CHAPTER I

FEARLESS VAMPIRE HUNTER

I’ve never kept a journal. Why should I? There was nothing about my life to write about. Who would want to keep a record of being bullied and lonesome all through their childhood and into their teen years? Also, I have never found it easy to talk about myself.

Sharing the struggles and tragedies of my life is difficult enough; rambling on about me and my problems, well, it’s just irksome, but here I go.

My name is Spencer Vale. At the start of this writing, it’s the early 2000s, and I’m in my mid-thirties. Look, I won’t be putting any specific dates here, only a general idea of when and where events happened. Since I’m only now recording all this stuff, I can’t recall exact dates anyway.

The reason I’m doing this? Well, this manuscript exists at the behest of a dear friend you’ll meet during its telling. And I suppose, since it turns out to be a rather fantastic tale worthy of keeping a record of, it should be recorded, so I reluctantly agreed.

Don’t get me wrong about my childhood; I wasn’t exactly miserable. At home, I was happy. My older brother was my rock, and my folks were loving, supportive, and dear to me. I did have a few true friends over the years, but social life, for the most part, was nonexistent.

Being shy didn’t help, either. I was terrified of looking foolish, of rejection, didn’t have a bold bone in my body, so I kept mostly to myself, and honestly, I was fine with that. I was a loner…a rebel! Nah, not much of a rebel, really, just a kid with his head in the clouds. Oh, the countless times teachers complained to my folks about me spacing off in class. My mother, rather than berating me for having such a dreamy mind, scolded the teachers for not encouraging a healthy imagination in me. Sure, she told me that I needed to pay better attention because I was there to learn, but that I should always dream when I was free to do so, just to be more conscientious about when and where I spaced out.

For most of my early life, we lived in a small, mountainous town in the Midwest. Family life was good, nothing astounding or particularly interesting about it. My folks were solid parents, sober, kind, intelligent, practical—all those positive things that lend to compassion and understanding, especially when raising two rambunctious boys like myself and my brother.

Jaren was older than me by about three years, so our school time was separated just enough to keep him ahead of me and out of his sphere. The two of us were not entirely opposites, but we were different in many fundamental aspects. While Jaren was outgoing, proud, even brash at times, I was quiet, awkward, and, more often than not, locked up in my own head, lost in those wild fantasies. My brother always tried to yank my timid little ass out of the shell of my mind, but he had a devil of a time doing it. Not that I tried to fight him on that front. Heck! I adored him…looked up to him…practically worshipped the guy. But I simply could not be like him.

Tall, muscular, and ruggedly charming, Jaren strutted like a don and drew others to him like a tsar! He owned every room he walked into, and let me just say, not once did I ever feel a speck of jealousy for my big brother. Hey, I’ll admit he could do wrong and did at times, but he always owned it, and now, looking back, he often used those slip-ups to teach me valuable life lessons so that I wouldn’t make the same mistakes he did. He was as much a teacher to me as our folks were, perhaps more.

But me? I was a rail of a kid with a face like my mama, pretty for a boy, skinny, awkward, and dreadfully clumsy. Thankfully, as I entered adulthood, those soft looks turned more rugged, and I sprouted up like a weed.

Always the loner, with my less than a handful of true friends, still, I was satisfied with life in general. My school friends and I enjoyed all the geeky stuff together: movies and comics, and I devoured books like they were “going out of style,” as Dad used to say. Never was I begrudged any book I wanted to read, and my fancies were wide and varied. I loved fiction of all varieties: martial arts films, horror, fantasy, and science fiction books and movies.

What young boy didn’t love those? But I also ate up history,

metaphysics, science, and mysteries, fearlessly letting my interests go wherever they wanted to. I certainly trod my own path, and doggedly so. About the only typical male interest I didn’t have was sports, which should be pretty obvious by my bookish ways.

By the way, this isn’t the first time I’ve endeavored to write a story, even though it is the first time I’ve written in first-person prose. Since I was a pre-teen, I’d piddled around with writing here and there. Whenever I read something that inspired me, gave me ideas, and awakened my writing voice, I would jot down bits here and there: at recess, in between classes, during boring lessons, or at home. Nothing that I’d ever share with anyone else! Oh, no!

Anything I wrote was for my eyes only. My friends had no clue I’d written anything and never would!

But that’s a lie.

One person knew that I wrote stories because she spotted me scribbling in my notebook and, unbeknownst to me, read over my shoulder. She was the very last person in the world that I would have wanted to read my trash!

Her name? Romayne Pierson…

It was sixth grade when I first laid eyes on Romayne, and man!

My heart was solid gone! Love at first sight? I can’t deny it, and I was utterly helpless to it! No other girl…no other woman, as it turns out, could hope to trump her in my pitiful, besotted heart.

Oh, she was pretty, sure, but it was more than that.

Something…moved me every time I laid eyes on her. No other human being affected me like Romayne did. There was no explaining it. All I could do was succumb to it, which typically meant me looking or acting like a damned fool in her presence. She was simply the most wonderful thing I’d ever laid my clueless little eyes on. A truly kind heart, she was always warm and considerate to me, no matter how rejected I felt by others. Unabashedly, she stood by me and made me feel like no one else could: important, like I mattered, like I meant something to her, which was the core of it, though I probably read into her kindness out of my feelings for her. It’s hard to put those feelings into words, but I feel them even now; after so many years, it’s always the same with her in my heart.

Rayn, as her friends called her, was not a part of the “popular” crowd, yet she was, in her own way, popular. She was “artsy,” as she always referred to herself—an artist and actress who devoted her curricular and extracurricular hours to all aspects of the drama club: sewing costumes, building sets, makeup, and, of course, performing. And, man, I never missed her plays. She was good! Really good! And I admit each and every one of her characters made an appearance in my boyhood daydreams. I’m not shy to admit it. I still daydream about her to this day.

Her sneaky reading over my shoulder happened in algebra class, the only class we shared that year; it was eighth grade. We students were left to our own devices because the teacher was running late. I was so far away in my writing—a rather gory scene scribbled in pencil—that the entire room had vanished around me.

Shit, I was concentrating so hard on that stupid little story, it was like I’d left the planet!

Then, out of nowhere, I heard, “What’s that you’re writing?” Rayn’s voice—she was standing right behind me! Her sweet voice was brimming with unbridled excitement, making me jump as my pencil flew out of my hand, and I hastily shoved the paper under my stack of books.

How much had she read? I thought in a panic, heart hammering, and my face heating up as embarrassment surged through me.

But she only laughed at my reaction as she bent down, picked up my pencil, and held it out to me, grinning as I stared aghast back at her. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

I took the pencil from her, still ogling and oozing shame.

“It’s good,” she tilted her head toward where my paper had been. … “And scary!” Her big hazel eyes widened, and she made claws with her fingers, imitating a creepy monster. With her bright eyes and sweet face, all crumpled up like that; she was so fucking adorable my heart clogged my throat, and, being the goofy kid I was, I could only mumble, “It’s nothing,” or some senseless thing like that.

