by JW Baccaro
Darshun walked further into the room and saw two bizarre looking statues of dragons that stood about twenty feet high and thirty feet long—because of their tails.
What made these images strange was that their bodies were made out of silver and gold while their eyes were white diamonds. Their eyes were creepy, appearing life-like, watching and following his every movement.
“These must be the Fire Gods Olchemy spoke about, but what are they guarding?” He gazed past them and was shocked at what he saw, wondering why he had yet to notice this.
A great black square altar, about three cubits high, ten cubits in length, and five cubits in width. Twelve candles were stationed along the outskirts of the Altar, each one perfectly aligned with another directly across from it, and burning a ‘mystic blue’ as Darshun called it, deep and mysterious. What looked like serpents, their tails twitching back and forth, where feasting on a body drenched in blood. White light rose off the body, ascending into the rock ceiling.
“The Unholy Altar," he said, his heart beginning to pace. "And that body…" Darshun understood, the body saturated in blood was Kelarin’s and the white light rising was her lifeforce, her spirit, and it was rising to the surface to take its place in the Dark Crystal to appease the Dark Gods of Abaddon, and release the Spell of Destruction.
The white light faded, the serpents became still and the candles blew out. Blood was dripping from the carcass onto the Altar and then the floor; nothing but a gentle trickle could be heard. Kelarin was gone.
Before he had time to despair the whole mountain shook and he sensed a terrible terrible—evil arising upon the surface above. This evil was nothing like he’d ever sensed, even far greater than Abaddon’s.
“The Spell of Destruction—it has begun! I must act now!” He took a step forward but suddenly the dragon statues came to life while breathing fire. The flames clashed, forming a wall between him and the altar. He jumped back. “The Unholy Flames?” he wondered.
The flames stretched about fifty feet long and fifty feet thick. There seemed to be no other way to the altar except through these flames. Darshun reached toward the fire and quickly withdrew his hand. The flames looked natural, but felt hotter than anything he’d ever felt. In fact, the heat seemed so great that he needed to step out of the room. “How am I to surpass such flames, such heat?” Thinking back to what King Sirach told him and it struck hard.
"The fire is what some call ‘Delibious,’ an old Angelic word meaning ‘Purification.’ In the after life, it is said to be used in the purification of souls. Were your heart pure, you’d pass right through it unharmed. However, and Abaddon knows this, no one among this Seventh Realm is pure to such a degree as to stand before the God of Light Abidan. No matter how holy, we all share one form of darkness to another—your soul shall burn unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. No battles of the past, no amount of pain in training will compare. You cannot have any fear dwelling among your heart, especially while attempting to pass through the Unholy Fire, for that fear will most assuredly cause you to fail and burn out of existence."
"I have no fear other than to suffer in this dreadful pain. And darkness? Abidan knows I remain far from perfect. How am I going to accomplish this? What will happen once I step into the flames?"
"Shall we go forward and find out?" came an oddly familiar voice, spoken from behind.
Can it be true? No, it must be an imaginative of the mind. Right? Darshun turned around and rubbed his weary eyes at what—who he saw, completely bewildered. “It—cannot be?”
There he stood, his father, Mirabel the Great, beautifully clothed in shining white garments with golden trim.
Slowly, Darshun walked toward him, gazing upon his presence. He touched his arm, the form solid. It was no hallucination. Then—like a little boy Darshun fell into his arms.
Mirabel gladly welcomed him.
“Oh father—I thought you were gone forever.” Darshun stepped back to look at his face again, his blue eyes and long brown hair still the same as they had been when alive.
“I have returned to this realm, my son, to help you through the fire and flames.”
“I was not confident—I could—do it alone.”
Mirabel placed a hand over Darshun's shoulder. “No one who walks in accordance with the Light, or even strives to, ever stands alone.” He held out his other hand. “Ready?”
Darshun clasped it, gripping tightly, “More than ever.” No questions needed to be asked. No "what are the Heavens like" or "who else is there" or even questions about the mysterious Abidan. Darshun understood the moment perfectly.
