WHERE MAD GODS DANCE By ButcherExMachina [Part IV of IV] {FINALE]
Secondary Part Part II
Last Part Part III
First Part I
Warning For:
!Graphic Violence Death Sex Sexuality Substance Abuse Religious Trauma Homophobia!<
The group stood about, the weight of their soon to be decision weighing on them all. “ Shall we take a vote then?” The group fell into silent agreement.
“Raise thy hand if we shall pursue.”
Gunther raised an arm, and Augustus did as well, same with Finn.
“Outnumbered it seems,” Bjorn said, his face didn’t reveal much of his hand, yet Alban could feel a sort of dread radiate off his skin.
Then he turned to Augustus, “I’m surprised you’d vote for such, Augustus,”
“There’s payment involved, Alban, and life, life has a strange way of working as I said.”
“That is true,” he responded. They needed the money to survive. Without money, a mercenary band was nothing.
“Then we shall proceed, come my merry band, we walk a line between fates, and it's a line I’m willing to risk. For I trust this holy man.” The group followed Finn then as he walked toward Père Bram, motioning for him to continue his lead.
So, he began, trekking out of the main hall of the church and behind a door. Behind it, a dark hallway that seemingly stretched for miles. Before entering, the priest grabbed a nearby candle holder from a table. It had three candles lit upon it, with elaborate displays of angels spent across them. He motioned for all to accompany as he led them down the hall. The group began to move past him as he stood by, seemingly preferring to stick to the back.
As Alban approached, he felt hesitant, before looking at the priest. He gave a sigh and moved forward, untrusting of such a man. Then, once they all were within the hall, the père shut the door behind them. Sealing them within the dark, only accompanied by the wickers of flame amongst a holy pitchfork.
They advanced forward into the depths, through stairways, and long halls, Finn leading the charge while the holy man held toward the back. Seemingly undaring to see what this seeming kin of his had become. Finally, they reached it. Finn halted immediately when he saw it, the rest of the group crashing into him in the dark, cursing, before standing to observe what lay in front of them.
It was an elaborately carved thing of stone, upon it, a large skeletal thing was depicted above, its arms seemingly crossed above its chest as if it had been laid to rest. Around the shape of its head were depictions of grandeur iconography; crosses, streaks of light, and what seemed to be veins as well. It was hard to tell in the darkness if that truly was the extent of such symbols.
Below the skeletal thing, depicted on the door frame, were a series of arms that clung onto one another, rotted and broken, barely clinging upon one another for some sort of structure, some sort of support in this trying time, as if their belief held them there. Upon the large, stone door was something carved in old French,
Comme le Fils siège au-dessus, le Diable réside en dessous,
Dans le monde éveillé et verbal, il existe un équivalent pour tous,
Ce qui est en haut est comme ce qui est en bas.
“This is it. Here, I depart. I wish thy group luck, Finn Ferguson of Hibernia. Your courage shall be needed.” He then handed the candle to Alban, for him to hand to Finn.
“Slay such as you did that vampiric woman.” Finn gave a smile, and nodded. Soon after, the group entered. The door, closing behind them, truly leaving them within darkness. Alban kept his grip upon the candlestick, clutching it like a lifeline to God. He looked at the others within the dim light, their faces seemingly confused and graven as they looked about.
It was dark. The darkest place Alban had ever seen. He could barely see a foot, no, a few inches in front of where he stood. It was all consuming, ever present, a counter to the light above. He wondered if this was what Hell was like. An absence of God. An absence of his light. His stars. His eyes.
“So, shall we begin?” Finn asked.
“This place, Finn. It’s dark,” Bjorn said, he turned to Finn, “We need to think of a plan. If this man is about these halls as the priest said, we need to know how to counter it. We need light as well.”
“I’d just hope our eyes adjust,” Augustus remarked. “Just think of it like a dark wood. Our eyes adjust eventually. We may be at a disadvantage for a while, but it’ll come.”
“You're right about such, thief, but I’d rather find a more instant source. We’re not going to be left liable to a predator within the shadows.” He outstretched a hand to Alban.
