The Priesthood

It was dark, and only a light from somewhere past the figures could be seen—the faceless men without eyes or mouths, the faces without expressions, without compassion, without fear, or even curiosity. They surrounded him.

He had seen this very thing so many times now. In his dreams, he had gone through it over and over again; he could do nothing, and he knew it. This feeling was instant. This fear was overwhelming; it was too much. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t speak; he could only scream, and he knew that soon he would scream more than enough.

One of them stepped closer as if to inspect this new individual that lay before them. They moved their head like an owl would, peeking here and there as if seeing something. Then, from behind their back, they brought out a long rapier; its blade was unsullied, and it glistened in the light.

Now the rapier was pointed at his stomach. The insertion began slowly. First, it felt like a simple needle that pricked his skin, then it pierced his bare stomach, and blood gushed out; a scream filled the dark room; a scream filled his mind; a scream that overpowered all sound that could be; he tried to move; he tried to take his hands to that rapier and stop it; he tried to scream for help; he tried to beg for mercy; all he could do was scream and watch as it all happened, as the blood flowed and the rapier went deeper and deeper, as his eyes watered and tears ran down his cheeks.

Then it stopped, and the figure inspected, again, the helpless body before them.

“You could tell us everything... You could share your secrets with us. You could be honest. And we will set you free.” A voice said, it was muffled and came from the figure, but there was no mouth that said such words; there was just a smooth face, with no shapes other than the general shape of a face.

The figure stepped aside, and another approached. In their hands, another rapier was ready for another insertion. They had long fingers, which they placed on Kanrel’s chest; they were cold, but that didn’t matter, for the pain that pulsated in his stomach overpowered even that. Then they grabbed the rapier better and began insertion—another prickle that soon turned into another wave of pain, another wave of screams, another painful screech that further filled the darkness of that room.

It was again too slow; if only they could be faster; if only they would allow it to end!

Again, it stopped, and the figure inspected the wound and the helpless body.

“Tell me, tell me everything... The release will be so sweet; your freedom will be in the darkness; there is a great line there; many who lived and are gone now; and now they just await... Speak, and we will set you free.” Another muffled voice, this one slightly deeper in tone than the previous; it was darker and far more masculine. But there was no expression on that faceless face.

They stepped aside, leaving Kanrel with his screams, leaving him in that same pain that refused to subdue. Two pulses that conquered his body; two pulses that met each other; two pulses that brought much torment with them.

The third one was no different; they only placed the rapier on the opposite side of his chest. Another slow insertion; another wave of pain; another scream to fill the darkness and his ears; another moment where he wished that there’d be no more pain; another moment where he longed for that numbness to return... Where was the Angel of Death when he needed them? Where was that sweet and gentle figure? Where were they?

“The pain… Will only be passing; nothing lasts... All the joys and all the follies in our lives, nothing lasts... So why keep a secret? Even that cannot last; even that needs to be set free. Confess, and we will set you free.”

The fourth one came, their rapier in hands, their long and thin fingers found his thigh, and gently they caressed it, gently they placed the rapier against it, gently they began their insertion; gently, the skin on his thigh was pierced, and soon blood gushed out. Another scream; another moment of agony; another pulse created; another scream to fill the void.

“Silence will never do anything good for you... In silence, we fade away. You wouldn’t want to fade away, now would you? Break the silence, and we will set you free.”

The fifth and final one came, found his other thigh, and began insertion. This one felt slower than all of the other ones combined. It felt like an hour as they so slowly pushed it in. The four pulses of pain screamed more and more as the fifth one was born; as the fifth rapier pierced his skin, pierced through his flesh, and found its way through, stuck onto the other side, against the bed beneath him.

There was so much blood; there was so much pain; his world spun; his eyes felt so empty and dark; yet in his mind there remained that screech of pain; that torment that ran through his body; that conquered everything that he had. A repeating wish kept screaming in his head. “MAKE IT STOP, PLEASE, KILL ME, PLEASE, SET ME FREE!”

“Without suffering, there could never be joy... Without lies, there could never be truths. So tell us your truths, and we will set you free.” The last figure said, almost whispering, their fingers lingered on the hilt of the rapier, then they gripped it again; the other four approached, their mannerism like that of owls or birds in general. They all grabbed their rapiers.

