The Priesthood

This night was perhaps different from all the others, for the court was closed and only he and Kalma were there. No one else, not even a shadow of another man, not even a single guard or a servant.

Only Ignar who was on his knees, and a god who sat on an obsidian throne.

It is an intense stare. A stare that captivates you, that calls you, and demands you answer it. To remain on your knees and never look past him, never to avert his gaze... But he had to; he could not take it. He felt like nothing. He was nothing before a gaze so intense. That judged him. Under the gaze of a god, he was nothing.

But in those eyes, there was something past the judgment. Perhaps a question or a command. Either way, a thought would soon come to the surface and would reach past the intensity of his gaze and become transformed into words, into those commands and questions that there might be.

But the first words that God uttered to him weren’t born from such thoughts: “And so a traitor dies.” Words soon followed by a singular nod: “Wonderful. I had anticipated that you would not disappoint me.”

“You’ve earned my trust, Ignar,” Kalma said and rose from his throne; he now stood tall and imposing. Looking further down at the man, who was no more than a youth in comparison to the many years that he himself had lived.

But then he stepped off his pedestal. One step at a time, he descended the many stairs that were between them and soon stood right in front of Ignar. The youth who trembled, the youth whose hands shook, whose whole body had now tensed up.

Ignar’s eyes only saw his feet, the scales that covered every inch of their feet, and the sharp nails that one could use to kick someone to death. To stomp on those he deemed to be nothing more than maggots and bugs beneath his feet.

“Arise.” Kalma commanded, his voice stern and filled with authority, “Do not avert your eyes.”

He couldn’t help but swallow; his body was so tense now; it was too tense, for he found it difficult to get up. And as he got up and as he faced Kalma, they stood as equals in height. Their eyes were on the same level.

Piercing and white, yet so... dead? How can something so beautiful seem so dead? How can the eyes of a god have no life in them? From so close, he could now see things that he could before see only a hint of.

Pain. So much pain. There is enough pain to give up on the notion of pleasure or the notion of life itself. What is life if you’ve become unable to die? If you’ve become death…

And those eyes, they stared at his. Mezmering him until... nothing. Until... there is just the abyss. And it's so cold here. It is so lonely here. It is so... dead.

“Time means nothing to me.” God spoke, “Life and death are just the same.”

“I lived once in a hut made of clay and hay. I was a child back then, and I had not dreamed of a world of marble and gold. There were no such things for someone like me.”

“But... behind our hut, there was a garden, and in this garden, there grew not only flowers that populated the earth beneath my feet but also a tree, a singular apple tree.”

“I cannot remember the face of my own mother, nor can I remember the names of those who I called family.”

“I only know that they must have existed.”

The sharpness in his eyes was gone, and past the once judgemental gaze, now came truth.

“I can remember the hut, the flowers, and even the apple tree. But not the faces or names of those who I should love the most.”

“Instead, I can imagine myself laying beneath the shadow of that tree on a bed of flowers, and all I am in this moment is lonely.”

“I, under the shade of a lonely apple tree.”

“In this vision, I have. There is nothing else. There is no face that I love. There is no life, just me.”

“And I wonder...” He whispered, his brows twitching slightly, “What does it take to forget someone you love?” He tilted his head.

“Did I even love them?” He asked, and he blinked as tears wet his eyes. “Ignar, tell me, am I then a monster?”

He dared not breathe, lest his breath upset the God who cried, and now that he could not hold his breath a moment longer, he breathed in heavy breaths of air. In his mind, just this: How... how mortal a God can seem...

“I… I don’t know…” He blurted out the only answer that he could give. His body stopped trembling, and fear had been set aside, but now it roared once more; it returned like the wind on the sea; it returned as the eyes of God sharpened once more. As they became callous, they became dead once more. As the judgment had begun anew.

It was like the tears were never there. Like those words had never been said. Kalma now spoke: “You’ve gained my trust, but now you must earn the name that you and I must share.”

Kalma turned around and, in long strides, returned to his throne, but he did not sit down; instead, he witnessed as Ignar fell to his knees, looking up at God, who had graced him with his presence, with his tears.

“The leaders of the rebellion are not dead yet. They breathe, and their breath upsets me.” Kalma spoke, and each of his words was spat out: “You will be the one to kill them; one by one, you shall make them fall; you shall make them enter the eternal night; you shall become mine; you’re of my blood.”

“Become death… Become like me, and forevermore shall I love you as a father should love his own son.”