“Hand me the candle,” he said. Alban complied and before anyone could say a word, Bjorn snapped the ornate pitchfork into three pieces, each with a candle atop. He handed one to Finn, one to Alban, and kept the final piece.
“Now then, our plan.”
“Yes my fellow,” Finn said, “now, we have our blades and arms, yes?”
Alban checked. He had his shield and blade. Him and the others gave nods of silent agreement.
“Catacombs are winding places of bone and brick. It’s a labyrinthian place, and as such, it has dead ends. We should try to corner the man, then we can do what we must.”
“Murder him?” Alban asked.
Even in the dark, Alban saw Finn’s face change to a solemn look, “Yes. Just think of it like that of a soldier. One we’re usually hired to fight. This time, it’s a man driven to madness, in need of…in need of rest.” No one spoke after that.
For an eternity it felt, they stood in the dark, weighing the possibility of what it was they were going to do.
That was, till Bjorn asked, “Shall we proceed?”
“That we shall, brother,” Finn said. Finn led the group through the winding miles of tunnel, outstretched before them like some sort of great complex. It smelled of rot, skin peeling from bone, bodily fluids leaking from the cadavers as they finally succumbed to the fate of fly meal. Their sounds echoed throughout the vastness about the place. The scuttling and writhing of their insectoid bodies as they feasted upon those recently and long dead, it crept through their ears as if the spindly legs of a spider.
It was then, Alban noticed the first thing that was strange. Barely noticeable within the firelight of his candle, he saw something shine.
“Finn?” he called out.
“Yes?” He stopped and turned to see what Alban saw. His face went from concern, to confusion. Nearby, upon the ground stood an elaborate ornament, not dissimilar from one you’d seen in a church, like that of above.
“What's the problem Alban?” he asked.
“Look.” Alban pointed at the golden object. Upon it, was wax. A candleholder. But the wax, the wax was melted. Alban outstretched a hand to touch it. It was still seemingly warm, and gooey as if someone had just recently been down here to light it. Yet, what sort of maniac would do such a deed with a beast of man lurking about this place?
“It’s melted,” Gunther said.
“Who, who would light it?” Augustus asked.
Finn shook his head, “Would this beast be intelligent enough to do so?” Alban didn’t know. None of them knew.
“What…what sort of reverence would even be needed down here in a place such as this? You don’t think-” Augustus didn’t want to finish his sentence.
“No. I’m telling thou comrade we have not been led astray by such a holy man. I’m telling you. No such man, not one of such physique would I expect to ever hold such a pagan thing in their system of belief.”
“And they call my people that,” Bjorn muttered.
“We’re not sure. It could just be, a-a coincidence, ya?” Gunther tried to rationalize this seemingly insignificant detail.
“I’d hope,” Finn said. His voice was seemingly doubtful now. A sharp turn from his jolly demeanor. It put all of them on edge.
“Progress we must brothers, progress we must,” he said. They began to move forward once more. Alban felt a growing fear in the back of his mind, like that of his previous sins before. He could feel them here. Seemingly physically. The dark. So dense, so sinful. So inevitable, so interconnected to the world at large. Like that of sin. Sin. That damn word. That damned word. It still haunted him, despite it all, despite everything! It bounced about his ears making them ring as if he were the bell. His ears rang and rang. Ringing and ringing, till-
Eugh.
Alban paused his movement. The rest of the group didn’t notice till Finn looked back. This time, his face was of fear. He’d heard it too.
Eugh.
It rang out again. Louder. More distinct. Then came another noise.
Jingle.
Alban grabbed the hilt of his blade and readied himself, the likes of his brothers did the same. They could all sense it in the air, the tension, the energy. All of it right for something, just anything to appear.
And it did. It appeared in flesh. A decaying carrion. Eaten away by vermin, pale tissue decorated elaborately by golden charms that seemingly jangled as it moved about. Chains they looked to be, all of which elaborately decorated with engravings and jewels, made of gold and precious ore that the lowest of class would never see within their days of life. This thing, its back leaned forward to support itself, its arms long and covered by this jewelry. Gold and metal decorated its body, it shined a strange glisten as it moved within the dim, orange light of the candles the group held.