Then they all began to twist. The five pulses became one in this glorious moment of pain and suffering; they joined together and became one, giving birth to a scream more powerful and more tormented than all the other screams so far. He screamed so loudly and so much as they twisted their rapiers that, in the end, there was no sound. Only a silent scream filled the darkness and turned everything dark; that made it all go away.

And as he drifted to that darkness baptized by pain, he heard one last thing, one last muffled whisper, “Be free...”

“Did you get a good look at the corpse?” He could hear a familiar voice as he lay in place, in a dark, cramped location, swaying a little bit, left to right, for some reason.

“Yes, nasty business... Not a good way to go; even if you’re a murderer and all.” Said another voice. It took him a moment to put one and one together and remember who that voice was: Ragen Ornful was one of the two people who collected bodies and dumped them into the barrels that the Angel of Light and Dark would dispose of.

Then the other voice could only be Georg Cascadun.

“At least we don’t have to take them to that warehouse; it’s not like this death is much of a secret or something that would upset many... I heard that not even their parents came to their trial. Feels somehow… Sad? I guess.” Georg said as the dark cramped place swayed around; slowly, Kanrel began to realize what was going on: he was in a box or a coffin, and they were carrying him away, to be burned or buried; he didn’t quite know which.

Thus he tried to move and scream, but there came no words; his muscles did not work; it was like he was dead, in a coma, or fully crippled. He couldn’t even cry.

“Don’t waste your empathy for people like that; it is a waste of time, and you know it.” Ragen promptly replied, “Besides, they got what they deserved.”

A long sigh could be heard: “Perhaps, but I cannot help but wonder if there could’ve been another way. Like, what if they were actually innocent? What if the accusations that they threw at the Offices of Peace were true?” Georg suggested.

The other scoffed, “Relax, we both will get in trouble if there is anyone to hear you saying such things; you do want to return to your partner today, now don’t you?” Ragen said, their voice low, but there remained a hint of jest.

This was soon followed by another long sigh: “I think I am done with them; no matter how hard I try, they will always want to argue with me... Do you remember when I bought them those flowers? They didn’t like them; instead, they screamed at me for getting them something so useless and worthless.”

Ragen burst into laughter. “Then maybe we should run around and scream how much we believe this Hartar fellow; that should take care of your worries.”

“Now, now; even if I can barely handle my so-called beloved, I do still want to live. And besides, there was a point in time when I truly loved them. Maybe years ago? I am not quite sure anymore.” Georg replied.

Ragen scoffed. “And if they would hear you say such things, then death is all that there could be for you.”

“You’re right. I think I should just get a divorce and move on.”

“Hah, that might be your second worst idea so far, the first one being, of course, your marriage; I always knew that you would find yourself in this situation, you know. Marriages never work.” Ragen said, and Kanrel could imagine them shaking their head while keeping an oblique smirk on their face.

They got silence as a reply, as Georg was either pondering or annoyed because of their friend's words.

“Love fools us all.” Ragen then added, “You couldn’t help it; none of us really can.”

Georg’s voice shook as they replied, “Yes.” They sighed and then continued, “At least I tried, even when, for such a long time, I should’ve not even tried.”

“My friend, do not be so regretful; you’re beginning to sound like me, and there would be nothing more terrible than another cynical bastard like me.” Ragen soon said, “At least they gave you a child, and you love them more than life itself, right?”

Another silence ensued, and this one continued for a long while. In silence, the coffin swayed as they carried him somewhere. And when they at last stopped, the coffin was placed down, and it hit the ground, shaking his whole body.

Then he could hear another sound—a short scrape, like something small and grainy hitting metal—and this was soon followed by something hitting his coffin, something heavy but loose. The sound came again, and more fell on the coffin; it happened again and again—the scraping sound and the heavy hit of loose dirt. Shovels in action, dirt soon covering his way out, removing any exit that there might be from beneath the ground.

They would bury him alive? They would not check for his pulse. They would not make sure that he was dead. They would just bury him? Just like this?

The sounds became muffled by the minute, and soon he could barely hear anything. He could almost feel the heavy layers of dirt that were above him. He could feel this urgent sense of panic ticking within; he couldn’t breathe; he wouldn’t be able to; there wouldn’t be enough air in this little coffin.