Ignar trembled violently. Fervor. This was fervor. This was what those who believed felt when they prayed to their gods. This was ecstasy. This was bliss. As if against the wishes of his own body, he awkwardly bowed, placing his head on the ground, and announced, “Lord, may your will be done.”

Every night since then, he has visited him in his dreams. And they would walk in a garden meant for just them. Where the flowers would never wilt nor wither, and where the apple tree’s fruit would be plentiful and its apples ripe and sweet. A garden so beautiful, a dream so beloved, that it took his nightmares away; that took all the other dreams with it and made them not matter. Nothing matters—not the pains or the ails that have plagued him in his life. Nothing mattered, not like the garden, not like the tears that made it grow. Not like the promise that parted the lips of God.

If he could, he would build the temple of Kalma’s desires; he would build it on the highest hill with his very own hands. Even if it would take a million years, he would construct such a creation and dedicate it to someone so great.

It was the seventeenth day after the raid on the Adrian Estate, and finally, he had word of where he could find one of the leaders of the rebellion. Apparently, they had gone into hiding after the many raids that had happened, but they did not hide far away, but instead, just on the outskirts of the city, in an impoverished part of the city, in a building that was perhaps once a normal inn but then had become a brothel, one of the many similar establishments that populate the outskirts of Anavasii.

Prostitution was not illegal; it was only frowned upon. Who cared if some girl or boy ended up as one of the many workers of the night? If they have no education or significant powers or skills, then should they just starve away en masse? No, no… The Sharans believed that everyone has a place in society; even those who are deemed to be worthless by most have worth to some. There will always be someone who wants to alleviate their most carnal instincts. And for such situations, one only needs a coin to find someone who can help.

And on the very street where Ignar now found himself, there were many who would gladly take his coin and help in any way that they could. Pófos is a place for all forms of lust. Sex, fetishes, even the sating of one’s intellectual lusts—you name it, there was everything that one could desire.

As a young man himself, he found that he could only stare at the many things that were around him. People so openly showing themselves, customers, not caring that they were seen, then approaching houses that seemed quite active, finding men and women most attractive, joining hands with them, and letting them lead them indoors to those many houses of so many desires.

He was out of place. He had never touched a man or a woman in such a way. He often even wondered if he had such desires. If he felt lust, would he want something like this?

Even with all these things present, he ventured forth, keeping his gaze from meeting the eyes of the women who were far too beautiful in his eyes, or the men who’d make you swing another way, or would at least give a good run for your money.

There was a rather famous brothel in the center of it all, one not only famous for its services but also for the name that it so proudly carried: the Gates of Urul.

One could guess what such a name could refer to, but Ignar chose not to even question the meaning of the name, and he doubted that he would even like to know.

And now that this house of lust was before him, he was surprised that such a building had even been built in this part of the town. It looked out of place. A building of marble on a street of rubble.

The owners of this establishment had clearly garnered much wealth through the years, and it was no wonder it was the place to be. It was where those who had money, not just coins, would find the most premium treatment with the most diverse selection of options and a cast with varying levels of expertise in a given act.

But there was a selection that was far above any other. The most popular option was a simple, private conversation.

Prostitution isn’t always about sex; there are many men and women who suffer from loneliness, many who wish nothing more than an understanding ear to hear their ails, or just a simple acknowledgment, to be called by their name, to be tightly hugged, and then warmly lead out, back into the night with whispers and promises that they would always be here for them, that they would always be waiting for them, and they would be glad to offer their ears again... for a price.

One could argue that it was sad. But there was also beauty in this. It was rather innocent. It was also proof of a simple, almost universal law: if there is a need for it, then there certainly is someone who is willing to provide it, thus there will be someone willing to pay for it.

At the doorway to the Gates of Urul, there stood two people: a man and a woman. They seemed to work for the establishment, so he chose to approach them. At first, he thought that he should just enter through the door, but after observing and hesitating for a while, he managed to witness someone enter before him: another man, who seemed to talk for a while to the two people before being allowed entrance.

As he walked up to them, he could already feel their evaluating eyes on him as they looked for three things: signs of wealth, signs of power, and signs of danger. And when he reached them on the face of the woman, there was already approval.

“Good sir, are you looking to enter the Gates of Urul as a customer, or are you perhaps looking for work? And I mean, no offense, there would be many ladies who would like to spend their night on top of you or under you.”

“If you happen to swing that way, but if you don’t, then surely you wouldn’t have even a moment in lonesome as many men would come to you; oh, how they would crawl before you... I think they would let you do anything to them if you so desired.” The woman explained with such great passion that it was difficult to be offended.