The worst part? Oh the face. That damned face. Alban would never forget it. Never. A face encased within a strange ornament. Rounded with circles about its sides, decorated elaborately with engravings of prayers and hymns, crosses and veins, jewels and dried blood. And behind a shining film of glass, behind it, behind the engravings, behind the vanity, behind it all, a rotted face. Dead. It should’ve been dead, dear God it should’ve been dead the group thought. nay, for it stood, it stood without eyes, without a nose, an agape mouth, its tongue seemingly gone, and naked for all to see, exposing its rotted, dying flesh, and castrated state.
Amongst it writhed obese maggots and flies that were bound inside such by its elaborate chains of gold and hymnal. It should’ve been dead.
Then came the smell. An odor of rot, the source of it all in this tomb. Before, they never saw a body, only bones, and could only hear the sounds of insectoid feasting within dense coffins. Yet, their scent of death was nothing in comparison to this. This beast. This thing.
Dear God, it should’ve been dead.
Alban didn’t move, he was in shock as it emerged from the darkness beside him. He didn’t speak, he didn’t think. Only stood. This beast, this thing, it moved. It moved fast. It didn’t go for Alban. Instead, it went for a man who’d already begun to run away. Gunther.
In life he always ran.
Ran from his problems.
Ran from his family, a place of pain and harm.
He ran away from it all at the promise of payment within a group.
He ran. The beast followed.
In life, he drank, sometimes to near death just to escape it, the hurt, the horror of it all.
He ran. The beast followed.
He partook in acts of love, hoping to drown out the pain, somehow counter it in love, and relations.
With all his might he sprinted. The beast followed.
Yet it was all in vain. For every day he could only remember. He never did speak of it. Not even in death.
For in death he ran, yet the beast followed. It pounced upon his body. Bjorn rushed it, grabbing his large blade, dragging it amongst the ground as he ran, letting out a ferocious battle cry. His muscles tensed, ready to land the killing blow. Yet the beast turned and swatted him away with its skinny arms, sending him into the nearby wall.
“Gunther, Bjorn!” Finn cried out. Yet his cries did nothing. The beast then lowered its face to Gunther, giving him a dose of foul, rot stained air, and a clear look at its source. Its face made Gunther want to scream, yet he couldn’t. He couldn’t will himself either. He tried and tried yet when he did his vocal cords felt as if they may snap into sinewy tissue.
The beast’s face got closer and closer, the group could only watch to their horror. Then Gunther saw it. Himself within the beast’s reflection. This was who he could be if he finally just faced it all. Took to God’s word within scripture. Embraced him. Yes. That's what he would do.
Embrace it.
Embrace it.
Embrace it.
And as Gunther lay there, the beast’s hollow gaze stared deeper and deeper into his soul. His breath slowed and slowed, till finally, he breathed no more. His body began to shrivel into a skeletal form, draining any nutrients left in it, and the beast stood, its headpiece weighing its head down as it did so. It turned to the group, facing them with its gaze. It had taken first blood.
Bjorn stood, dazed and in great pain as he did so. He looked at the sights about him, he froze up as he did. By the gods no. No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be. No! His breath quickened as he stared at the beast. Its enrapturing gaze. He saw the falsehood in it, he clutched his blade and turned to the group who stood by in the same stupor.
“Run!” he yelled. That they did. They beast didn’t pursue, merely standing and watching as such occurred, before scuttling off into the dark on all fours like an animal, its head permanently fixed upon their direction as they made haste. They ran and ran, till finally they saw a room within the endless hall, and Finn threw himself in it, urging the others to do the same. Alban, and Augustus ran in, and Bjorn was last to enter, looking back before doing so. They all collapsed about the ground.
None of them spoke. How could they, dear God how could they? It was then Finn broke down. His eyes burned with tears until finally he began to sob softly upon the ground in a heap.