This is how he’d die then? Was this how Hartar died as well? He still couldn’t move, so he just lay there. Motionless, staring at the dark ceiling of his little coffin, he wondered how long it would take—how long until he’d suffocate to death.

And now what he feared the most had become reality. He was forced to remain alone with himself. With this fear and waiting for that which is to come, with this anticipation of death, this thing that claims us all—that which claims to be for all—that which we all fear, even when we claim that we don’t. But perhaps we are not afraid of death itself, but rather of the things related to death.

We fear the death of a loved one because we love them and because we will feel this great sense of torment when they are gone. Kanrel knew that torment all too well.

We fear for what is to come next, whether there is a punishment for our sins or a reward for all of our good deeds. Kanrel knew that there were so many things he deserved punishment for.

We fear the pain—the pain that might be the cause of death; we fear that the way we die is painful; that the moment in which our hearts stop, we might feel pain; we might suffer, needlessly, when we were supposed to be laid to rest; the cold embrace of a grave and the dirt that now covers us.

And he knew that he would feel pain. He knew what it felt like to suffocate. He knew far too well. The moment, the short moments in which he was suspended in that globe of darkness, his lungs burning with the need for air. He didn’t want to suffocate; he didn’t have the desire to feel his lungs on fire again.

Maybe in his time of need, the Voice that had seemingly abandoned him would return, and they would once again allow him to breathe. Perhaps they would sustain him.

Time is like a mountain range, where you travel up and down again and again. There are moments that feel slow and laborious, as if you were climbing a great mountain, trying to reach its highest peak, and all that time you must be careful, lest you slip and fall, lest you find yourself at the bottom again, as suddenly time can go past you. Moments can go by so quickly; things happen so fast, and never when you expect them to happen. And if you were to reach a peak, you might then descend it; you might jump off from that peak in that great moment of fulfillment, the moments of happiness and joy, but soon you would find yourself at the bottom again. Such is time, and such is life. Because time is nothing more than just life. Or so Kanrel had now grown to believe.

Right now, he felt like he was climbing the highest mountain again as he waited for his own death; he awaited the moment all air would run out. It was only yesterday, or perhaps the day before, when things happened too quickly when he slipped down and fell from that mountain, only to be forced back up, to try again, to live, when at times it felt like living wasn’t worth the pain and suffering.

And perhaps it wasn’t. But even he, somewhere far in his heart, knew he wanted to live. Or, at least, not die like this. This isn’t how a man should die. A man ought to die surrounded by his family and friends; a man ought to be lulled to sleep, and his memory ought to be lamented for years to come. That is how a man ought to die. But death wasn’t so fair, now was it? Or was life to blame for the unfairness of all things?

In the darkness of his grave, his eyes felt heavy. In the darkness of his grave, he felt tired. In the darkness of his grave, he at last closed his eyes. Why was he so tired? It was warm, yet it wasn’t—he wasn’t so sure anymore. It felt like he was falling. Spinning away to somewhere far away. He felt the flow of his own blood; he could hear it so clearly. Then nothing. That, too, stopped.

This was death.

Breathe…

And he inhaled a sudden gasp of air, filling his lungs and bringing life to him once more. His eyes burst open, yet the world remained dark.

Open the way...

He could feel his body tense up, he could feel his body once again; he could move, he could breathe, he could do as he wished; so he pushed at the lid of his casket with all of his strength, and it too burst open, letting a dim light enter his world; this light was dark, and the vision that he now had was dark as well, but at least there were visions; there were things here.

Enter…

So he entered, and he walked out of the casket, leaving behind its darkness and discomfort. And all he could see in this darkness were figures—people.

The figures seemed to walk without direction. Among themselves, they went wherever they could, and when they would almost touch or hit each other, they would somehow just walk past, just ever so slightly missing each other. Not once touching, not once feeling the warmth of another; not seeing each other; not recognizing the eyes of another; not the face of another. Nothing.

They kept walking past each other; they were blind to each other; not once did they see each other. In that eternal darkness, one that was like death itself, one that seemed not so different from the fall, everything suspended in that darkness, on a platform that continued perhaps for eternity; an infinite number of people, walking past each other, singular lights of existence, of something that once was. People who once lived.

