The Undying God

by Nathan Wilson

  When he regained control of himself, he realized the most horrendous thing. He wanted... to kill her. If he could not kiss her lips, look into her eyes, and touch her with love, no one could. He trembled from the onslaught of adrenaline. He could no longer contend with the insanity of the heart.

  Of all the emotions that could defeat him, love had maimed his heart. Not even anger, sorrow, or the loss of all hope could surpass this pain. He could not rally his rage to scream yet again. He could not utter a sound.

  He stormed out of the chamber. And he left behind the man he could have been, along with the woman who could have changed him.

  Chapter 39

  Nishka and Arxu kissed once more under the shade of the forest. Encloaked in darkness, their secret desires emerged one kiss at a time. Nishka’s hands voyaged across him, her touch gently venturing inside his shirt. She murmured with pleasure.

  As he held her, his hand descended along the curves of her hips.

  Although she could not deny her excitement, Nishka was unnerved by the thought of having sex. She longed for that level of intimacy with Arxu, the opportunity to reveal herself fully to him. She trusted him and she knew he shared that trust. And yes, she wanted him to make love to her. Letting go of her fears, she placed her hand over his, guiding his hand down her navel.

  Suddenly, a dark expression clouded Arxu’s face.

  “Something is wrong.”

  “What?” She had waited for this moment for so long and it seemed unfair that something would steal this moment. Arxu looked toward the distant city. A dreadful feeling crept up on him, as though someone was watching them.

  “We must return to the city.” Dumbfounded, Nishka let go of Arxu and followed him.

  “What is it?” Arxu didn’t answer. There was no sign of guards at the city gates as they approached. Their absence didn’t bode well. Arxu slipped through the gates with Nishka, his head spinning in search of guards. Cries of terror sounded in the distance.

  “What’s happening?” Nishka breathed.

  “Just stay close.” They carved their way through the plaza. Voices swelled with screams and silhouettes swarmed in the distance. One of those figures ran toward Arxu with a sword in its hand.

  “The temple was massacred!” Hrioshango announced as he came to a stop.

  “What?”

  “Yes, and the killer has escaped!”

  “Damn it!” said Nishka. “Why don’t the cities warn each other about the massacres? If they did, this could have been avoided! They need to send word to Praemenon!”

  “They won’t,” Arxu replied. “We must hurry to the republic. There’s no time to waste!”

  Hrioshango couldn’t agree more. The bounty on his head had increased tenfold with every looting and assault he perpetrated that day.

  Arxu and Nishka rushed to the inn to gather their belongings. They could still hear the screams of families who lost loved ones in the temple. Guards kicked in doors at multiple houses, searching for any sign of the killer. Nishka quickly donned her breastplate as Arxu organized their inventory. They knew their time was running out.

  Outside, Hrioshango anxiously fidgeted with his hands. He believed he was prepared to face Margzor. The only matter left unresolved was how he would deal with Arxu and Nishka. His hand unconsciously rested on the handle of his sword.

  He would almost feel guilty killing them. Almost.

  In time, his friends would be replaced by human servants—enslaved like his darkling brethren. He was quite fond of the irony.

  Hrioshango had spent the week exploring every possibility to destroy a demigod. Despite his preparations, he was not sure he could slay Margzor. He heard the accounts of carnage in the temples and he saw the evidence for himself tonight. It would be unwise to underestimate this madman.

  He jerked in surprise as the door to the inn burst open. Nishka walked into the streets and Arxu followed with his staff clutched in his hand. Hrioshango smiled innocently at his companions.

  “After you,” he smiled, motioning toward the gates. “My friends.”

  * * *

  Morning cast its sickly, yellow sheen across the ruins. Arches as pale as bone stretched toward the sky like ivory tusks. A haunting atmosphere of loss added the finishing touches to the quiet valley of dead dreams.

  The sunlight seemed unwilling to touch this land. The shadows did not obscure the underlying beauty, however. There was beauty in its loss, as if such desolation begged to reveal what it could have been.

  Margzor felt crushed. Sanity had slipped away only to be replaced by emotion. He was diseased with the notion of love, a sickness that incised wounds deeper than any cruel edge.

  He felt a crippling weight upon his soul that no god could ever lift. His fantasy, the woman of his dreams, did not exist for him; a woman who was faithful, understanding, beautiful, and loving.

  That consoling, young woman displayed beauty only further enriched, if truly possible, with her mercy. She imbued him with hope that love existed. She ignited his will to live when nothing else offered him meaning. Her isolated act of kindness had offered him a second chance. A chance to turn his back on all of the negative influences in his life. He almost thought he could stop.

  He almost let go of hate.

  He would never kiss her.

  He would never make love to her.

  Never, what a ruthless concept. To be denied.

  Margzor felt frail and weak, so weak to have allowed himself to hope. To hope that love existed for him, that somewhere, a woman cared about him. What a fool he had been.

  The emotional high died and the cruelty of life awaited. He could not deny it any longer; he was slowly succumbing to the hatred he knew instead of growing with the love he would never know.

  How can a single heart be host to so much hate?

