by T. M. Lakomy
“Your ways are beyond wild to me, please spare my weary heart,” Estella pleaded. “Are you here to help me or to hinder me?” She chewed her lip morosely as the elf raised his hands helplessly with an enigmatic smile.
“Dance with me before I answer you,” said the elf. “There are many things that I wish you to see, Dancer in the Dark, before things all end, for the better or the worse. I am the elven lord of Masha, and we built the Twilit realms. And while you worship and pray to us, we venerate you in return, immortal children of the undying skies. Dance with me your last dance on earth and heaven, I have much for you to behold.” The elf’s expressionless eyes kindled with soothing serenity.
“I will, as long as I know I am safe,” Estella replied. “But I fear some evil has befallen my sight.” She gripped his arms, her eyes wide with sorrow. The lanterns all around them erupted into a flight of fiery butterflies, and the woods around them were plunged into impenetrable darkness as they skittishly circled them.
“You have been severed from your sight through the hand of Merlin, who thinks it is a better way for you. I think so too, but I have a proposition for you.” He twirled Estella till the luminous butterflies fanned to a haze.
“I am weary of this world where I am hunted like a beast,” Estella remarked dizzily, “and no refuge endures.” The veneer of indifference in his eyes fell away to reveal raw determination.
“Hush, I have my own games to play. I am the ultimate trickster, we the faded ones, but first you must die to earth and all . . .”
27
FALL FROM GRACE
I held you in the palm of my hand, as a nail against a cross
Watched your loving hatred perforate my tender care
For in the desecration of my heart you see no loss
And you see an illuminated spectacle of my despair
“YOU MUST REPENT TO GOD FOR THE SINS OF THE FLESH THAT you have committed and the immoral conduct you have applied to your life outside of the sacred vows of the holy order. You’ve let us down, Templar. I must confess to be terribly disappointed in your lack of humility.” The crisp, reprimanding tone was heavy like a dull church bell. “Here you shall be purged of all that has defiled your holiness, and in life and death you shall pass through purified. Even your mistakes we shall forgive, and the doom that you have let loom over us as a sunless day.”
Mikhail groaned, exasperated by the meaningless litany, and reached for the goblet perched on the table by his bed. With one hand on his brow he assessed his fever while the other sought to relieve his thirst. He shot a look of utter contempt at the monk standing at the foot of his bed. His hands were clasped over his chest in a position of austerity, and his beady black eyes following the trajectory of the goblet to Mikhail’s mouth with distaste. The monk reeked of sweat and manure, and his tattered grey robes, held together by a plain rope, were in rags. It was no doubt a testament, in his mind, to the severity of his commitment to rebuking the material world. The only visible claim upon his body to his position of authority was the heavy set of silver keys around his neck, strung with beads of jet and marble. He sniffed in disgust as Mikhail admired the gilded cup. Catching the look on the monk’s face, he cast it without warning at him as the monk ducked in an inelegant flurry of robes.
“I have heard enough of your castigations for things you cannot comprehend, and I shall not be left here to rot, least not by the likes of you.” Mikhail’s clipped tones struggled to hide his festering bitterness.
“You are to be kept here until the new cardinal arrives,” the monk responded. “Meanwhile, we have received orders to confine you because of your impending sickness and probable demise, and to ensure that you have been purified. Do not forget that your shortcomings have ushered in an age of disgrace that we cannot mitigate. You have forced us to divide our camps and forge dissent among our own order to separate the queen and her followers from the true chosen people. This was your doing, Templar Mikhail, your fault that you could not foresee the weakness of the queen, and that you did not slay her when you knew what had happened! Now we have pestilence and decay in the city, and it spreads like gangrene through the veins of the world, polluting and corrupting. This sickness you have been cursed with alongside the reprobates of the city is proof that you have fallen short and been remiss in your duties!”
Mikhail snorted and shook his head incredulously. Then he heaved himself out of the bed with obvious pain. He had lost weight, and his robes hung loosely on his weakened frame. A sheen of sweat covered his face, which he wiped away before addressing the monk through gritted teeth.