But taken aback, he was, and the way his scales changed color in almost an instant to a darker shade. But this only brought a more joyous expression on the woman’s face: “Just magnificent, wouldn’t you say?” She said and tapped the shoulder of the man next to her, who just grunted in agreement.

Ignar cleared his throat. “Well, I am not looking for work at the moment, but company on the other hand.”

“Ah…” She exclaimed in disappointment, "Well, you may enter; of course, you seem wealthy enough, and I realized the moment I saw you that you just might say no to my suggestion... but I will keep a hint of hope by my side. Enter you may, but when you leave, promise that one day you will return here, and then we might talk business." Her smile was so coy, and as Ignar thanked her and entered through the door, she let her fingers ever so slightly linger on his shoulder.

It was like a jolt that ran through him as he found the desire that he thought he might not have. But alas, he was here for a simple job: murder.

The entrance to the house of lust was a corridor that was divided into three parts by three veils, all of a different color. As he stepped past the first one, he was greeted with the smell of perfume. There was a smell that reminded him of the woman he had walked past moments ago. He swallowed.

The next veil brought with it a feeling, one that began in his head and ran through his whole body, as if it were a touch, or many, that gently caressed him, seeking what a man like him would like; what was the touch that he sought?

And the third veil removed all doubt. It removed the feeling of shyness, the pressure one could feel, and even the nervousness of the one who had entered in search of pleasure.

His whole body receded; he had never felt so free to do as he wished. There were many things he wanted to do, so one question remains: Why not just do them? What is the harm in seeking pleasure and the touch of another? Now he could do it all, even the mission.

Past the third veil opened up a large space, a great room that was more like a bar or a tavern than anything else; there were tables and booths, couches that filled those booths with people idling and conversing with each other, often with people much more beautiful than they were. But on the faces of each individual, there remained an illusion of intrigue: the customer that a prostitute was to serve this night was not old or ugly; for them, for this night and perhaps many nights after, they were beautiful, they were filled with youthful energy, and everything they said was interesting and important.

There was also a desk with two sets of stairs on either side. Ignar studied the room, the people that were there, and the new faces that he had never seen before. The way they interacted with each other, as laughter at times, would fill the air around, or when a woman would place their lips on a glass and drink the nectarine, which would bring her courage.

And the man that soon approached him, on their face, an expression of curiosity, they reached him and soon asked, “Sir, I’ve not seen your face here before, so might I guide you through our grand establishment and even recommend services that may be of interest to you?” Their speech was steady, and the smile on their face never left for even a moment. With both of their hands, they gestured toward the desk.

Ignar accepted this offer and followed the man. They stopped at the desk, where a woman worked behind the counter. She wore a revealing black dress that brought out the white of her scales. She for a moment glanced at Ignar, and her eyes sparkled in shades of gold as the yellow iris of her eyes met the eyes of the young man.

She went ahead and wrote something on a note, which she folded and then placed on the counter. Her eyes met Ignar’s eyes again, and a coy smile conquered her face. “I know what you’re here for.” She said, “Ules, I think you should man the counter for a couple of hours.”

Ules stared at the woman with a confused expression on his face, then an understanding smile removed such confusion as he scoffed. “So you know this young man?" He asked and looked at Ignar in turn. “I never thought that I’d see the day when you would have customers of your own.”

His smile widened. “But I do approve of your choice; this one seems to be able to go all night.”

The ever-confused Ignar had to battle to not let the blush on his face show as the woman took him by the arm, grabbing the note with her as she led him upstairs. They climbed the stairs at a normal pace, but after each step, Ignar could feel the rhythm of his heart quicken. He wondered if the woman could feel the sweat that had begun to form on his hand if she would be able to see how blushed his face had become, and if she could find the lust deep beneath his gaze.

On the second floor of the establishment, there were rooms on either side; at first, the space in between was quite small, but at the end of the corridor, after walking past ten or so doors, the woman opened the door to the left and pulled Ignar inside with her.

The room was large, and it had been divided into three sections. The first section was a space where one could place their shoes and coats; there were also three couches and a small table that was in the middle of them. The second section had a large bathtub in it, with a large window that overlooked the street beneath. Then there was the third section, the largest part of the room, equal in size to the other two combined; a large kingsized bed with silk sheets and multiple pillows placed all over the bed, not to mention a balcony with an even better view of the street below; and then there were wardrobes filled with who knows what, and lastly, paintings that garnished the walls.

Around the room they had entered, there were many lights hanging from different places, creating a sensual mood for the room, combined with the fragrant smell that came from the bathtub.