  Every loving thought must die. It has taken thousands of days and nights.

  To tear you apart. To splinter your sanity.

  Your fantasy is a lie. You could never attain her. Now I understand your soul.

  Weaving shadows grasped at his form as he wandered through the ruins. Margzor came to a stop. He resisted the urge to die. He would never succumb to this pain. He would aspire for divinity and bring death to everything he could not obtain.

  Your sexual repression has aroused the most beautiful hatred.

  Ravaging pain burned suddenly within Margzor. Anguish swelled in the wound in his side and he leaned against an arch for support.

  The demon voiced, You still need me. You have no followers. If you become a demigod, you will not reach your full potential. Margzor grimaced in disdain at the notion, the weakness the demon implied.

  None shall worship you. You will be weak. Margzor huffed and continued to carve his path toward Praemenon. As if to contradict that knowledge, the demon said, I believe in you.

  In that moment, a rage more powerful than any demon possessed him. He did not require the aid of anyone.

  The demon immediately tightened its grip on his will. The feral emotions emerged again, and Margzor could remember everything; the fantasies, the pain, thrusting his hand into the flames, killing the merchants, the sexual encounters in his sleep. His body collapsed on the stone surface, suddenly set upon by a seizure.

  Pain receptors overdosed. His conscience would have bled if it was possible. He could feel horrific guilt for his lust and sexual longing.

  Mental images of sex with the woman he loved overwhelmed him. He could hear her laughing that he was not good enough, that she loved another, and she would never accept him.

  He could almost see the blood running down his limbs after plunging into the forest as a boy. Suddenly, he was drowning again and the sun faded above him. Dark waters snuffed the light and suffocated every scream in his lungs. He fought the demon’s control over him. It enslaved his will, his love, and trauma, but it could not control his hate.

  He surrendered total control to the malice and envy inside. All love died within.

>   The demon grappled for control over his thoughts, but it was slipping away. It couldn’t believe that Margzor was refusing it. The demonic essence fled his soul like poison being bled out of a wound.

  “I am my own god,” Margzor proclaimed on his knees.

  The demon was impressed by his willpower. It had chosen the perfect vessel for destruction.

  Margzor scowled in rage. He rose from his knees and walked toward the city, resolved of his own will to inflict suffering on people, to murder, to pervert beauty.

  * * *

  Astalla was too weak to leave the temple, nonetheless the chamber in which she resided. Ava remained by her side since she had collapsed into a comatose state. She wouldn’t permit anyone in the room, not even the guards. Ava needed to contain the ensuing panic from getting any further than these walls. For all Margzor knew, Astalla hadn’t suffered from his assaults.

  “Astalla... be strong... please...”

  Astalla stared deliriously into space. She didn’t respond to the woman’s words, deaf to her pleas. Ava squeezed her hand, taking comfort in the warmth that still emitted from her fingers.

  “Astalla…” A tear barely escaped Astalla’s eye, and Ava realized she could see her.

  Her lips barely moved.

  Stay with me. She could only mouth the words, but they were just as powerful without her voice. Ava stroked her cheek, scared of losing her only friend.

  She would endure the pain for Astalla if she could. She would give her life for her. And there was something more that made her cry for Astalla. She held her hand and buried her face next to hers.

  She couldn’t possibly let her beloved demigoddess succumb to this threat. She feared they were helpless to the killer that was inevitably making his way to the temple now.

  She wanted to come up with a solution that would eliminate her every concern, but nothing seemed to make sense. The guards who maintained the temple would not be enough to protect them.

  She had only one option left, and she couldn’t hesitate any longer.

  Ava walked through the halls past concerned clerics. A single guard opened the great double doors before her and she emerged into the streets, where dozens of people mingled in the plaza. They were unaware of the threat making its way to their city. The people might argue they had nothing to fear, but Ava knew they would suffer if Margzor became a demigod. He would only redirect his anger at society once he eradicated the temples.

  She wished she share in their ignorance, to forget about the danger she faced or the burden that had fallen on her shoulders. She soon dismissed the fantasy as nothing more than a product of her growing fear. She had never felt so afraid in her life, not since...

  Not since the abuse.

  Ava made her way toward the guardhouse. She never relied on city officials or guards to protect her before, and she didn’t like the idea as she entered unfamiliar territory. Several guards looked at her with amusement, as though it was unacceptable for a woman to enter their patriarchal establishment. She ignored their stares and continued in search of someone who would help her.

  Ava paused outside the commander’s office, hoping for the best possible outcome. She breathed deeply and opened the door.

  Inside, a man sat behind a desk laden with reports. The authority figure was at the prime of his life; physically fit, handsome, and well-respected among the community. Ava nervously approached the commander who had served the city of Praemenon for more than thirteen years.

  “Commander Respa?”

  “Ava?” he said, sounding intrigued.

  “I urgently need more guards to monitor the temple. A man has been slaying Astalla’s followers and he seeks to kill her. She can barely endure.”

  “Someone has been murdering her followers? Has he breached Praemenon?”