Rayn rubbed her hands together like some mad villain, then leaned in close to me. She smelled of vanilla and lavender. My heart shuddered madly as she whispered in a conspiratorial voice, “I want to read it when you’re done.”

I think I nodded mutely just as the teacher entered, saving me from any real commitment and sending Rayn scurrying to her desk.

Of course, I never finished that story, and I never gave any part of it to her to read, even though she asked me about it several times after that encounter. I always made up some lame excuse and changed the subject, usually without being able to form coherent sentences, which was typical for me in her presence. I’m sure that’s why she finally quit asking. How could someone who couldn’t even speak properly ever write anything worth reading? God, I was pitiful around her!

Anyway, let’s get back to what happened to turn my rather dull life, the Rayn-less portion of it anyway, upside-fucking-down.

Yes, horror was one of my favorite subjects. But never in my wildest dreams or nightmares would I have thought that real life could perfectly mirror my favorite old horror tales. Trust me, you aren’t going to believe a word I say here if you’re a practical person who “knows” there’s no such thing as the supernatural or literal monsters. But hear me out because this is a wild, weird, and often tragic tale. That said, I hope to include some levity to balance out the awfulness. I’m not much of a funny guy, but I’ll try, though there’s not much to laugh about, either, so I’ll just tell it as it happened.

About nineteen years ago…

I was halfway through my final year of high school when my family and I moved house. Thankfully, I didn’t have to change schools. Oh, I wouldn’t have cared one iota about that, except for leaving Rayn. No way would I have moved away from her! I’d have thrown the biggest tantrum. Heck, I’d have moved out and lived on my own before leaving her behind! Thankfully, I didn’t have to, and my pitiful little heart was saved.

Not long after the move, everything changed. Every facet of my existence would be put through the wringer, and my perception of life, of reality, of literally everything I thought I understood would be turned completely upside down.

The first sign things were amiss was when Jaren started acting strange. My brother had always been an open book—a tough but warm guy. Funny, snarky, even a bit of a cad sometimes, at least to others, but never to me. But it was all tongue in cheek with him, that cool-guy attitude of his, all part of the show. Tall, athletic, and painfully good-looking, he always knew himself well and utilized his natural talents openly, without pretense or fakery.

I thought Jaren was the bomb, to be honest. I’d do anything for him, and often I did. We were a bit like the brains and the brawn, although he was in no way dumb. It was his concentration that suffered, and I often came to his rescue, getting him through tests and tough, bookish things he never devoted enough time to.

Jaren simply didn’t have the patience to study. Studying was my thing.

I never did cheat for him. Never went that far. Not that he asked me to, at least not directly. He might hint at it with his humor…his ever-present sarcasm, but never did he push me or make me feel bad for not offering that level of “services.” Basically, I tutored him, and he loved it. Or at least he acted like he did.

Nah, he loved it.

There was no animosity between us, not until things began to change.

God, I hate this part. I hate what happened to him, to us as brothers, to my entire family. Damn it, I know I should get these events down “on paper,” but I don’t want to revisit any part of it. Not like this, in all its horrid details. Oh, it haunts me every single fucking day, believe me! There’s not a day, not a moment of any day, that I don’t think of what happened and how life used to be before our nightmare…how it might have been had none of it ever happened…

Whenever those events surged into my thoughts, I pushed them out of my head for my own good…for my sanity! I never allowed myself to dwell on or entertain those memories because they might have driven me mad or made me give up, and I could not give up.

At the time this stuff was going on, Rayn didn’t know, had not a fucking clue how I felt about her. If she did, well, I don’t know how she’d have reacted to it. As sweet as she was, still, she looked at me like I was her brother. Shit, being around her made me feel like I was her little brother. I was, and still am, a complete, fucking idiot when it comes to her. Hopeless!

No amount of training or self-discipline can fix that part of me. Just the thought of her takes me right back to those gangly, stumbling, awkward days. But god, do I love her! If I could, I’d spend every waking hour with her, fool that I am.

I’d thought about telling her…how I felt…but I hadn’t reached out to her since graduation, though I always kept quiet tabs on her, just to know she was okay.

Shit, I’m rambling like an idiot about my squishy feelings and procrastinating the awful stuff like a wimp.

Sigh…

Jaren began to pull away from me. That was the first sign something strange was happening. It hurt like hell, too. Truly, at that stage in my life, when I needed him the most, he wasn’t there.

I felt like a freak, my body changing, urges growing, all so intense.

Well, all the normal adolescent stuff, obviously, but when it’s happening to you at that age, it’s the most dramatic thing ever.

Puberty was a bitch; I suffered alone. I never went to Dad with things. Not that I couldn’t have, I suppose, but Jaren was my rock, or once was my rock. Dad was just there, in the background, working constantly and a bit ‘switched off.’ At least, that’s how it felt to me. Hey, I never took for granted that I didn’t have an angry, mean father. Never were we abused by him—never poorly treated.

But I always wondered if something happened in his past to make him check out when it came to closeness. I loved my father, just didn’t know him that well.

I’d sure love to talk to him now and ask him all those questions I never had the chance to before…

Mom? She was about the sweetest thing on the planet! That said, she was delicate. I don’t know why she seemed so fragile to me, like I couldn’t go to her with anything that might upset or concern her. I felt fiercely protective of Mom. She was tender, loving, and treated us boys like the universe revolved around us. She was the same with Dad, that sweet little lady surrounded by all these big males.

As you can imagine, Jaren ruled the roost. He was such a massive personality; he overshadowed all of us in the best way.

But then, our rock began to crumble, and I cannot tell you the pain it caused my mother and me. I’m sure Dad worried internally, though he usually brushed Jaren’s new ways off as some kind of phase.

I was growing up fast, still not quite as tall as Jaren…yet, or even Dad, who stood just over six feet. Big guys ran in the family.

My grandpa, dad’s dad, was a huge guy.

Sure, I was skinny, but I hated being taller than all the other kids when I was young, though it might have protected me from too severe pummeling at school. I always blamed my awkwardness on what I considered an unnatural height. I was constantly self-conscious about it, but as I matured and faced the things I’ve faced, I became grateful for it. Towering over others was now an asset.

The folks began to lean more heavily on me since Jaren was almost always gone. I didn’t mind. It was good for me, so I ate it up. That was when I began to pay a little more attention to my body—just working out a few times a week, liking the changes in my physique, mostly due to puberty, since I really didn’t work out that hard. It was easy putting on muscle, though. Glancing in the mirror, I began to see Jaren-like details emerging, which thrilled and kind of scared me if I’m honest.

But things were only getting worse with Jaren. He would disappear for days on end, and his countenance was changing, too.

He went from strong and vibrant to haggard and sick so quickly that I wondered if he was doing drugs. As impossible as that seemed to me, knowing him like I did…like I thought I did. Jaren was not the kind of guy to start doing drugs at his age. He was fiercely against things like that, always saying he hated being out of control.