“Then let us go.”
Together, they approached the flames, the light shining off them, and this time, without hesitation or doubt, having a clear mind and conscious, Darshun put his hand into the fire and stepped in completely, right alongside his father—friend—brother, Mirabel.
It felt like entering another plane of existence, a realm consisting of everlasting heat. The roadway, being nothing more than hot blazing coals, stretched on forever, the walls around them enriched with orange red flames. Almost immediately, he witnessed his arms melt to the bone and felt unimaginable pain shooting throughout his body. Was the fire devouring him? Should he go back? He looked to Mirabel, who still gripped his hand, the only part of his body that did not feel compressed within a sizzling iron cage.
Mirabel looked fine, unaffected by the flames. Suddenly the flesh over Darshun’s members reformed. A vision. That is all it had been; trickery, magic. The pain, on the other hand, felt real—very real! And that proved the mysterious part. Was this how it felt to be torched alive? Yet, his body would not be consumed, instead remained in a constant state of burning; sometimes the pain increased, other times lessen, but never would fall to ash. Not even his innards were spared; his heart, lungs, stomach—everything felt like it eternally rested in a long heated coal oven. With all this pain befallen him it made moving all the more difficult and he stumbled.
"On your feet Darshun," Mirabel commanded, "Forward!"
Using every ounce of strength, he obeyed, rising up, making another wide step onto the blazing pathway. When placing his foot down this time, he felt the bare intensity of stepping onto the coals barefoot, melting his feet into bubbling goo. He suspected another form of visual seduction, but again, the pain seemed all too real, and felt like his sole and heel bones were the only pieces of matter keeping him erect. The feeling of walking suddenly disappeared, the only sense of touch existing became constant torture, bound in a single space. It was his will that caused his legs to move, whether they were charcoal and melted skin or not.
This entire place seemed to be bent on the will of the heart, rather than the strength of the body. Faith, some might call it, became his motivation, his new body. Regardless of the excruciating pain, Darshun accepted this punishment. This “purification” and right beside his father, using the will of the mind, he continued marching forward. He had to get through. Besides, recalling King Sirach’s warning, should he fall into disparity, the flames would consume him out of existence, meaning his very soul. He must keep his will strong.
A heavy wind began to blow, enraging the firestorm, tripling the heat, the flames, the noise, and the horrid stench of burning flesh and asphalt. Then, darkness set in and he felt Mirabel's hand no more, neither the flames, or saw any light. He floated in a void of darkness. There was no ground to walk on, no way to control his movements, no noise but his own thoughts, no creatures to fellowship with either.
He seemed to be utterly alone, drifting in eternal blackness. "Father!" he screamed. Then inexplicably, visions of Mirabel appeared. He lay dying in Darshun's arms, after the battle with Melgothris, and then passed away. Already forgetting that Mirabel had been alongside him just seconds ago, witnessing his father's eyes fall still a second time returned Darshun's original feelings.
Too add to his horror, deceased loved ones materialized also—Mirabel one of them. They looked grotesque, in
pain, eternally burning, guts spewing out, decaying with disease—all memories of his past, each and every uplifting moment vanished out of his mind, replaced by negativity, as if this was all he’d ever known in life. Pain, sorrow, guilt, depression, anger, disparity and hopelessness. He couldn’t remember the way of honor, the path of righteousness, the feeling of joy or the sensation of love. This dark energy began to devour his soul, transpiring a feeling he could not explain.
In a few minutes, the entity known as "Darshun" would cease to exist—then came the final blow, fear, which should have eradicated him completely. This was the Unholy Fire's fatal mistake. The last lesson Mirabel had taught him, to fear nothing. Darshun recalled the duel he experienced against Mirabel, both unleashing their elements, clashing one against the other, where the loser would be disintegrated. There was no turning back, no running away, it was kill his father or be killed by his father. His limits had been tested, and he nearly fell, however the fate of the world rested upon his shoulders even then; he hadn’t a choice but to win.
