To Love a God (and for a God to Serve)
Hot as the days in the desert my be, the nights are out as cold, maybe more so. The wind which hours ago may burn bone white now blows cold sand across the dunes. It is a good night for killing.
Two figures stand facing one another in the desert outside the city of Camar. One in fine raiment, black with gold buttons and white lining. The other is dressed half so well, and is bound to a rope, held by their finely dressed captor. The captor pushes their hostage to the ground, where their knees dog into the sand. They look to their master, eyes pleading. They do not understand. They ask why.
The captor answers.
Love.
There is no sound as an ornate dagger is slid into the eye socket of the captive, but one could almost imagine the sound of their light sniffing out echoing off of the sand. Their corpse falls silently to the ground.
The finely dressed figure pulls back the dagger, sliding a finger along it’s edge. The scraping noise is accompanied by a low chanting from the weapon’s owner. Moments later, another figure arrives from somewhere else, clad in black so dark it appears to be a void. The sand responds to the figures presence a moment too late, as if it has yet to realize there is weight pressing upon it. The figure stands a foot or more above the finely dressed killer. Neither move for a long moment.
Finally, the killer releases a shaking breath. They take a step forward, but the shadows of the night sky seem to gather before the black-clad figure and violently shove the killer away, sending them sprawling. A sound echoes from the void-black figure. It may have been speech, or it may have been the sound of grinding, breaking bone dragged across jagged stone. The tone, regardless, is enraged. The tall figure slides forward as if falling sideways, stopping abruptly only a foot away from they who summoned it. It looms above them, and the killer again makes to approach, speaking quickly and desperately. Whatever they say, they are able to proceed unimpeded. They stand, putting only inches between the two. Slowly, the killer moves their face closer to that of the otherworldly presence. They kiss the face if death.
The killer stiffens, but does not pull away. As the moments pass, their skull begins to crack and crumble. Soon, there is little mouth left to make contact with death’s visage. Only now does the killer pull away. They reach up a hand and gently stroke death’s face. When their hand is again at their side, a knucklebone is cracked.
They speak again to death, as well as they are able. They ask of death some question. Death dies not answer. It turns, having seemingly forgotten it’s suitor, and glides to the corpse. It kneels, and it’s cloak pools around the body as a fluid. The bones therein glow momentarily, and then are passive again. Death stands again, it’s duty dine. The now disfigured killer stands, unable to leave so soon.
Suddenly, death looks to the city. It glides towards the walls of the settlement, fast as rain. Even as it is moving to harvest again, it turns to the killer and speaks again. With a scream, the killer feels their skull reconstruct itself, piece by rotten piece, until it is the same as it was before. Except, they notice, for a single, nearly invisible crack, which runs from the bottom of their left eye socket to their nose. They look to death, hand in their mouth. They wonder. But the spectre is gone, past the walls of the Prince’s city, gathering some dead citizen.
Sayi, Prince of Camar, begins his walk back to the city. The servants will ask where one if their ranks has gone, when morning comes.