“I have no time to dispute such claims with the likes of you, monk. You think we are all reprobates. Unless I see a physician I will succumb to this sickness, as it has already claimed countless lives before me. And you dare to stand there impertinently in the place of judgment and stop me!” Mikhail pointed an accusatory finger towards him menacingly. Holding himself to his full, towering height, he lifted his right arm high and the sunlight glistened on the signet ring he wore. “This arm fought against the cursed one and saved this thankless country from a worse plight than you can imagine!” His remorseless grey eyes were now lit with a taunting pride.
The monk froze, then he marched up to Mikhail ponderously, spite and envy mingled together. “You let yourself be seduced by a witch,” he jeered. “The eye of the heathen gods themselves! She fooled you and poisoned you, and instead of bringing her to us to purge of darkness, you allowed her to do as she wished! The sins of the world were brought in by womenfolk. Between them and the devil, there is no respite for the believer. Even the queen is no different!” The monk’s livid face reddened and his jowls quivered as he spat out his last words then retreated towards the door.
“You know nothing, and are not at liberty to dispense punishments for my supposed crimes,” Mikhail sneered dismissively, returning to his bed.
The monk smirked and tapped his head knowingly. “They are disbanding your order finally, and you are no longer immune to the church. I have thought about it, my lord, and these people will be the ones to mete out the right procedures. Come in!” he bellowed triumphantly, his rotten teeth exposed.
Mikhail’s expression hardened, but he maintained his stoic nonchalance as the monk opened the door eagerly. Behind it, ready for his word, were two knights in crimson suede and iron breastplates. Without waiting to be invited in, they hurried inside, positioning themselves at either sides of Mikhail’s bed.
“Lord Mikhail, we are here to record your official narrative and impose upon you penitence,” one of the knights proclaimed tonelessly. The monk let himself out, casting one last hateful look at Mikhail as he went.
“So it begins, the great fall of our people at the hands of the pettiest amongst us all,” Mikhail sighed. “There was a time when you could not bear to look me in the eye, knight, when we were the dawn of our order and the ideal you aspired to. Forbear your arrogance with me and spare me your insipid bravado.” Mikhail coughed irritably, flicking his fingers scornfully at the rigid knights.
“I doubt very much you have seen anything remotely holier than the master’s whip who shaped you,” Mikhail continued, beginning to cough again. He covered his mouth and winced when it came away with blood. Sighing, he stood up to wash away the blood at the nearby basin, but one of the knights barred his way. He removed his visor and stared Mikhail up and down, wrinkling his nose with arrogance. He had a scar across his left eye that dipped into his cheek and jaw, and zealous bright eyes that radiated both venom and trepidation.
“I have fought the great fiends, the enemies of our church,” the knight said, “but that is not for us to dispute here. I have come to ensure that you undergo your penitence, and to absolve you of your sins till the newly anointed cardinal comes to you. Come with us now, let the whip clean you of that witch that afflicts your soul. Then you may return to us again, or pass through to death.”
Mikhail brushed past him disdainfully. “Enough with the equivocat
ing! I know the rules of my order, and I commit myself to what awaits me. But do not presume to lord yourselves as any figure of authority that I shall obey, for in that you are nothing to me.” His voice was ironclad, and the two knights stiffened behind him before unsheathing their swords.
“We shall humble you then,” said the knight. “We were well warned before coming here by the queen that you were one given to the sin of pride.”
Mikhail turned around slowly, his eyes closed. When he opened them he measured the two knights in his gaze until they took a step back, slamming their visors shut.
“Your order has been disbanded by the order of the queen, Lord Mikhail. If we do not punish you, then worse shall befall you. No one from here to your kingdom will be your ally, nor will you find refuge anywhere.” The knight who spoke this time was the one hitherto silent. He removed his helm slowly, as if weighing his decision, then set it on the bed with soft reverence. He was fair of complexion with round, soft eyes better suited to a musician or poet than a knight. “Do not think of us unkindly, Lord Templar, for we volunteered to be here.” His voice was as soft as his placating smile.