I soon found out he’d quit going to the gym and lost his job, which utterly shocked me. The gym was a second home for him, and he loved that job: salvaging and restoring old houses. I had planned to start working with him, but never got the chance.

But the real fear, the real horror, so unexpected, so inexplicable, happened one night when he came home in the wee hours and appeared in my room. It had happened a few times, always unnerving me, and so brief and strange I thought, at first, I’d dreamed it.

God, I hate it. Knowing what it meant now, when I had no idea what it was all about in those moments.

Over the previous nights, from the moment he had gone missing, I’d been having freaky dreams. I don’t recall now what they were about, but on the final night that Jaren came into my room, I woke from one of those nightmares with a jolt and nearly leaped out of my skin when I saw him standing, again, for the third time, at the foot of my bed, staring down at me.

He mainly appeared in silhouette. My room was dark—a faint moon-glow emanating through my windows. I never used a nightlight, but I wished I had right then because what I was looking at didn’t seem quite right. There was no doubt it was my brother, but the sheer wrongness of him had locked my throat into a tight column and sent my heart battering my chest as if it would escape from me, escape from him.

My room was dead silent, too silent, and I was holding my breath, trying not to make any sound; for some reason, I felt the urge to make myself as unnoticeable as I could, even though his face was turned toward me as if he was looking right at me. Yet his eyes were closed. And he made no sound himself, no movement, not even any natural shifting on his feet. His stance was too straight, rigid, awkward, more like a statue than a living human. I even wondered if he might be playing some practical joke on me.

Had he placed some flat, cardboard standee of himself at the foot of my bed to frighten and make a fool of me? Would he burst into the room from the doorway any second and laugh his ass off at my helpless moment of horror?

Why do something like that? I wondered. Why keep coming into my room for several nights just to mess with me? But, no. That was no standee, and he was not playing around.

I then noticed his eyes again, which I could only barely make out in the darkness. There was a faint glow…a red glow…shining from behind his eyelids.

I blinked at him, not trusting what I was seeing, what I was feeling, not trusting any of my senses.

Finally, after what seemed like several minutes of unparalleled tension, when it appeared he would not move or speak to me at all…it struck me…was he sleepwalking?

Oh my god, I thought, that has to be it! He must be asleep! That was why he stood so oddly and so stilly and why his presence freaked me out so much!

Somehow, I’d omitted that most unnatural red glow behind his eyes in my misguided assessment.

Steeling myself with this new, if incorrect, realization, I finally found my voice.

“Jaren?” it squeaked out of me like the voice of some pitiful little kid. I fruitlessly attempted to remember how one was supposed to handle a sleepwalking person. This idea was new to me. Jaren had never sleepwalked in his life. None of us had. This was worrying on so many levels and not something I had the faintest idea of how to deal with.

Slowly, I crawled out of bed and made my way to his side.

Whispering his name, unsure whether I should address him or not, I reached my hand out. As his head, eyes still shut, slowly followed me. My eyes suddenly locked on his glowing eyelids, and my heart seized just as my hand touched his arm, and I suddenly remembered the red glow! That oh-so-unnerving detail!

The glow was brighter; I could swear it. And his skin was cold!

So cold…

Then he moved his body to face me with that agonizing slowness as his eyelids began to lift.

Terror!

I could not move. Not a fraction of an inch.

Then those eyes…those searing red eyes met mine as I finally forced my hand off his freezing arm. Deep within the blacks of his pupils, sharp, bright pinpricks of crimson light shone like burning candles, pinking his cheeks and making the soft, natural gray of his eyes appear lavender. He looked strong again, not sunken and drawn, though his pallor was ghastly pale.

I don’t know if he stood still like that for minutes or if my mind froze as I took in this most preternatural thing that was once Jaren.

Lips trembling, after what felt like an age, I whimpered,

“A..are…you…okay?” Such a stupid question; he was clearly not okay.

Now, this may seem passé to any horror fan, but I cannot express too strongly the genuineness of all I witnessed. As much as my mind wanted to believe I was dreaming, locked in some soul-crushing night terror that I could not wake from, I knew this was no dream. This was reality! Real reality, and I was suddenly living in true horror and true danger!

Jaren’s lips parted. They peeled apart slowly, agonizingly, like tearing flesh, opening wide in a grimace that would put Cheshire Cat to shame, revealing pink-stained, too-long teeth like jagged bone scythes.

He was positively grinning at me, and as God is my witness, it felt like my entire world had been ripped right out from under me.

Like a black hole had opened up and sucked me in soul-first.

That expression on his once handsome face was like some blasphemous pantomime of joy, some sick, twisted impression of glee. And his eyes, the look in his once warm and jovial eyes, was that of a beast wracked with hunger…fierce as a rabid wolf, a lion, some monster ravenous for…for…

I knew what it was…what he hungered for. That hot, viscous substance soared through my veins in a rush as my heart rammed like a mad thing against my chest.

I stumbled backward, heedless of my room…of where I was, or even who I was. Normal life was a distant memory. The shock, the reality—agonizing fear had utterly overwhelmed me.

The knob to my bedroom door poked painfully into my hip, bringing me back from a tunnel of terror, and I grabbed it as the world reappeared around me in a sudden rush of fight or flight.

My mind grasped onto some semblance of focus, and I turned and yanked the door open, barreling and stumbling out of my room and down the stairs in a chaos of jumbled, straining, and shuddering limbs, not daring to look back.

If I’d realized what was about to happen, I might have remained in my room and tried to fight Jaren to save them…which would surely have ended things for me, and I wouldn’t be here now, recording all this…

In the beginning, was The Dark, and The Dark was matter, and The Dark

was chaos. Dark Matter existed alone upon the Face of the Deep until the

moment of The First Thought—the first instant of self-realization, which

was The Great I Am that brought The Light of awareness and of

organized matter into being.

The Light was conscious. But The Light was not chaos. Unlike The

Dark, The Light sought order and harmony and symmetry—Dark

Matter’s true and everlasting opposites.

Both essences of Matter longed for their own form of creation. But

due to the fundamental differences between them, only Light Matter was

chosen to bring forth ordered substance, harmonious form, and sentient

life, all by the will of The First. Thus, as The Light progressed in its

journey to take forms, The Dark presented a constant threat to influence

anything organized of Light with muddle and discord.

And so, The Light resisted Dark Matter’s influence by shoving it

away, into its own place, which became known as Outer Darkness.

In the scheme of things, both infinite and eternal, Light Matter

hastily brought forth organization, thought, and awareness—

encompassing and comprised of all existence. This One First

Consciousness called itself Ela’mah’dai, meaning The First Thought, and

matter then multiplied exponentially. From The Initial Thought was born

the Seraphon, the first and highest beings of light, and the Creators and

Governors of all that was, and they were many.