“Gunther-oh Gunther-no, no, no!” he cried out, only for Bjorn to place hand on his mouth to silence him. He looked at his friend. Grief stricken, broken. He removed his hand, and he collapsed into Bjorn’s arms, crying silently as Augustus and Alban sat shocked.
“It killed him,” Finn spat out. “It killed him. Without a scar, without blood, it killed him.”
Bjorn stared off, in shock. His vision, it was true. Fate was to win. He didn’t cry. He didn’t shout. Instead, he stared off into the wall nearby, unable to muster any sort of words. He wondered if it was a draugr as he had before, but no, it couldn’t have been. Such wasn’t so…tactical, so pristine it in its movement. And how it killed him, Gunther, how it killed him, there was no explanation, no visible splatter of crimson ichor, no gaping wound, not a dented skull mixed with brain matter.
No, this was something else.
Alban couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. How could such a thing happen? How was it possible? Then, came a previous thought.
“Was this a trap?” Alban mumbled. No one spoke. They didn’t know. They didn’t know. Oh how fate worked, how it pulled its strings. So cruelly, so horrifically, as if they were a man’s tendons and veins. Stretching and stretching them and bringing about agony to those attached. They didn’t know. It very well could’ve but was this not the beast described to them.
“By God this is my fault,” Finn managed to weep out.
“Finn. You're not at fault, this could've been deception,” Augustus said, trying to comfort him. “It takes a con artist to know another.”
“What does that matter!” he snapped back, “Gunther’s dead, dead because of me. Me. Not that holy man. Nay, I fell for what was possibly his scheme. I brought us to our grave inadvertently it seems. For Bjorn’s visions were true.” Augustus didn’t respond. How could he? In a way he was right. He believed him, and led them to this fate. For this was the consequence of that.
“We're not dead yet,” Bjorn muttered, still dazed, “I may not have been able to save him, I may have not been able to save my family from their fate. But I’m this group's protector. And I’ll ensure you all make it out of here. Alive. Outside of my fate.” He grasped the hilt of his sword. He might’ve been weakened some from their encounter, yet that fire, that drive for control in his life, still burned within Bjorn like coals in a furnace.
Augustus looked to him, “What's our move then? We can’t stay here forever. It’ll find us.”
“Simple. I get us out of here through the door. Meanwhile you all watch me as-”
“No.” Finn's words were blunt, and it caught even Bjorn off.
“What?”
“I’ll stay behind and draw attention to myself. I got us into this mess Bjorn, you all may try to argue with thee, but I did. I failed as a leader. I let my trust drive my decisions. And now? Gunther’s dead. But you know what I can do? Be a leader, and let my brothers, my comrades live. A leader puts others first. Not themself.”
Bjorn didn’t know what to say. Alban and Augustus sat in shock as well at the declaration. Alban thought he felt tears in his eyes. Finn went to stand and Bjorn grabbed his arm.
“Finn, you can’t.” His voice was weepy, as if he were to burst into tears, “After all these years worth of companionship, and travel.”
“It's how a leader dies, my friend. For the sake of others.”
“But I’m supposed to protect you. If I can't protect my family, if I can't protect Gunther, and if I can’t protect you, what am I?”
“You're a man Bjorn. A mere man, a strong man, but not a god. Even without me, there’s Alban and Augustus. They have lives to live still. They’re young. You and I, friend, we’ve seen so much. I find it’s my time. My time to embrace the mare of death before me.”
Bjorn looked at him, years streaming through his mind like the tears did down his face. Then he embraced Finn.
“For them I suppose. I’ll never forget you Finn. Mark my words, never.”
“I expect as much, Bjorn.” He removed himself from his friend’s grasp and went to the threshold of the doorway.
“I’ll head out first toward where I think we were heading, you circle back and get them through that door. Understood?”
Bjorn nodded, whipping tears from his eyes. Alban and Augustus watched as this happened. Finn was a good man, one of the best Alban knew.