Ignar couldn’t help but feel the urge that came with such a setting, but the woman let go of his hands. She looked deep into his eyes and placed the folded note in Ignar’s hand; her expression was serious as she whispered, “You do what you came here for. There should be no one that will bother you, and the rooms are soundproof. I will be waiting here for you.

Ignar stared at her for a moment longer and then read what the note contained. A room number: 309.

He again looked at the woman, but she had already sat on the couch, and she kept tapping the armrest. She was nervous. Perhaps even afraid.

Ignar let out a silent sigh. In his mind, he damned the whole mission. Couldn’t he instead have fun in this fine establishment? He left the room and silently closed the door behind him. He searched the door and soon found its number: 209. He looked at the other side of the corridor, at the door that was there, and its number was 210.

He returned to the staircase, making note of each door and its number as he went by. Based on this, he figured that the room that he was looking for was on the third floor, a room that would be above the room in which he had just been.

The third floor had the same layout as the second floor, but the only sounds that he could hear were those that came from the first floor—the sounds of laughter that silently echoed through the stairway and up to the floor on which he now was.

He sneaked onward, again taking note of how the rooms were numbered. The rooms that were in use were marked with a sign that hung from the door handle. On such signs, it usually reads “Do Not Disturb,” or just “In Use.”

The numbers followed the same logic; the first number was the floor, and the ones that followed were the room numbers.

At the end of the corridor, he found the door he was looking for; it was numbered “309,” and on its handle was a sign that read “Do Not Disturb.”

Without even trying the knob, Ignar knew that the door would be locked, but that would not be an issue. There were many ways one could break down a door; it had not been long since Urgur had showcased one way of doing it, but he would not break down the door. He needed to be more careful; he needed to be as subtle as he could.

Thus, his only feasible option was to lock-pick the damn door. The only issue was that he had never done anything like that before, and he wasn’t sure how long it would take before someone would enter this floor. And he wasn’t that sure if the rooms being “soundproof” meant that the sounds coming from outside would also be muffled, and not just those that were formed within the rooms.

But really… How complicated could a lock even be? He thought to himself and began thinking of the different locks that he had seen in his lifetime. There were padlocks, warded locks, and magical locks; this one was obviously a magical lock, so there really wasn’t a need for a keyhole, even when the lock had one, but it was there for most aesthetic reasons, to kind of notify anyone who might try entering that the door could be locked.

Magical locks were by nature complex, but the complexity of the lock itself then befell the person who created the magic for it. If he had been unlucky, then the person who had created the lock for this door would have been someone much more magically gifted than he, but thankfully such was very rare.

And in this case, the creator of the lock had not been someone who was greater in magical ability than he was, but still, they had been someone who knew their shit. Thus, even if the person had less aptitude for magic, they made up for it with knowledge.

It was eerily silent as he just stood there and looked at the door and its lock. The only sounds one could hear were his own heartbeat and the laughter, which was very muffled, that came from downstairs.

Maybe he could not unlock the door, but he could remove the magic that kept it locked. For that, he was powerful enough. He carefully sought the magic within and formed it into a nullifying spell, one that, if it came into contact with any magic that was either lesser or equal, would become nullified. It was as if two forces met each other and then became naught afterward. The nullifying spell would become nothing and so would the magic that meets it.

In most scenarios, it was almost like a show of force. He could remember the way Kalla had done so against the guards of the Adrian Estate—how everything that they threw at him became nothing or was instead stopped by other means. If it were just the nullifying magic that he had used, then perhaps it would’ve been less impressive, but that mixed with how he controlled the magic of others, on the other hand...

Ignar released the magic that he had created; he could feel the magic of the lock and his magic; they were as if connected by tethers one could not see so easily; they struck each other, and Ignar could feel how these two forces first battled, seeing which were stronger, then they both collapsed and became nothing. The feeling that remained after was cold, and there was an absence of that which once was.

He quickly opened the door and entered, knowing all too well that the person within could easily notice such magic; the first glances that he could see of anything were a similar layout to the room that was beneath it, and then an ice lance flew toward him. Ignar closed the door behind him and formed a quick code to block the magic thrown at him.

The ice lance shattered as it met a well-placed stone shield that had materialized in its way. The sharp icicles flew in many directions, but all of them Ignar scorched away with quickly formed flames.

And then, at last, he could see the person he was supposed to kill. A man with a grin on his face; his white hair flew around wildly as he conjured another spell to remove the enemy that had entered his room without his permission.

A man with far too familiar facial expressions; a man who stopped doing what he was doing the moment they too realized who they now faced.

All movement stopped; all creation of magic ended; instead, two men stared at each other. A father and a son. Kalla and Ignar.