Matter is, and therefore, cannot be created nor destroyed, but it can

be molded and shaped only by the will of those born of The First

Consciousness. The Seraphon were of one mind, of one goal, of one

reason, and they set forth to do the will of The First Consciousness in all

things.

Between Outer Darkness and The Eternal Realms of Light, the

Seraphon erected a barrier to more efficiently separate both realms. The

barrier was a void containing no form of either Light nor of Dark Matter.

But a void cannot remain empty indefinitely—and being empty, The Void

hungered, as a magnet hungers and draws its polar opposites unto its

substance. A new form of Matter, composed of tiny remnants of Light

and tiny remnants of Dark—each being the opposite of The Void—was

sucked in over eons of time, creating matter that was essentially “Gray”.

Thus, The Void became a depository of the remnants of all creation, the

collector of discarded, fringe matter—matter that continued on the

course of self-organized, self-propagating structures set forth by the

Seraphon, only to a far lesser degree.

As the universal laws of matter were created, so that ever-filling void

obeyed those same principles, but in its own way and without the

Seraphon’s influence. And even without their direct hands, Gray Matter

brought into being all manner of things in the image of The Eternal’s

higher creations, but all at lower vibrations, with fallibilities, flaws, pains,

illnesses, finite lives, and ultimately, death. This new dimension became

the vast ocean of temporal space; self-organized and perpetually created

from laws, the remnants of which were infused into the Light Matter

before it was influenced by those oh-so-minuscule vestiges of The Dark.

Over eons, that endless Gray Space became filled with worlds and stars

and all manner of life. These lower forms of creation were not a

displeasure to The Great Creators. On the contrary, they found the new,

lower worlds to be most curious and fascinating, and they called this new

dimension The Mortal Realm.

Upon some of those mortal worlds were found endless forms of

Terrestrial life and of sentient beings, such as mankind—unclean

creatures, yet formed in the very image of the Great Seraphon themselves.

These lower beings, living directly in between both Outer Darkness and

The Realms of Light were constantly pulled in both directions and thus

evolved having both influences as the foundation for their hearts, minds,

and souls, which was the reason for all of their struggles, their joys, and

their pains.

The Seraphon grew concerned about the influence of Outer

Darkness on their hapless mortal “children”, so they built a veil of greater

protection between the realms. It was a barrier stronger than the naturally

occurring separation between dimensions, not unlike the divide between

The Realms of Light and Outer Darkness itself, which existed naturally as

two opposing magnets repel one another. Only this new realm required a

guard, for The Grey could not fully repel The Dark.

One of their brethren was chosen as sentinel and given a new name,

Saham’a’iel, which means Guardian of Darkness. He was to watch over

the veil between realms, over Dark Matter itself, and he would prevent the

lightless essence from further escaping into The Mortal Realm, thus

protecting fragile man from even greater infernal influences. Saham’a’iel

was loyal in his duties, ever-present at his post, and ever watchful of that

all-important barrier, as well as the protection of The Mortal Realm and

its hapless denizens.

But after endless time in close proximity to the roiling, writhing, powerful

Darkness, Saham’a’iel began to falter in his duties. He became entranced

by The Dark, lured by its insistent cries for order and its burning desire

for its own form of life. Saham’a’iel wondered at the pain he could feel

across the veil between pure Light and Outer Darkness, and found

himself troubled by the sentience and the unbridled passions he felt there.

The energy he sensed was as true and as real as that of The Mortal Plane.

All Dark Matter desired was to have form and to find meaning, and

Saham’a’iel began to wonder, to consider trains of thought wholly

forbidden among his kind; why was it that Darkness could not have form

and shape as the other dimensions had?

But to inquire after such things with his Brethren of Light would

surely be a terrible thing in their eyes. Always had his kind shunned The

Dark, which now confused Saham’a’iel, who, having remained so very

close to The Chaotic Realm for so long, had lost such feelings of

revulsion and of…fear? No, not fear, for no Exalted Being should ever

fear The Dark. Rather, it was guarded respect that was fleeing his

considerations—a respect that had morphed into compassion that grew

over time until…

Finally, overwhelmed with endless curiosity and feeling pity for Dark

Matter’s neglect, Saham’a’iel tore a small hole in the veil and plucked

matter out of The Darkest Realm. He held the stuff within his palm; that

purest umbra, undulating, feeling essence… He touched and caressed it,

felt its energy, its deepest needs, its own fierce and insistent curiosity…

even its innocence—for it was a pure, unmade thing that simply desired to

be made. From that day forward, he kept the tiny blob of matter close to

himself, learning of its makeup, its yearnings, and its needs.

Eventually, he realized, as he became increasingly familiar with the

properties of Dark Matter, that it was not so unlike Matter of Light, or of

the Gray essence of The Mortal Realms, realms that had been influenced

since time immemorial by its stygian energies. And Saham’a’iel could stand

by without action no longer.

He knew that by using his own powers of Creation, he could form

and mold The Dark into its own kind of order, and life could spring from

it just as it had from The Light!

Unable to overcome the burning drive to test his powers with that

Forbidden Matter, Saham’a’iel took the little blob of The Dark and

fashioned it into a seed of life that rejoiced in its order, throbbing with

the joy of its own possibilities as it begged for the chance to grow. The

thrill of his achievement filled The Seraphon to overflowing, and he

wanted so much to share what he had accomplished with the rest of the

Seraphon, to show them that all matter, whether Light or Dark, could be

organized and have structured life!

But what he had done was the greatest violation of his duties as

Guardian of The Dark, and even more so of his powers of creation. It

was a dereliction of his assigned calling and a rejection of his very kind, in

every conceivable way. None of the other Seraphon would share in the joy

of his discovery. Instead, they would destroy his tiny seed, and he would

face eternal punishment for his gross violation.

Saham’a’iel could not bear the thought of his beloved seed’s

destruction!

Joy then turned to terror, and Saham’a’iel panicked. In desperation to

hide his crime, he did the only thing he knew to do—he took that dark,

undulating seed into himself, burying it deep within the core of his being

where no one could discover it.

After this new blasphemous act, Saham’a’iel stuck to his mission,

diligently keeping Dark Matter at bay within The Outer Realm. But that

seed was thriving and growing inside of him swiftly, and its influences

were becoming increasingly impossible for him to ignore. His curiosity

burning to uncontrollable levels, soon he crossed through the barrier and

into the very heart of Outer Darkness proper, where he chose to guard

the veil from the dark side rather than from the Light.

As a being of First Creation, Saham’a’iel was not barred from any

dimension. He was only restricted due to his calling, his devotion to which

was waning as that Dark Seed nestled more firmly into his soul.

His brief stints into Outer Darkness felt uncomfortable when first he

tested those forbidden waters. The energy was repulsively strange to his

exalted being, deeply frightening to his well-ordered mind, despite

knowing that he should feel no fear. And yet still he continued to venture

there—drawn by his fascinations and his burgeoning compassion for

Darkness’ plight.