This was what was left after death. Souls lingering, walking in darkness, in an endless hall of nothing, in an endless darkness with no other light than the one that you once had within. All the other people that might have once lived, that might have once existed, were not there anymore. They had lived, but they weren’t there; they might as well not have ever existed.

The faces of thousands that walked past him all had such detail in them—the faces of those that had died, the young and the old; children and adults; babies and the elderly—all holding on to their faces a mask of death, a face they had worn on their last moments, just before death.

There was pain, there was surprise, some had no emotion, some had a smile, but they were all here, everyone. Those who had done wrong, those who had done good, those who had done nothing at all. Even those who had barely lived.

They were as if planets, suspended in the dark universe, going by each other, perhaps for a moment seeing one another, but not once taking contact with that life that flies past you. These souls are all cursed by such a condition. Such unfairness. This unfairness was perhaps death.

Why was he here? Surely he had died, or at least the body of Hartar Agna had died. They had brutally tortured them to death; they had buried him alive; they had brought him here. Into this. Into this great walk that had no end. To this abyss.

Surely he was there only to observe it, but was he then a part of it? Why could he not take a step left or right? Why could he not break free? Why could he see but not say a word? Why could he move but not take the move he wanted to take? Why was he here? If he could think, or if he could feel pity—if he could still feel...

Was this death? Was this all it was? Was this what they all felt at the end of their lives? Was this all that there was to everything? The end of everything. The end of life. The end. Was this it?

Was there no paradise for the tortured? Was there no suffering for the torturers? Was there just this—nothing?

In this silence, there are just the memories that you had. These steps are just those that you take toward those memories, those moments in which you felt something—in which you had love, in which you felt fear, in which you were lonely, in which you had everything a man could ask for... In which you had nothing, and you were nothing...

In this nothingness, he could only remember the times when he had something. He could only have those memories. Those ever-so-powerful and ever-present memories that cared not for his will nor for his wants or needs. They only cared to exist as they were until they could be released and relived through remembering. Through this never-ending darkness.

Why could they not become true again? Why did they have to be so faint—almost unreachable and untouchable? Why did they have to be just a faint whisper and not the entirety of the feeling itself?

Why can’t I be the way I once was? Why can’t I find within myself the will to dream again? Why do all of my dreams revolve around a memory of something lost? Oh, how I yearn for that which was lost. Oh, how it whispers to me, oh, how it calls me, a slave, to kneel before it, to feel it again and again, to tremble in its yearnful pain, in this bliss that is loss.

A child. We are all just children; we never wanted to leave the embrace of our mothers, not the dreams that we had or the world that we saw. There was no agony to yet torment us; there were no other needs than the love that was provided by our mothers and fathers. And those dreams we had—how they made us roar through the heavens, how they made us fly, how they made us slay giants, how they made us heroes, how they made us children—were so innocent and human.

What have I become, and what have I done? I can only regret it; that is all I have.

And then it ends. I lay naked in darkness, submerged in a mist that covered the back of my mind and even the fields of my heart. I am lonely, but not alone, for they now stand above my corpse; they look not down on him, like the other Angels, but as if on the same level. Their eyes are filled with something—a feeling far too familiar to Kanrel and his kind.

“When you leave, when they all leave, would it be like that to all of them?” Kanrel asked, not getting up and just observing that mist that approached, to cover more of him, more of his mind, more of his heart, more of all. The mist, like shadows, would cover it all. From his mind to his heart, to every corner of the earth. So it would be, in the end.

“Perhaps. Only those who have died can surely tell.”

“I see…” He whispered, to no one in particular, “What comes next?”

There was silence, one far too familiar. It prompted him to get up to see if the angel had gone away once more. But there they stood, their face lacking all joy and their eyes a deep blue gaze so intense that one could forget all else except the dread of the world. If one answered that gaze, one would drown in their sorrow, in regret felt for a time unknown and only observed by a select few.

“Life,” the Voice promised, hanging a sad smile on their face, one that held the promise of it. Soon that smile faded, and they spoke: “Find me, so that they can be free; so that you can be free; so that I—can be free.”

Their eyes met, and Kanrel now stood across them, so short he was before the magnificence of an angel. The great presence of the Angel of War and Peace.

The mist veiled the angel, and in the end, it would veil them all, and Kanrel was left there, confused and without understanding how he could find them or free them.