Therefore, letting go of all worry, all doubt and disparity, his fear diminished and his energy grew. He accomplished something he never thought possible, defeated Mirabel the Great, his savior and father. When the emotion of fear was injected into his soul by the entities among the Unholy Flames, it returned his memories of joy, love, and righteousness. He remembered all of what his father taught him, and the darkness intertwining within his spirit could do harm no longer.
Suddenly, he felt Mirabel once more, tightly gripping his hand and back by his side he appeared, coming out of a dark cloud; though Darshun barely could stand and Mirabel had to help him to his feet. If his father hadn’t been there, he would have become lost. For after coming out of his prior state he didn’t know which way was the altar, every direction looked identical.
Mirabel, on the other hand, led the correct path, saying what he always would say when on a mission…Let us go, my son.
Darshun didn’t know whether he’d been grasping his hand the entire time while in the void of darkness, but it mattered no longer. He got out, escaped, triumphed and it was only a matter of time before getting through this hellish realm now.
Drawing closer to the end, a hot blistering wind blew and hideous beings appeared in the fire, circling them. Colossal-sized demonic looking creatures swung giant maces, two-headed man-like beasts with brown slimy worms falling out of their eye sockets, piling up everywhere, and moaning a terrible moan.
Darshun couldn’t tell whether they were enraged or in severe torture.
Then finally, loud screeching grizzly skeletons having glowing blue eyes paced around, lashing at the two with their claws.
"Ignore the vile," Mirabel spoke. "It cannot harm you."
Darshun took those words to heart, and did as he commanded. Never, did they attempt to block or dodge the maces and claws, never would they venture around the mound of wriggling worms, they walked right through them, crushing many little bodies with their feet while the goo became thick and heavy like a dense paste. Darshun believed, yet again, they were illusions. It seemed each new step brought about an illusion or new type of pain—physical or spiritual, in attempts to delude his mind. He discovered that his heart, as the presence of the Unholy Fire had been angrily discovering, was too strong—even stronger now that Mirabel walked alongside him.
Darshun now felt there was no test, no trial, tribulation or tragedy that could stop him now, not while keeping his memories and feelings alive, and not while being with his father. Mirabel’s presence greatly strengthened Darshun’s will, and he rejoiced to Abidan for these moments, even for the pain, suffering and “purification.” Why? Because he got to see his father once again and anything was worth that.
~~****~~
Over the field of Milrotha things were not so great. That battle seemed equal, death was everywhere, but on both sides, neither the Light nor the Dark showed any signs of retreat. The Great Apes clashed against the Trolls, the Centaurs took on the Minotaurs and Talvenya was still creating mounds and mounds of corpses—everyone, including the dire animals and the Angelic Seth Caelen was giving it their all, as much energy they could spare.
However, the true horror was something else entirely—Abaddon! Upon Castle Astaroth, in the serpent’s mouth, the Demon Lord remained, arms raised while chanting the words of darkness, a speech of death, and praise to his Gods.
In the sky, hung the Dark Crystal surrounded by the four corrupted Wizard Crystals. All of them glowing and lashing with surges of chaotic energy. A mist ascended out of the Dark Crystal, forming a great black cloud, and the powers of the four were drawn into it, so that the cloud came alive. It became a glistening deep shadow of purple, sputtering out lightning, bluish energy waves, roaring thunder, and a haunting dark green mist. The cloud began to stretch in every direction, covering the moon and stars of heaven while the whole land of Syngothra shook.
All upon the battlefield ceased fighting—the Dark side included, and gazed into the sky with fear. They understood this cloud to be the Spell of Destruction and to witness its wrath and feel its power made even the mightiest tremble. Above all, Olchemy seemed effected the worst, being a Wizard and sensing the power of the Wizard Crystals of the Elements, now corrupted, tore his spirit inside out with agony and sorrow. He knew the first piece of land this ‘cloud’ would reach outside of Syngothra would be decimated, and all others would follow.
"Darshun," he whispered in misery, "Earth's fate is in your hands now."