Meanwhile, as Finn embraced the darkness before him, he gave a smile. For the sake of his comrades, for the sake of his morale. The drying streams of tears on his face stretched and cracked as he did so. He walked and walked, thinking of Bjorn, and the group. He remembered meeting Bjorn. A man originally fighting for his parents and their noble house, and given to him as protection in a new world of possibility. The two always got along from day one, they were friends till the end it seemed. After him came Augustus. He’d scammed Finn due to his naive nature, and Bjorn managed to catch him and threaten him into payment. Said payment was to accompany them.
At first the man was distant, but he grew accustomed to the two, friends even. And when his debt was paid, he didn’t give leave, instead he stuck with them, allowing for a fourth member. Gunther. A quiet man from a horrid home. Finn never asked him about it, if anything he wished he did. Maybe he would’ve been able to cope better. Maybe.
Finally, bruised and wrapped in dirtied cloth, came Alban. Disgraced, and forsaken it seemed. He never told much of what occurred in his life, but he was always there, a sort of balance to the group's antics as a holy man. He wished he would’ve been able to know him better. He really wished he did. But at least him and Augustus got along. Those two. Inseparable, and it made Finn ponder if more was at stake in such a relationship.
He wouldn’t have cared, he’d have embraced it, Bjorn might’ve been tough on it, but t’was his culture. He’d learn. Gunther wouldn’t care. It was then he saw Gunther’s corpse. Dried and shriveled. The life and essence sucked away from his body. Finn looked at the dent in the wall, the one left by Bjorn. The thing was strong. Yet he’d fight even in vain for his comrades. And to attract it, he began to whistle. A familiar tune, one from his homeland of Hibernia.
The tale of the Dun Cow. He whistled it, as such a tale was told to him in song. He whistled as loud as possible. For such a song was about seemingly impossible odds, even for a great warrior, yet Guy of Warwick slew it.
“Such was to be this beast,” he thought. And said beast emerged.
Eurgh.
Jingle.
Eurgh.
Jingle.
It followed the sound of song and even in the darkness, and low light Finn saw its silhouette running forward.
“For Warwick was saved, not by him, but his comrades.” Those last thoughts, and that always present smile were what Finn took to the grave. And even within his final moments, he never let it falter.
---
Bjorn looked about each corner carefully as the trio progressed. They were silent. Not daring to make any sort of noise out of fear of being spotted or found. The dim, orangish light of their candles gave an eerie glow to the place. Painting all in a demonic orange like that of hellfire. It was then, they saw it.
The door, still there. There was hope. Bjorn looked around, and approached quietly, Alban and Augustus not far behind. Bjorn took a deep breath and popped his knuckles before he placed his fingers between the crack of the door and its frame. He began to pull. Its stone not moving an inch. He tried harder, and harder, yet it didn’t give way toward him. He removed his fingers and felt a primal rage consume him.
“No!” he thought. He wouldn’t allow for Finn’s final wish to be disregarded. He was going to get them all out of here. Protect them. He then backed away from the door, before putting his full weight in shoulder. Then he began to ram it like a mighty goat. He did this again and again, and it didn’t give any sort of way. Finally, he took one last run toward it, and as he hit it, he felt his shoulder bones break, the sound of their snapping marrow echoing throughout the endless halls.
He collapsed onto the ground in a heap, falling backwards. Alban and Augustus were on him within minutes.
“Are you alright?” Augustus asked.
Bjorn gritted his teeth, and said through them, “It won’t budge.”
“What?” Alban asked.
“Nothing worked. We’ve been set up. By the Gods my vision was right. We’re going to die.” he began to chuckle at that.
“We’re going to die,” he laughed.
“We're going to die!” he cackled madly as he rolled about the ground.
Alban tried to say something but was blocked out by his mad speech.
“We’re going to die! Die I tell you, die!” he’d finally lost it. After years and years of loss, after years of losing those around him, Bjorn finally snapped. First was his family. Killed in cold blood by a roaming band of raiders that were rampaging across Norger.
Then came his comrades in war. Killed by blades, catapults, spears, and impaling through their entire bodies, exiting out their mouths, and chests. Then came Gunther. Then came Finn. Now he’d failed his last wish. His last ask of him. A failure he was. A loser in the fight against fate. Oh he always was. He never could win. And fate laughed at him as he flailed about madly.