He looked ahead at the line that continued and continued, and he kept walking toward the place where the others were walking as well. Walking past more and more of those that had died—thousands of more, perhaps millions—who knows how many were stuck here...

But soon he came to a sudden halt, as he could see another figure, one not quite the others; they stood between the lines, looking directly at him; their expression was solemn, and they were none other than the Angel of Time.

Kanrel walked up to them, hoping that they might give him guidance—a way out from here.

“This… is death. You see, we believe that after we die, our souls will live on, but that which we become part of in our deaths is not an afterlife where one receives bountiful gifts from god or eternal salvation, but instead emptiness. A queue, of sorts, for those who are then reborn, perhaps not as Sharan, but perhaps as ants, or even as a human like you.” Time said as Kanrel finally reached them.

“And those who have done well will take their queue closer to the gates, from where they may enter life again. Our souls will live on. Our bodies will become ash, but our magic... will leave a memory of us, one that can be seen long after our deaths.”

“Our ashes will help the flowers bloom one day, and our magic will give a shapeless, formless memory for those who can see it and who can feel it.”

“What do you feel when you touch magic?” They asked.

“Disgust.” Kanrel promptly replied.

The Angel smiled briefly. “It is no wonder, for the magic that you feel all around you is that which is filled with regret and violence. I can feel your magic as well; it is similar to ours but filled with even more regret and disgust than the magic that is here now, in this city we called home.”

“Tell me, Kanrel. Do you, humans, believe in such a concept as the afterlife?"

Kanrel let out a sigh. “Some of us believe that after death we will be re-united with those that have died before us, and some believe that those who have done well will earn a place in the court of the Angels.”

“But there is no ‘official’ stance given by the Priesthood.”

“I see… The first one sounds... good.” The Angel replied, sounding somewhat intrigued, “But alas, you may not remain here for much longer.”

“The innocent Hartar Agna might be dead, but you are not; you don’t belong here; this isn’t the right place for creatures like you.”

“And besides, there remains one more door for you to open.” They said, and as the lines began to shift by, Kanrel could feel how they were rapidly transported toward the end of the line, toward its destination, passing by more and more dead Sharan, until, at last, he could see a door. A row of doors; each of them looked like the third and last door that was in the round room where the Angel of Time had let him enter two of their doors.

The door was dark, and it had no handle; it didn’t even seem to have hinges. It was more like a doorway than anything else. But it was something that called for him; it reminded him of the dark mirror that he had broken and entered to get here. Within, he could feel this sense of anticipation—this want, this desire—to enter.

A priest is not supposed to feel desire. Yet now, he could feel it. This want. He wanted to go through that door, and before even thinking about it or trying to control himself, he found himself walking toward it. Again, he came to a sudden halt.

As he waited for the final instructions from the Angel of Time.

“You will go where you belong, at least in the sense of time; the place may be something that you might not recognize, but there you will see, perhaps, our greatest sin.” The Angel spoke, walking next to Kanrel.

“Go now; you will not see this version of me again.” The Angel said lastly, and with that, they too were veiled by the mist; they too were no longer there; they too had gone or returned to wherever they had come from.

He went closer to the doorway and looked into it, trying to see anything that there might be on the other side. He then looked around and saw the other lines, the other doors, and the many Sharan that just kept walking in; in every line except this one, the line behind him stood still. It was clear that they, somehow, knew to wait for their own turn.

So, he did the only thing he could do; he took another leap of faith; another moment in which he entered something he perhaps shouldn’t... He took a step forward and instantly felt its pull. He was sucked in, and all the light that there was or ever could be was no more; all he now knew was that he was again falling, drifting away from the place where he had seen that beautiful angel—the Angel of War and Peace; their loving warmth; their lonesome words; their heartbreak. Oh, how he longed to save them... How he longed to be saved...

He fell, and it was cold again. He fell, and he did not know if the fall would ever end. He fell, and he did not know if there was supposed to be an end. So he closed his eyes and let his tears flow at last. To get here, it had been so painful; to get here, he had nearly lost himself; he had lost a part of himself; and he did not wish to lose the rest that he had of himself.

He cried. For the first time in such a long time, he cried as himself. But the fall continued and refused to end.