A smile on the face of the old man as he finally spoke, “So this is the assassin my father sent for me? How thoughtful of him!"

Ignar took a step forward, “What is the meaning of this? There was supposed to be a leader of the rebellion in here." He asked, but he already knew the answer. He already knew what Kalla thought of Kalma; he already knew where all this would go; he could guess how it all would end. Unless…

“Yes, and here I am.” Kalla said and spread his arms, “The man who gave birth to resistance. The man behind whom so many stand—there are so many that follow me and that which I believe in."

“So I must die.”

“No.” Ignar said, “I will never do something like that. I refuse. We can… we can…”

“Run away?” Kalla asked, to which Ignar nodded, for he believed that it was the only choice. But Kalla scoffed, “To run away from a god? From a creature that has so much more power than anyone in existence, who has so many followers that would do his bidding... And you suggest that we run away from him?” He sneered.

“Have I raised a fool as my son?” He scoffed again, but beneath his veil of jest and outrage, there remained a hint of sadness, perhaps not for the accusation that he himself had voiced but because of the reality of the situation.

“At this point, it doesn’t matter what you desire. One of us has to die.” Kalla smirked as a flash of something like insanity could be seen in his eyes, but a flash is a flash, and from that flash, that unexplainable emotion in Kalla’s eyes returned. Again, as if he knew something that Ignar probably should know as well. Such knowledge could be seen there, and that smirk faded away.

He first scoffed and soon burst into laughter, one that had more tears than one would think. And when he was done with this burst, he examined Ignar, the assassin sent to kill him.

“Do you remember the deal we made the day we first spoke?” He asked, “I would give you a name, and I would become your father; I would feed and clothe you; I would have you live in my house; and in trade, you would do what I ask you to do, no questions asked.”

“So be a good boy and execute me; chop my head off and bring it to my father. He will be pleased; he will be happy." His voice was so low now, and his smile remained there, one that tried to be brave but would at times falter to showcase the truth of a man who was afraid of death, as is any real man.

There was silence after his words as Ignar stared at his father. He was in between tears and laughter, not knowing which was more appropriate for the situation. The absurd reality of it all. Within, he knew that he could not, but above all else, he knew that his father was correct.

It would be foolish of him to try to even escape with his father. It would be foolish of them to try to do such a thing. It was foolish to even dream of such things, for what is a man before a god? What is a man before power that you can’t even calculate; that you can’t even imagine?

What could someone like him do? Or even Kalla? Surely his father could kill him in mere moments; he could decapitate him; he could remove his head and thus his soul from this existence, and Ignar was unsure if he could do anything to stop him.

He was left with just this one option.

Tonight, he would not be a man. Tonight, he would not have feelings. Tonight, he would be just a weapon used by the hands of the god he now served. Tonight, a son would not kill his own father, but instead, a weapon would kill another weapon.

Tears ran down his cheeks as he began forming a code, a smile came to Kalla’s lips, and he closed his eyes and said before it would all end, “Be brave, my son.”

For a moment, Ignar faltered; not only did his vision shake but so did his whole body as he released it. He released death. A golden disk formed in between them; it spun so fast in place that one could hear a high whistling sound in the room, and then he released it.

It struck at Kalla’s throat; it severed his head from his torso and then dissipated before it hit the wall behind the bed. A loud thumb was heard as two objects hit the floor: the body and the head, now two separate entities, and just blood that gushed out of the two sides, soiling the carpet beneath.

Ignar stared at his creation, his eyes twitching and shivers running down his spine. He was disgusting. He was so disgusting.

From the bedsheets, he ripped a silken cloth large enough to carry the head. In silence, he kept his cries muffled as he cased the head carefully, not wanting to look at it but still having to face what he had done. Kalla’s eyes might’ve been closed, but on his face, there was this tension that remained: unfathomable pain caused by the moment of impact, by the moment of death... His eyes closed, but beneath his lids, there would always be that disappointed look for him now. The disappointed eyes of a father who now had a murderer as his only son...

He picked up the head and left the room, leaving the body on the carpet. He closed the door, wanting to perhaps lock it, but he did not know how. His mind was empty as he walked down the hallway, each step frail, his knees almost giving up as he went down the staircase, his hands violently shaking as he opened the door to room 209.

There, the woman still sat, now biting her nails. She perked up and stood up the moment Ignar entered the room. She witnessed as Ignar closed the door behind him, as he stared at her, as he dropped the veiled head on the floor and began to weep.

The woman was first confused, but soon she approached the man and, in silence, comforted him, but the tears would not stop flowing.