His companion hunched over glaring and spat on the floor. “I did it only because of the misplaced sense of worship I had for your order,” he said angrily. “Now I see how low you have fallen. And yes, I have heard it all, the stories and the truth that you might deny.” His feverish, zealous eyes were maddened with pious rage.
Mikhail crossed his arms imperiously. “How callow, indeed. You hear one myth about me and you believe it. Seldom did we recruit such simpletons in my memory, but then I didn’t have the running of it all. I doubt the pope approves of the queen’s orders, but till then I am at whatever mercy there is to find.” With a grim smile, Mikhail pulled at his robe and tugged it over his head, revealing his bare chest, silver scars stretching across his pallid flesh. “Go ahead. Do not stay your hand, for in that you would have strayed from your duty.”
The blond knight bowed his head slightly, his compassionate eyes never forsaking Mikhail’s. “I shall be at your service till the very end. My name is Erin, nephew of the late Elmer, and I shall watch over you with the same care my uncle did.”
THE COLD VAULTS beneath the monastery were barren and damp, and mildew hung in the air like mist. Long ago it had been a place to contain the floods. Then gradually it had become a place to send victims for flagellations and other acts of contrition. The chambers were now full of makeshift cells with frail bed pallets and latrines. Chains and other instruments of torture waited on the stone ground, and a lonely wooden cross hung from the bleak walls. The walls themselves seemed sullied with old blood, no doubt from the flails of countless monks punishing their mortal shell, and the only inhabitants to the morbid solitude were a host of spiders that scuttled about in search of prey.
Mikhail knelt on the hard stone bare chested with his hair bound back, sweat streaming down his neck. His fever had renewed its merciless assault, seeking to conquer his body and reduce it beyond weakness. Yet still he held firm, detached and lost in thought, almost in a reflective state. As he prepared himself before the cross to be flagellated, he did not speak or lift his eyes. The cold was enough to make the heartiest of men quail, but Mikhail drew warmth from his fever, resolute in his dispassionate dignity. Behind him Erin stood defiantly, his broad back covering Mikhail from sight, almost to shield him from the view of the monk and the other knight there to witness Mikhail’s sentence.
Erin winced at the clammy cold and prayed in hushed tones while the monk clicked his tongue irritably, rubbing his hands in anticipation. When Erin was finished praying, the monk thrust a cruel looking whip into his hands.
“There, my son. Here is the accomplishment of your duty towards God, for those God loves he oft chastises, and there is no finer candidate for his displeasure than Mikhail himself.”
Erin recoiled from the monk’s cloying breath and coarse tone. “The likes of this man are seldom met with,” he replied. “Do not bring your ill will into this chamber, for we punish out of love, not out of spite!” Erin steadied himself and pushed the monk away with disgust. Seeing Mikhail’s back stiffen, he took a deep breath, doubt and remorse plain on his face.
“Do not be afraid, Erin, strike!” came the monk’s reassuring tone.
Exhaling heavily, he cracked the whip halfheartedly across Mikhail’s fragile flesh. He paused before the second strike, half expecting to see Mikhail flinch or cry out, but nothing happened, even his breathing seemed serene. But for the slight tremor in Mikhail’s fists, there was no sign of discomfort.
“Harder, Erin,” urged the monk. “If there is no pain there is no humility. Flesh is sinful and the soul rejoices in its punishment!”
Erin cracked the whip again and again, each strike leaving him winded and flushed. The monk’s disapproving scowl deepening. The knight by his side, though feigning disinterest, could not hide his admiration for the Templar, in spite of himself. The monk grumbled and waddled towards Erin, grabbing his arm as he was about to inflict his last lash.
“Give it to me, son, you are too soft. Do not let me think I have misjudged you. Give the sinner the pain he requires. Or would you damn his soul?”