Now he rolled about, mad and a failure.
“Bjorn!” Augustus yelled. He didn’t listen. Instead he cackled a maniacal laugh.
Alban shook his head as he looked down at his once stoic, and sane comrade, simple in word, and blunt. Blunt he was now, yet madly so. And now, all he could do was watch as he’d been reduced to nothing within mere minutes of loss. You think a mercenary would be used to it. Loss. Tragedy. War. Yet, Bjorn despite it all, all that Alban had heard of his experiences, wasn’t. It was then Alban heard a sound.
Jingle.
Eurgh.
Jingle.
Eurgh.
It approached.
“Bjorn snap out of it! Protect us, we’re still here, and will find another way!” Alban was done trying to be quiet.
“Don’t you see? We’re dead. All of us. Everytime I see that damned mare within my nightmares, oh does it bring such, does it bring death, oh by the Gods does it! Fate is sealed. What's the point in trying? We’re dead Alban! We’re going to die!” His breath was slowing and he merely gave rough coughs in place of laughs.
Augustus and Alban looked at him and to each other. Alban felt his breath catching in his throat as the beast approached. They couldn’t leave him here. Yet, it seemed convinced that his time was over. And Alban understood that. He turned to Augustus and gave him a look.
“We can’t Alban we-”
“His mind is made up, our lives are at stake within seconds, now we must hurry!” He cut him off. Augustus looked to Alban and Bjorn. He turned to Bjorn saying, “Farewell comrade. I’m glad to have been indebted to you and Finn.” He grabbed Alban’s hand and they ran. To where? They didn’t know. As for Bjorn he looked at fate, to which fate took the form of a beastly cadaver.
It was then he realized the connection. He laughed weakly at his stupidity. The signs were there. It was the Idol that Alban had heard of. They were but horses to a slaughter, similar to those given to the Norse gods. He knew his fate. He knew his failures. In death, in the face of fate, he laughed. He laughed at the Idol. He laughed at fate. He laughed at his death. And as the Idol lowered itself upon Bjorn he saw what he could’ve been. A protector, a defier of fate. Yet such, such was impossible. And he knew it, so he laughed. He laughed till his lungs shriveled like his skin.
---
The two ran. Augustus and Alban. A man of trickery and moral dubiousness, and a man of cloth and righteousness. Funny how it worked out. Funny it was how they were drawn to one another. Yet, Alban couldn’t bring himself to defy his fate. He knew the consequences of such. He knew the world at large. Yet that voice in his head. Telling him to embrace it, spoken by Eden, and another before her.
The two ran and ran till finally they saw a room and ducked into it. Alban’s candle light wasn’t able to see everything, yet its flicks of ember shone off the iconography within this room. Bits of church decor, and candles that had been placed recently, and ages before. The coffins of others lay parallel to each other on each side of the room. A circle was painted in red upon the ground in between them, within it a cross, and severed objects that lay about, rotted and mummified into almost nothing. Then it hit Alban. Blood. Sacrifice. That thing, that ornate cadaver was the Idol.
They collapsed upon the ground, their energy spent. They’d run and run. Hoping to outrun the beast and its seemingly deadly gaze. The two were silent, not daring to speak to conserve breath. Alban had a hard time looking at Augustus. He didn’t know what to say now. If these were their final moments, he wondered if he should truly express himself to him. Tell him how he felt, his confliction, possibly indulge within such sinful desire one last time before their passing. The last, the last was impossible to Alban. He shook his head silently. Yet he spoke.
“Augustus?”
He turned his head, “Yeah?”
Alban tried to contemplate what to say, “I’m sorry,”
“Sorry for what?” Then a look of recognition crossed his face.
“I’m sorry for not reciprocating. I do love you, I’ll say it, I love you and I’m sorry I didn’t express it sooner. It’s just-my faith, my trauma, I can’t bring myself to know if such would condemn me if I were to love you. I’m sorry. I do love you. I just-I just-”
“I love you too,” Augustus said. Alban looked over at him. He gave a weak smile.