But soon, all of that initial unpleasantness had faded away, and

Saham’a’iel found his comfort level increasing in the presence of The

Dark, while more and more, returning to The Light Realm seemed almost

to burn him in his deepest self.

Saham’a’iel’s obsessions; the feel of The Forbidden matter as it

cradled his body, its taboo entreats, the very tones and caresses that

assailed and entreated him endlessly, and the desires and fierce emotions

unlike any he had ever known, continued to grow within Saham’a’iel. His

Seraphonic mind faltered as a new, impish mind expanded, and the

wayward Seraphon sank into a sea of arcane passions and raging

emotions. Saham’a’iel’s darkening soul seemed to swell within him. At

times, he was nearly overcome by paranoia, fear, joy, and even pain. The

untainted Seraphon felt none of these things, existing in a reality far

removed from The Dark’s influence and the jumbled thoughts and

emotions of lower beings, such as humans. But Saham’a’iel relished in his

raging emotions. He thrilled in the changes happening within himself and

vowed never to be returned to his original state.

Saham’a’iel also became adept at hiding his strange derangements

from the other Seraphon. But whenever he could not find the strength to

pretend the serenity he should naturally feel, he would escape into Outer

Darkness, or even flee to one of a plethora of mortal worlds to hide until

he could gain some measure of control over himself. Ever more

frequently, he found he preferred to spend time on The Mortal Plane.

Mortals and Terrestrial life fascinated him, and the diminished light there

became more comfortable to his changing senses than the burning,

searing glare of The Higher Realms.

One particular world soon became his favorite, a simple planet called

Terrasan. Terrasan was a world late in its development and well

established in its lands and populations. Not yet having reached any

substantial technology outside of animal-drawn carts, small villages,

farming, and the simplest forms of government, Terrasan held an endless

fascination for Saham’a’iel and his burgeoning Dark Seed.

But Saham’a’iel kept his visits brief, for he knew that he could not

remain indefinitely on Terrasan, nor anywhere else in The Mortal Plane.

And he could not be away from his duty of guarding Outer Darkness for

too long, or he would most certainly be discovered…

CHAPTER I — THESTRA

A small raspy breath brought Sylva awake yet again. She blinked exhausted

eyes, crusty with dried tears, and looked down at the tiny, twisted infant

lying beside her on the bed. A fresh wave of sadness tugged at her wrung-out

emotions, threatening to burst forth into yet more helpless crying, but

Sylva swallowed hard to keep it down as she gazed at the hideous creature

that was her baby daughter. The infant twitched, looking more like a

gnarled root than a baby, and it rasped again as it struggled to draw in life-sustaining

air. Sylva stroked its soft, baby skin, the only appealing feature

to anyone outside of its mother, and keeping her voice low so as not to

wake her sleeping husband, she cooed and shushed and tried in vain to

comfort the perpetually suffering child.

Sylva and her partner Athos had not given their daughter a name

because the moment she was born, they knew she would not live. But it

had been nearly five days now, and still, the child breathed, took in her

mother’s milk, and showed no further sign of declining. But regardless of

the child’s tenacity, both parents knew that the tiny thing could never

survive into adulthood, nor even into childhood, in such an unnaturally

twisted state.

Despite all of this, Sylva loved her only child instantly, and even in

her sad condition, as she struggled to hold back a fresh tide of tears, Sylva

entreated The Great One, Creator of all Existence, to save her little one

and heal her of her maladies so that she might live and thrive. Sylva could

not let go of the child and desired to give her daughter a name, but Athos

insisted that she not do so for fear of increased pain when the baby finally

did succumb.

Still, Sylva’s mind again ran through various names, despite the

hopelessness and her husband’s wishes, and she could not help herself

losing control of her emotions yet again, falling into harsh weeping that

caused her entire body to convulse in its deep agony. A moment later, a

large, warm hand on her shoulder told her Athos had woken.

“Oh, Sylva, not again.” He breathed in her ear.

Sylva sank back into his warm embrace and clutched her husband to

her, her pain so great she could utter no words in reply.

Athos sighed, stroked his wife’s satiny silver hair, and frowned at his

daughter and the source of all of his wife’s agony. There was no bond

between Athos and the baby because he had not allowed there to be. He

had switched off his emotions the moment the baby was born in order to

avoid the pain his wife was feeling. He must be the strong one, he told

himself, the one willing to make the hard decisions that his dear Sylva

could not make.

Athos watched the twisted little thing with disdain, this creature that

he refused to consider his offspring, but only viewed as a mistake. His

love for Sylva was such that he could not stand seeing her hurt in any way,

and he blamed the child, as innocent as it was, for causing her unnecessary

suffering.

Beyond wondering why such an abomination of the human form was

allowed to be born, much less why the Gods would curse him and his wife

with such a thing, he could not understand why its life persisted. It lived

on without decline, yet also with no noticeable improvement, for how

could such a twisted form improve itself without some kind of divine

intervention?

No answer to his wife’s prayers had occurred, which did not surprise

Athos, who, despite his belief and faith in The Gods, still realized that

rarely did they interfere in the lives of men, and certainly not in the lives

of those so simple and obscure as he and his wife. Still, he remained

faithful to The Gods, if not in this instance, because he had also

forbidden another course of action that his wife had begged him for—a

course that he believed went against nature and against The Gods.

Sylva was a Majin, or had been before they were joined in matrimony,

and he had forbidden her from using her Majics ever since. After their

daughter’s birth, seeing her condition, Sylva begged Athos to allow her to

try to correct the child’s condition using her Majics. But the very idea had

incensed him! “Absolutely not!” He had hollered, his anger surprising

even him, but not stopping him from continuing his tirade. “You know

my feelings about such things, Sylva, and who is to say that the child was

not cursed because you were once a Majin!”

It had been a dreadfully cruel outburst, one that sent his wife to her

knees in utter shock. A strong, willful woman, Sylva would typically have

retaliated with her own defiance. But her state being what it was, her heart

so weighed down and broken over the condition of her child, instead, she

broke before him and crumbled—physically, emotionally, even spiritually.

Athos immediately regretted his harsh words, regardless of still believing

them deep inside. He had fallen onto his own knees at her side and pulled

her into his arms. Apologized profusely and denied the words that had

spilled so carelessly from his lips, blaming it on his own pain, which she

had accepted.

Once Sylva had calmed, he gently suggested putting the child out of

its misery, but she had patently refused. If it had not been for his wife’s

pleading, Athos would have done away with the hapless infant days ago,

but Sylva insisted that she must be allowed to expire naturally, only if or

when The Great Creator willed it so.

“I… I want to name her.” Sylva sighed brokenly into her husband’s

chest, pulling him out of his troubled mental wandering. Her crying had

eased up, and she held him in stillness now.

“No,” Athos replied rather gruffly. “You have allowed yourself to

bond too much with the child already. Naming her would only make her

death more excruciating for you.”

“Athos…” Sylva begged, her voice choking up again.