  “I don’t know. He is going to attempt an assault on the temple. I am certain of it. Please help me.” Her eyes barely held back tears. “We must not let Astalla die.” Respa regarded her with empathy.

  “That is horrendous.”

  “Then you will help?” Ava said, surprised that he was considering her plea. He rubbed his chin and gazed into the distance, contemplating the request. At last, his brown eyes settled on hers again.

  “I require something in return for dispatching so many of my men to the temple.” Ava regarded him cautiously. What could a priestess possibly offer a high-ranking official? Respa absently sealed a letter on his desk. He held it aloft and looked at it for a while, lost deep in thought. “I am in need of female companionship.”

  His words struck her like a blade in her chest.

  Ava always felt uncomfortable around this man when she passed him in the streets; now she knew why his eyes followed her so closely. Never could she imagine that he would coerce her for sexual favors. It violated everything she stood for.

  “You know my vows,” she seethed.

  “Ava, I can make you feel like you have never felt before,” Respa said. She recoiled at the notion of intercourse with this shallow man.

  The thought of this man degrading her to a sex object infuriated her. Memories of her abusive husband surfaced.

  “I cannot,” she said. Respa regarded Ava with boredom and disappointment.

  “Then my squad shall remain at their designated posts.” He relaxed his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. He scanned her with a triumphant smile. Disgusted, Ava turned away to walk out the door. She stifled the curses that writhed behind her lips.

  As her hand rested on the handle, she hesitated. The mental image of Astalla kneeling and coughing up blood came to mind again. Ava wished she could endure the pain for Astalla. She would do anything to end it... almost anything.

  But how could she violate everything she stood for? How could she bring herself to endure abuse a second time?

  She wanted to flee the guardhouse as she considered the man behind her, who only wanted to use her body to sate his ego.

  She wished someone was there to help her come to the right conclusion. Ava was not sure anymore what was right in this world.

  Her hand slipped from the door. Ava’s chin sunk into her breast, her blue eyes shutting sorrowfully.

  Chapter 40

  Margzor abandoned all caution as he walked through the streets of Praemenon.

  He stepped into the city plaza and his presence instantly triggered a reaction. Three guards saw the approaching man, particularly the weapon in his hand. They looked to each other as if to confirm they weren’t hallucinating.

  Immediately, they assumed a formation to block his path. They could not break his determined gait and they reached for their swords. Margzor was upon them so quickly that they couldn’t ready themselves for the attack. Onlookers screamed in horror as the violent display unfolded before their eyes. The innocents fled from the streets, their cries attracting more watchmen.

  Guards converged at the site, trying to overwhelm Margzor with sheer numbers. He leaned and pivoted, dodging as many blows as he could. His blade jabbed out and tore through the throat of an enemy combatant, and his armored foot snapped across and crushed the knee of a soldier behind him. They besieged him from every angle in their efforts to subdue him. Margzor gyrated sharply and swung his sword to deflect several blades.

  His sword entwined with another, and he suddenly dipped low, slipping through a man’s defenses. The guards didn’t shy away from the battle, though Margzor’s ferocity was eating away at their resolve.

  The overcast sky began to bruise with gray and black. Shadows flocked to the cityscape as dark clouds obscured the sun. The wind picked up and howled along with the screams of the dying guards.

  * * *

  Respa looked down at her with amusement. He was pleased that Ava had at last agreed to this exchange of services. She returned to the guardhouse that morning and reluctantly complied with his demands.

  He would not soon forget this experience. The next twenty minutes would be the most precious of his life. He admitted th
at he cared nothing for her, but that would hardly stop him from using Ava to whet his appetite. It was a shame she was not a virgin. He would have coveted the trophy of her virginal innocence. Respa was quite aware of her previous marriage, and by all accounts, it was a tragic arrangement.

  He learned of her husband when the man in question came to the guardhouse looking for his wife. Respa had the moral decency to keep Ava’s whereabouts a secret, but whether it was done out of pity for the woman or a feeling of possessiveness remained unknown.

  There was no denying her beauty. Ava’s figure had enamored him since their first encounter on the streets. They were hardly more than acquaintances, and he was certain she had no interest in him. However, he didn’t have any use for relationships, only one-night trysts.

  She wouldn’t be a threat to him after this experience. Her religious convictions would never allow her to confess that she had violated her oaths. She would be banished from the temple and scorned as a whore.

  “You are beautiful, Ava.”

  His fingers undid the fastenings of her clerical robes. The way he looked at her was unnerving. His hungry eyes stared at the most intimate regions of her body. Like so many men, he only regarded her as a pair of legs and breasts. He would not see past her body to her sorrow.

  Ava fought hard not to cry. She didn’t regret the sacrifice she would make to protect Astalla, but she would never forgive herself. She vowed she would never let a man touch her again. She only did this because she loved Astalla. His hands reached toward her breasts.

  Ava closed her eyes and wept. She jerked as a piercing sound shattered the silence. It sounded like a scream.

  “What was that?” Respa reared up from his desk and looked around nervously. He peered out the window and lunged for the door. For a moment, he was afraid someone knew what he was doing. That irrational fear soon passed, and he smiled.