“I’ll say it as much as I can, I love you too. I show my hand. And I forgive you. I relent. If we don’t make it out of this I wanna say it like you did. I love you too. No matter what.” Alban fell silent and could only stare into Augustus’ eyes. He imagined what their life together would look like if they somehow got out of here. Live isolated in the woods, work farm land possibly, and it be just the two of them. Their love for each other, fuel for an everburning fire. It was then Alban heard that scream, saw those flames in the corners of his eyes.
It was sinful. That was it. There was no other retort. It was sinful and he should feel bad because that was what was said. It was not to be questioned. And as Alban felt those feelings rush back, he heard it.
Eurgh.
Jingle.
Eurgh.
Jingle.
The Idol was approaching. Alban glanced quickly to Augustus who seemed petrified by fear. He looked about the room, and Augustus only looked on in fear and confusion at such an action. Then he saw it. The coffin. He moved the granite lid, the noise of stone against stone echoing throughout the room, and Alban looked inside. No one was within. He looked to Augustus and took his hand.
“Alban, no you can’t just-”
“Augustus.” He looked at Alban.
“I’m not going to let you see me die. I’d rather you not have to see that if that’s the case. And I’d rather you be safe than me. I’m the one deserving of the beast’s mark, I’m the one left scarred and broken. You're not. You still have life to live. If I cannot love you, I’ll save you.”
Augustus had tears in his eyes. Today was the most Alban had seen the group cry. It was the most he had in a long time. He felt tears stream down his face, his breath shaky. He helped Augustus into the coffin and before he closed it said, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Augustus said.
Then he moved the lid shut, sealing the coffin. Alban looked at the door’s threshold. He saw an approaching shadow in the dim candlelight and unsheathed his blade like he had before. He placed the candle upon the coffin and waited.
Eurgh.
Jingle.
Eurgh.
Jingle.
It got closer and closer till finally, the Idol stood at the doorway, staring at Alban. Its head shifted, and cocked about as if to admire its prey. Alban began to back away and the beast approached, and before he knew it the two’s steps were in sync, the two were in a dance. Their steps correlated about the bloodied circle and cross as they moved. Walking and readying themself to pounce as if a predator circling another. Alban felt his fingers dig into his hand as he tightly grasped his sword’s hilt. The Idol’s chains rattled and jangled a haunting melody of death and despair.
He wouldn’t let it get anywhere near Augustus. Even if it cost his life, he wouldn’t let it. And as Alban readied himself, the Idol lunged. It knocked him to the ground, bashing his head off one of the nearby stone coffins. Alban felt a sharp sting in his skull, yet his adrenaline drowned out the pain. It was then the sickly sweet lifeblood of his body began to drip from his head wound. He held his blade up with his arms, the Idol fighting against his force upon the blade to get low enough. It was getting closer and closer to Alban’s face. He began to see into the glass, he saw its horrid and decayed face, and its features. He felt a will to let go yet he fought it. But the Idol only seemed to push his blade down further, and as it did Alban saw something within the glass besides that face.
---
As those within the church left to start their day and week anew, father Abbe noticed the man. A straggler compared to the rest. He stood, clutching the pew’s top as he waited for him to notice him.
“What doth thou do standing here, sir?” the priest asked.
“I am here…I am to confess, father,” the man said. He looked at the man. He’d noticed his condition since he’d walked in. Broken. Bruised. Exiled it seemed. Yet, every man deserved such a right.
“Very well sir, follow me.” The man followed father Abbe, past the altar, past the shelves of books into a nearby hallway. In which a small, wooden confession booth sat. The priest stepped in one side, the man the other. The two were silent for a moment. Father Abbe wondered how to begin before he managed to think of something to say.
“Tell me son, what troubles thou?” he asked.
“Father, I come to repent,” the man said.
“For what such sin?”
The man was quiet for a moment, trying to think of what to say.
“Take thy time. Everyone needs time. Everyone has plenty of it.”
Finally after what seemed minutes of silence the man spoke, “I am a sodomite. I slept with a man. To which I was punished by my father and his clergy. My partner burned. I...I given to the beast in flame below.”