“I think,” Athos began, taking the suggestion he was about to

propose very slowly, choosing his words with extreme care, for he knew

how his wife resisted, and he was ready to finally convince her otherwise.

“I think that we should offer the child up to The Great One as a

sacrifice.” He felt Sylva stiffen in his embrace, but she said nothing, so he

continued with soft restraint and yet firm conviction. “Obviously, she was

sent to us for a reason, and she is suffering…every day suffering, and she

does not improve. And you suffer, which worries me more than you

know, for such pain can only break down your body, steal away your

youth, bring illness to you, and eventually...” He refrained from speaking

those words, cleared his throat, and continued. “The poor child’s sacrifice,

as a tribute to The Eternal, would be the best way to show our devotion

and relieve her of her suffering… and our suffering.”

Silence was all Athos got in return. For long moments, Sylva lay in his

arms, utterly still, breathing shallowly. It seemed an eternity of silence,

broken only by the tiny, ragged breaths of the baby.

“You are right.” Sylva finally replied, her voice a mere whisper. “But,

I cannot participate.” Lifting her head to look Athos in the eyes, Sylva’s

usually bright, silver orbs now seemed emotionless, blank, devoid of

feeling as she said, “Regardless of what The Great One makes of my

absence, I cannot be present when our daughter is sacrificed. I will remain

here, and you will take her far out into the woods to do the deed.”

Athos was speechless at first, surprised that Sylva had finally agreed

to let go of the child and at the strength of her voice as she spoke. His

pale blue eyes were wide and determined as he stared into Sylva’s and

nodded with slow resolve.

“Do it now,” Sylva said flatly as she dropped her gaze from his and

rose from their bed, not sparing a glance at her helpless baby daughter.

Feeling a lump in his throat that nearly made him choke, Athos came

to his feet and gathered the ceremonial implements into a sack. Just as his

wife could not look upon their tiny daughter, he could not look at Sylva as

he went through the motions of preparation, wrapped the infant in a

cloth, and then silently left their small home.

Not since the child was born—Not since both Athos and Sylva felt

that initial and horrible sinking at the first sight of her, had Athos

experienced such a conflict of jumbled emotions about the child. As he

walked in the night to find the ideal spot, far away from their humble

abode, to perform the sacrifice that he knew was necessary, Athos fought

with himself, struggling with his doubts and fears over what he was about

to do.

Alone before his imminent action, Athos admitted to himself that

the idea of carrying out this ceremony did not come from any reverence

for The Eternal. He could continue to lie to himself that it did, but the

true purpose was to finally do away with the very source of he and Sylva’s

pain. There was no chance for either of them to move forward in their

lives, nor for their hearts to heal, with the child present as a constant

reminder of their most profound sadness, and Athos’ own emotions were

threadbare as he witnessed the never-ending breakdowns his wife had

suffered.

No, Athos was doing this for reasons entirely selfish, or perhaps not

entirely. There was the care and concern for his wife, of course. But he

worried as he admitted to himself the truth of what he was about to do,

that The Great Ones might actually frown upon him for this act, or if not

the act itself, the motivations behind it.

A tall hill came into view not far ahead, and Athos trudged toward it.

There was a U-shaped circle of trees around a clearing before the mouth

of a small cave. Many feet above, there was another opening in the rock,

and Athos decided to climb up to the higher cave, further from the

ground and closer to the heavens, to carry out the ritual.

The baby and all the sacred tools were already strapped to his back,

so Athos proceeded to climb the precipice, which was not a difficult trip.

The slant of the hill had ample footholds, which were apparently carved

out by others, and was just such that the ascent was quite easy and quick.

Upon reaching his destination, he discovered why the footholds had

been carved into the tall rock. Apparently, the little cave had been chosen

for rituals before. The floor was covered in burnt remnants from other

sacrifices, and there was a knee-high rock; smooth and flat, singed and

stained, that had been placed centrally within the cave for just such use.

The cave was surprisingly spacious—close to the size of the main

living area of Athos and Sylva’s home—it was wide toward the opening

and tapering to its rear. Athos set about preparing the rock altar for the

ritual. He had placed the infant off to the side, out of his line of sight as

he worked, but hearing the little thing’s ragged breathing and small,

strangled crying, unnerved Athos, and threatened to wrench tears from

him for the first time since the baby was born.

Why now, at the last minute, was he feeling this sudden compassion

for the child? Why now, when he could not allow himself to abandon his

plan, was he worried about the little thing’s pain at the time of death? Of

course, he would make it quick to avoid as much discomfort as possible.

But still, his hands shook and his heart vibrated uncomfortably in his tight

chest as he completed the preparations, and the dreadful moment was at

hand.

Athos lifted his daughter into his arms, removed the cloth from

around her, and placed her on the makeshift altar. Closing his eyes and

wishing he could close his ears to the increased sounds of agitation from

the squirming child, Athos began to utter the words of sacrifice. He knew

that he was expected to feel the power of the words he was speaking, feel

them to the very core of his soul, but as they stumbled out of his mouth,

instead, those words felt empty, meaningless, and dead upon his trembling

lips.

Hands shaking as much as his heart, he lifted the short, curved knife.

His trembling was so bad that he found it nearly impossible to position

the knife’s tip over the baby’s wee heart. And as he stared down at the tiny,

morbid being before him, its soft baby skin glistening with perspiration,

its uneven, cloudy eyes watching, with what to him seemed accusation or

even…disappointment? Certainly with fear, which amazed Athos as his

voice caught in his throat and he closed his mouth, unable to utter

another sound as his mind went blank.

The child was silent now but for its telltale breathing. Its eyes were

unblinking, wide, and to Athos, the look coming out of those terribly

imperfect eyes seemed suddenly as wise as he was, or wiser. He was sure

that the child knew exactly what he was about to do, and despite all that

Athos and his wife had suffered, all the frustration, the doubts, and his

own determination to end it in the only way that Sylva would approve of,

Athos knew at that moment that he was incapable of killing his daughter.

The knife tumbled from his weak fingers, and Athos dropped to the

hard floor as gut-wrenching sobs escaped his thin but sturdy frame. And

suddenly, he was afraid as words poured helplessly out of him to The

Great Ones—words of pleading, of desperation, and of apology. Athos

could not return home with the baby, nor could he kill the child, so he

begged The Eternal to take the child without pain or suffering. He

reminded The Eternal Powers of the suffering he and his wife had already

endured, that the couple could take no more of it, and to please forgive

him for his weakness and his lack of faith.

“Please, oh Great Creators, should you find it necessary to punish me

for my failings, please punish only me and not my dear wife. I will suffer

for us both… I will take all of the blame, for despite my thoughts to the

contrary, I know that my dear Sylva is blameless. She has loved this child

unconditionally. Something that I could not do. She has wept and

anguished nonstop from the moment this child was brought into our

world. I know…I know it is wrong of me to tell you what is deserved and

what is not—who is deserving of what, and who is not. But I am…I…I

am guilty of the darkest of emotions. The desire to destroy my own flesh

and blood for my own…comfort. Please…”

Athos groveled on his stomach on the cold, dirt-covered floor of the

cave. His fists grasped the grime and filth as if it would somehow save

him from his pain, save him from the judgment of his cold heart. And as

he wept, and all other words failed him; he fell into a deep and exhausted

sleep.