~~****~~
Darshun sensed what was taking place above this very moment, and he even sensed how the whole world sat motionless, frozen in fear. If there were to be another day of sunlight, another day of peace or freedom, it was up to him, and now was that time!
Problem was, from all the continuous pain, the wretched disgusting illusions, and an exhausting hike down a never-ending road of flames, physical strength faded and so did his will. For whenever he struggled moving forward by thought it felt like an axe splitting his skull. He collapsed. How could he have gone all this way, nearing the end, feeling the state of events above, to just fall, to just be drained of all energy? It didn’t seem fair. His head spun, he saw red, white and blue stars amidst a yellow sky. Then all things began to spin, causing the lights to swirl and go round and round until the point of nausea and vomit.
Mirabel, still clenching his hand, knew his son was at his final stage; it was going to take additional help to conquer this Fire. "Abidan, my God, please—for all the creatures among the earth, even the wicked, your mighty splendor and the work your hands has made, give Darshun the strength to accomplish his task. He has suffered oh so much, more than even I, and has obeyed your will to the best of his ability, sacrificing everything. None of us are called for such a path, surrendering one's life by answering the calling of Guardian. Yet here he remains, seconds away from the exit of the vile flames. Let him not be consumed, please, give him the power to break through and end this accursed evil once and for all."
Majestically, while speaking the prayer, Mirabel heard another voice at the same moment, in a far corner of his mind, like an opening to another realm or location. The voice spoke the same choice of words, in unison, and was recognizable, Lord Athanasius, back at Ashhaven, in his tree of worship. Among the two individuals, both imbued the same level of heartfelt devotion in their prayers, so much that it deeply moved Abidan's great heart within the Heavens, and he listened, or rather so, answered.
Instantly, Darshun came back to his senses, strength renewed, nausea ceased, and the feeling of his father clenching his hand tightly gave him hope—it wasn’t too late.
"On your feet my son," Mirabel yelled over the steaming winds.
Darshun looked a little dazed, unknowing how much time passed, but realized it didn’t matter. "Father, let us end this wicked place."
He nodded and they pushed on through what seemed the hardest set of flames and wind yet, but gradually exited.
Two golde
n streaks of lightning shot out of his necklace, the vibration fluttering his chest, and struck the fire Gods behind them, crumbling the images to pieces. "We did it!" Darshun said, rejoicing happily. He felt his father pat him over his shoulder once more as if to say, “task well done" then Mirabel disappeared, leaving only the memory of his smile behind. Darshun, again, stood alone. He understood—no time for family farewells; there wasn't much time to waste.
After so much journeying, fighting and suffering, Darshun finally stood before the Unholy Altar. He felt the essence of a thousand dark spirits swarming around him in furious anger, but ignored them.
Then at least a dozen black serpents with glowing red eyes sprung to life out of the Altar. Then another dozen, followed by another, until the Altar looked more like a rancid nest for the vile things, rather than a square table for sacrifice. The creepy creatures slivered to and fro, glaring at Darshun, hissing.
He wondered whether the Altar was producing them, or in reality, this might be what the Altar truly was: an essence of pure evil represented and symbolized by the Black Serpent. Trying not to look upon them, he forced his hand through the slimy mass until he felt Kelarin—her body covered in them.
Many began biting him, sinking in their fangs; he feared not their venom, believing it would cause him no harm, nothing more than a pestering sting. After all, he was no sacrifice. These were no common snakes however, and they also seemed unable to disconnect themselves from the Altar, being a part of it. Feeling his way for her hand, he gripped it firmly and pulled her from the burial of serpents. Darshun set Kelarin’s lightweight bloody corpse over his shoulder, then removed his necklace. Already it began to shine, bursting out bright golden lights; the serpents immediately became frantic, swarming around, eyes piercing red. They tried reaching for it.
Instinctually, Darshun pulled away his hand, the serpents opening their mouths, wanting to drive their fangs into, apparently—his necklace. They sensed the power. He tossed it in the cluster of them and quickly stepped away. Every serpent went for it; seeking the majestic power, it most assuredly was giving off.
