully armored and wielding his summoned mace, stood centered, surrounded by countless undead horrors. He moved with all the expertise they did not, their movements clumsy and awkward, but their sheer numbers setting them up as a formidable force.

  They attempted to swarm a monster, one who batted them aside with graceful sweeps of her hammer, though she herself had transformed, the Bringer of War standing with claws and teeth. Her tattoos and eyes glowed, and though the dead rose once more when she cleaved through them in bulk, not once did she seem overpowered.