With a start, Athos woke from his slumber and glanced around the

cave, remembering where he was and why he was there. The child had

fallen asleep on the stone altar, its faint, tenuous breaths the only sound

outside of his own breathing. Athos hurriedly and quietly, gathered what

he would normally return with and left the cave and his infant daughter to

whatever fate The Great Ones chose for her… and for him.

On his way home, he fought with himself. What would he tell his

wife? Would he tell her that he had sacrificed the child as was originally

planned? Or would he tell her what he had actually done? No, he could

not tell her that he had left the baby there, alive and alone. For if he did

that, surely Sylva would force him to return and bring the baby home

again.

Another terrible thought struck him then. To his wife, he would have

killed their daughter. Despite being approved to do so by Sylva—despite

doing so in an action of sacrifice to Ela—would she hold this over him

for the rest of their days? Would she hate him for what he had done?

Perhaps not immediately, but over time? Would what he had done, in her

eyes, fester and mold inside of his beloved’s heart until it destroyed any

and all love she had for him?

There was no predicting such things, so he pushed those thoughts

away and buried them deep. He would not entertain that kind of thinking.

He must do everything possible to make this up to Sylva now! And

perhaps the Gods would take mercy on him, on them, and help save their

love. It would be the essence of all of his prayers from that day forward.

Darkness washed over the land in a wave of cool, calm relief.

Saham’a’iel could no longer abide the daylight. Even the sun, as

diminished a reflection of the Eternal Light of The Higher Realms as it

was, sent waves of agony through him, so that he must escape its

intrusions by hiding deep in the recesses of caves and other shaded

places.

He had spent many of Terrasan’s weeks hiding in the day and

roaming its varied lands by night. His agitation seemed inconsolable. His

mind was a frenzy of scattered thoughts, and his body, hot, restless, and

raging, itched constantly with unfulfilled desires that he did not fully

understand.

Saham’a’iel avoided humanity out of fear that making himself known

would alert the other Seraphon of his whereabouts. It had been ages since

he had interacted with another being, and on this night, his loneliness was

more overwhelming than ever before as he wandered aimlessly through

the darkened woods. His divided soul, now nearly halved between Light

and Dark, due to that seed he had hidden within himself, refused to rest,

and this created within him an insatiable wanderlust and a growing

tendency to mentally and sometimes even verbally argue with himself

over every little thought or feeling that assailed him in his raging duality.

The moon shone huge and full in the night blue sky. Thin gray clouds

streaked across its spectral surface before shifting away to reveal the gray

orb’s pale face to the sleepy world below. The woods were silent but for

Saham’a’iel’s low, mumbling voice and the crunch of leaves beneath his

gentle footfalls. The mounting frustration within him was coming to a

head now. That Dark Seed had grown inside him to such a degree that it

felt as if he were entirely losing himself to its ebony influence, and sheer

panic was fast setting in. It had spread throughout his being so completely

that there was no way for him to remove it now, and even if he could tear

it away, that seed’s fierce self-preservation prevented him from even

thinking seriously about doing so, much less acting on it.

The struggling Seraphon fell silent from his senseless self-altercations,

and hot, hopeless tears emerged to sting his amber eyes

when, out of the silence, a faint sound drifted to his ears. He froze and

listened more closely. It was a human whimper, raspy and weak. His keen,

immortal ears had picked up on it easily, where mortal ears could not have

hoped to hear, and he closed his eyes to concentrate and pinpoint its

direction.

Turning slowly as his eyes opened again, Saham’a’iel’s gaze landed on

a hill only a short distance from where he stood. The sounds were coming

from a cave midway up its face. So the Seraphon went there, spreading his

wings and rising in that direction, guided by the pitiful sounds that grew

clearer as he drew closer. Inside the small space, he discovered an infant.

Saham’a’iel bent to lift the tiny thing into his arms, and his heart sank at

the sight of its grossly unnatural state.

Man’s gift of procreation had gone terribly wrong here. The poor,

tiny child was severely deformed. Its face, so misshapen that it was

difficult to recognize humanity there at all. Its limbs were as twisted as

knotted rope and as crooked as the bends in a tree’s branches, all curled

up close to its strangely angled torso. The baby was severely emaciated,

and Saham’a’iel could tell by its pallor and labored breathing that the child

would not live much longer. Laying a gentle hand upon its small head,

Saham’a’iel joined his mind with the infant’s, revealing the most intimate

details of the child’s short existence as if he had lived those experiences

himself.

Anguished tears returned to Saham’a’iel’s golden eyes, but this time,

they were tears for someone outside of himself and his sorrows—and the

pain and pity he felt emerged from both sides of his split personality,

uniting them in compassion for this tiny, helpless child. Before he

withdrew his mind, Saham’a’iel caused the baby’s troubled mind to drift

away into a peaceful sleep.

The wayward Seraphon then sank to the cave floor on crossed legs

and laid the dying child on his lap. With the strong, deft hands of an

artist, The Seraphon began his work. To anyone who might have

witnessed the healing process, it was the molding of the misshapen flesh

and bones, much as a sculptor molds clay. Using his gifts of creation, The

Seraphon righted the twisted child, imbuing them with both a perfection

that exceeded mere mortality and a form of immortality not so unlike his

own.

A radiant glow began to emanate from the child’s glistening skin,

burning away her wan pallor. Her brackish gray hair, so odd to see on a

child, began to glisten brightly with a shimmering violet hue. Her small

eyes, so milky and pained, grew bright, wide, and clear. Their jaunty

sockets, imbalanced by her terribly misshapen skull, were leveled out and

righted into perfect symmetry.

Those tiny limbs, so curled and twisted in that hideous, unnatural

way, were unbent and uncoiled until their form achieved a full state of

ideal health.

No longer a gnarled and twisted thing, the baby girl was now a

beautiful, even ethereal, child.

But it was not only Saham’s Seraphonic blessings that the child

received. Dark gifts were hers as well—gifts from his duel core—gifts of

light as well as of chaos that would make of this girl child a creature

unlike any other.

As the healing spread through the child’s being, Saham’a’iel watched

as the little infant blossomed into a beautiful baby girl. Within only a few

moments, she had transformed into the perfect form of a healthy infant.

But a healthy infant enhanced by The Light and by The Dark Matter that

now coursed through her immortal body. Her unusual, striking, unearthly

beauty stunned her healer as he lifted her gently in his strong hands and

held her up before him.