The priest was taken aback.
“By the lord’s mercy…” he said.
“I-I ask of you, father, what can I do? I can’t help but like those of my ilk, those of man, what can I do?”
Father Abbe took a minute to think. Such was inhumane in his eyes, the deaths of those for whom they loved, it made him sick. God wouldn’t have approved of such, Jesus, Jesus would’ve wept at such tortuous fates. He didn’t agree with it, he didn’t think it was normal, but he knew such was just how some felt.
“Nothing sir. I don’t agree with your choices, who thy love, but as is human nature, such is thy choice. Thee cannot decide such for another man. Such brutality is no answer. Understanding should’ve been what was key.”
The man was silent, contemplating.
“I assure thou, that such is thy choice, no one else's, not mine, not your father’s, not even God’s. For thou should be who they wish. Tell me, what is thy name sir?”
The man was still silent. It took him a while to even speak.
“Alban.”
As those words rang throughout Alban’s head, he finally knew what he saw within that glass. A reflection. His face. Himself. Bleeding and fighting. This thing was what he could be if he lost himself to what others wanted. This was who he could become. What he could become.
Such is thy choice,
no one else’s,
not mine,
not your father’s,
not even God’s.
Alban drove his blade upward and with all his might he cleaved the blade of his sword into the Idol’s neck flesh, and with a leftward swipe he sent its head flying into the air. Before finally it fell upon the ground with a crack and the hollow sound of metal against stone. Alban sat up, his breath quick and hard to control. He’d killed it. He’d won. He touched his head wound with one of his hands and it stung, he pulled away and saw a glob of blood about it. He gave a laugh. A laugh of acceptance. Embrace.
He stood up his movement wobbly, and with the same might he pushed the coffin open. Augustus’ looked up at Alban and before he could react, he embraced him in a large hug. The two souls intertwined. The two souls, infatuated with one another.
---
It had been days since their venture into this place. Maybe weeks. Alban didn’t know. Augustus didn’t know. The sun never shined within this place, nor did the million eyes of the God above them. Instead, it was replaced by an eternal dark, an eternal mask to lull those heavy, distressed eyes into a comatose slumber, to finally embrace such tire, to finally embrace such slumber.
They’d tried to find an escape, yet they knew such was impossible, and they were at a disadvantage if someone did come down here. It was over the course of a few days they held one another close. They laid about the cold, hard ground that was littered with webs and dust. Attempting to ensure one another’s warmth. They talked a lot, surprisingly. In a way, Alban felt it was the last few conversations they’d ever share together.
They talked of their pasts. Their ambitions before this, what little they really had. Their comrades, and their fates. By those final few hours they began to randomly laugh.
Within it became a prevalent madness that burned at their eyes and their skin, at the ends of their throats. They laughed and laughed, giving a mad cackle as they embraced one another, falling to the ground. One last time. This time they’d do it, for their sake, for if they didn’t they wouldn’t have another chance. They were gods of this tomb now, everything beneath them in intelligence and manner. They ruled it now, having beheaded its previous monarch, its previously worshipped messiah, and they took his place. They were bound by no rules, no judgement from others, for they ruled, and all that was below them were but vermin, and the dead. And it was then through laughs and labored breath they finally danced, one last hurrah within their final moments. They danced and danced, partaking in one another’s essence and gaze as they did.
That love apparent from both sides. That doomed union. That oh so doomed love. A maddening dance of such feelings, and emotion so raw it was laborious for them. They danced and they danced, a mad dance.
For they were no longer men bound by their constraints, by society’s expectations, by God’s views and words, but by their emotions. For in this land, they danced, and danced in this buried place, till they could dance no more, till the air left their lungs and their moment of passion left them sweating and clinging about onto one another about the ground as they took their final, laborious breaths as they laughed. It was then they kissed, so passionately, so lovingly. For even in this dying place, their love would endure, for even in Heaven amongst judgement, it would endure, for even in Hell amongst torturous centuries, their love would endure. For in every land, t’was where mad gods danced.
The End
Posted Nov 5, 2025, 1:53 AM UTC