Erin’s soft face reddened and became ashen grey as he pushed the monk away indignantly. “The decree wasn’t for you to apply! Leave this man alone, he has done nothing but offer his service to the kingdom. It’s a shame that in the end evil must vanquish our hearts, so that we turn on our devoted allies.”
The monk growled angrily and struck Erin across the face. “Impudent fellow who doesn’t know when to bow before his elders and betters, do not think yourself so powerful that they would not come after you. Look how far this Templar has fallen from grace. Now give me the whip!”
“Humor the old man, Erin, do you think his strikes more bitter than yours?” Mikhail’s placating tone infuriated Erin, who threw the whip to the ground, eyeing it with revulsion. He stalked out of the dungeons, throwing the precariously hanging door so violently it splintered against the stone wall. The monk tutted to himself and picked up the flail jovially.
“Prove to me you can strike honestly, monk. Do not fear, I will not come after you.” Mikhail’s intended jibe was not lost on the monk. With grim determination, he dealt Mikhail the final blow with all his might.
A FLOCK OF crows gathered ominously in the sunset, heralding the oncoming wall of night. Mikhail leaned against the open windows, breathing in the crisp air that would soon become unpleasantly cold, savoring the moments before the shivers would renew. He had bandaged his back himself, without aid from anyone, in the chamber he had been confined to where the only companionship he had was the monk and the knights. He scorned them all.
It had been a week of daily flagellations, and still he had not been absolved of his supposed sins. Every now and then he would secretly wander the cold halls at night, hearing the hushed whispers at his expense. Through brief communications with Erin he learned that the queen had broken apart the fraternity he had so assiduously forged. He secretly sent urgent word for Oswald, but he was nowhere to be seen. Mikhail feared he was dead, or worse, languishing in captivity somewhere.
The queen was pregnant, and as each day progressed her mind twisted and turned to darkness. Her reign could never be contested, as she was seen as a bulwark against the terror instigated by her king. No one knew of her poisoned mind except for a select few, powerless to gainsay her or bar her path to dominion. The weight of her displeasure had fallen on Mikhail, and the campaign to smear his name had reached its peak.
The infernal child that the queen bore would be the ultimate fruition of both Lucifer and Samael’s schemes. This time, there would be no woman with a magical, infectious smile and cunning iridescent eyes to lead a rebellion in her radiant halls. Estella was gone, God only knew where or whether she would ever return. The perfect scapegoat for both the clergy and the orders, her kind were once more the scourge of the people, persecuted and purified throu
gh fire and death.
Mikhail watched the early stars kindling in the night sky. Then he turned back to the diary he had acquired from the king’s study and managed to keep concealed with his meager possessions. In his free time whenever his fever briefly abated, he learned many things, great and fell—the twisted path that leads to greatness, and the morbid price of losing one’s soul. Lucifer and God had been playing a deadly game since the dawn of time. Lucifer was the sole master of earth and its dominions, and the ruler of all things that had life within them. For bodies were made of clay, and material was a possession of the light bearer. And he had brought humanity to forbidden enlightenment through the arts of sorcery and alchemy and the transmigration of souls and reincarnation.
Lucifer founded the first civilizations, and with his loyal flock of angels molded the thoughts and creativity of mankind, shaping their cultures and ways. The olden gods they worshipped were the loyal vassals of the light bearer, who benignly bestowed upon them knowledge and power. But since the Son of man emerged and led an army of zealous believers into the slavery of dogmatic beliefs and shackled their minds, the war for earth had been an imminent desolation. Lucifer played his game alongside deadlier players, and they were blind and never saw the light and were therefore darker than the innermost confines of hell and knew nothing.
The desire to be as God found its way into men’s hearts, and they thought their right to reign divine, having been made in God’s image. Through that they fell prey to the cruel machinations of the cursed one. And the discourses that Lucifer gave the king were ever fair. Even in their diluted and transcribed form they were beautiful and enticing, filled with a potent magic that made its way into the recesses of the mind and echoed endlessly through the body, coursing within it with keys to hidden doors.