The Seraphon could not tear his eyes away from the radiant little

creature. Her Porcelain, translucent skin contrasted by her dark, lavender-highlighted

hair, and her faint, unearthly glow tore at his mesmerized soul

in a completely new way. His large, warm hand caressed her tiny cheek,

and he could not resist pressing his lips to her velvety, soft forehead,

waking her from her quiet slumber.

Blinking up at him, the girl’s shining lavender eyes were filled with a

mixture of confusion and astonishment. She knew instantly, instinctively,

who it was that held her. The mental connection that had revealed to

Saham’a’iel her short, terrible life had also revealed to her his essence, and

some basic knowledge of his gift to her—a knowledge that she would

have lacked naturally, having lived such a short time.

Saham’a’iel’s shadowy inner voice was silent longer than it had been

since he had implanted that seed inside himself. It seemed the love he

bore for the child was so powerful that it quieted his nagging agitations.

He considered keeping the child, raising it himself, but he simply could

not do so. The great secret he was hiding, and his constant movements

and travels into atramentous places, was no life for a girl of such immense

potential.

Still, leaving her with parents who had abandoned her was not the

most comfortable of prospects, either. He knew, via the connection he

had with the child, that her mother had loved her deeply and was greatly

pained by her condition and by what her father had ultimately done with

her. So, Saham’a’iel determined that with all adversity out of the way, and

with a beautiful, perfectly healthy little girl to raise, returning her to her

parents would be the very best thing for her.

A tender sigh escaped The Seraphon’s full lips as he stroked the

baby’s hair. Gazing into her shining eyes, he felt both a soaring in his soul

and a sinking in his heart. “I shall call you Thes’tra, which means Unique

One.” Saham’a’iel gazed adoringly at little Thestra, who returned his

happy expression with her own, making his heart sore and his eyes grow

moist. He held Thestra close to him as her tiny, pale hand touched his

golden cheek, and he smiled.

Athos and Sylva’s home sat amongst a cluster of other similar

structures; small hand-built dwellings with low, thatched roofs, an oval

central door, and round windows flanking each side. It was only a couple

of hours before morning light, and most of the village inhabitants were

still abed as Saham’a’iel’s unclad feet touched the ground mere steps away

from their small, humble abode.

The tainted Seraphon sensed the couple asleep inside as he

approached the front entrance. Not hindered by inferior Terrestrial

matter, he slipped right through the meager barrier as if it were nothing

but smoke. Now inside, The Seraphon stood in the center of the single room

space, bathed in preternatural light as he lifted his gaze from the

infant cradled in his arms to rest on the now stirring mortals.

Athos slowly lifted himself up onto his arms from where he had

been sleeping on his stomach and turned warily toward the source of the

strange luminescence that now lit up the small space. Sylva was waking

beside him, her eyes watching her husband with concern and bafflement,

before turning to follow his gaze.

“What is…?” Athos was saying, but the question died on his lips at

the sight of the radiant Seraphon looming there, an incredible anomaly

within those most humble surroundings.

The voice that replied washed over Athos and Sylva with the power

of an ocean wave that crashed upon their tender psyches.

“I am Saham’a’iel, and I have come to return your daughter to you.”

Sylva had tumbled out of bed in her shock. Crawling forward, she

knelt before The Great One as Athos fumblingly fell out of their bed and

moved to do the same. Numb from head to foot, his mouth falling agape,

Athos began to tremble violently. Was this the end of him? Had he

doomed himself and his wife by his actions? But then it hit him. The

being had said he was bringing their daughter back to them! Athos felt his

heart seize in his chest. The baby would be returned, but in what

condition? And his wife would surely learn what he had done, that he had

lied to her, that he had left their child alive and helpless. Sweat broke out

on Athos’ body, and he felt the heat of the blood reddening his face, his

neck, as his heart raced frantically in his chest.

“Come,” Saham’a’iel cut into Athos’ whirling thoughts and held

Thestra out to him, beckoning the trembling man to take his own child

into his shaking hands. “She is healed now, Athos. No more shall you

loathe the sight of your daughter, nor desire to destroy her to ease your

own suffering.” The Great One’s voice was flat with intolerance, and

Athos crumbled before The Seraphon’s scrutiny, lying utterly still and

prostrate on the hard dirt floor, his throat so tight with fear that no words

could escape him.

But Sylva rose like a ghost and gently took the babe from

Saham’a’iel’s arms.

“Woman,” Saham’a’iel spoke low and softly to Thestra’s mother as he

placed a large, warm hand on her delicate shoulder. “You have suffered

greatly over your grossly imperfect child, and the loss of her by your

husband’s hand. You need grieve no longer, for I have gifted her above all

others.” He stroked Sylva’s hair and smiled down into her bewildered,

upturned eyes. “I have named her Thestra, which means Unique One.” As

he spoke, Saham’a’iel turned his gaze adoringly upon baby Thestra. “You

will raise her in joy and happiness. You will protect her from harm and

always do for her what your heart tells you would be most pleasing in my

eyes. For she is a treasure, and she is special.” He sighed as he touched the

tips of his fingers to the child’s soft, smooth cheek.

Sylva gaped at her child. The very presence of the baby was such that

to doubt her specialness was impossible. “Yes, oh Great, oh most

benevolent, Eternal One! We shall! It will be as you say in all things. Oh,

thank you! Thank you!” Sylva wept tears of joy, and as Saham’a’iel took a

step back from her, she clutched her beautiful child to her, then leaned

over and pressed her lips to the golden skin of The Seraphon’s feet.

The shining eyes of The Seraphon shone molten at their cores as he

lifted his gaze from the woman and looked upon her cowering husband.

“No, Athos, I am not pleased with your cold, unfeeling, compassionless

heart. You presumed too much, and still do.”

Athos had glimpsed Thestra as his wife took hold of the child, and

he felt doubt about the strangeness of the baby’s appearance, despite how

beautiful and perfect little Thestra was now. But at the scolding words of

The Seraphon, Athos tried desperately to bury those doubts deep inside

and clear his terrified mind.

“But…” Saham’a’iel continued.

Athos lifted red-rimmed, moist eyes to The Great Seraphon and

swallowed hard, feeling a hint of hope at the Being’s last spoken word.

“But…” Saham’a’iel repeated as he closed his eyes, which were no

longer lit up red at the cores when he opened them again. You know you

have done wrong. You are not naive to my reasons for displeasure in your

thoughts and acts. I now leave these two females in your charge.

Remember, all you do or feel radiates from you as a glow that myself and

my kind can read as if flipping the pages of a book. You cannot hide

what you are. Your essence is open to all Eternal Essences. Choose wisely,

Athos. Temper your hard heart. Be self-aware in all that passes through

your mind, for what passes there either enriches or taints your very soul,

and may also taint those around you. Right now, your soul remains

stained. But you may wash that filth away with your new approach.”

And with that, Saham’a’iel spread wide his great wings, and sending a

thrust of wind and air-crushing sound in his wake, he shot up through the

roof as if it were not even there, and he was gone

.