Chapter 2: Upyric Ascension

I awoke in peace and to the calm of the morning sunlight streaming through breaks in the curtains. Through open windows I could hear the forenoon birds, bustle, and laughter of chattel, the Humans, still joyous–yet unbothered by the stresses of the day, and thus yet free from the inanity and pangs of worldly work.

I hauled myself forward with the promise of the fulfilment of duty, backboned by a deep exhale with which I found the strength to rise and toss off the sheets. A warm bath and tea awaited me. So considerate. Santiago’s doing, I figured. I couldn’t help but smile as I eased myself into the lusty embrace of the steaming waters.

Once clean and released from muscular tightness, I threw on loose fitting clothes, and took my time walking to the ground floor. On my descent, I paced my breaths with each step. In, out, energy, ease, a coalescence of air, and the dropping of lead from the throat.

“Good morning.” I said in an address to the room, having entered a previously unseen sitting space. A quick exploration of my surroundings found Santiago and two men gathered there.

The fingers on my right hand lay flush against the closed lids of my eyes, relieving, with their pressure, a lingering discomfort in the front of my cranium. Where had this come from? It felt like the beating drum of nervousness, but I had nothing to be nervous about. The ritual? One in twenty, at least. I was too experienced to be this nervous.

“Would you like some more tea, Jack?” Santiago asked me, but I shook my head. He went on, “Right. I hope you’re okay. Vidal is going to join us when he returns from his rounds.”

“Thank you for the gifts, San.” He smiled at me, graciously, as if overjoyed that I mentioned it, “I have no desire to rush. We can take our time with this matter of questioning before proceeding.” I paused to wave at the men that stood guard over Santiago, against the back wall, behind where he was sitting in a wide armchair.

“Would you dismiss them, please?” I asked Santiago, but as I did so they left speedily.

Santiago cackled at my surprise, saying “I have instructed them that you walk with an extension of my own authority. Thus, they will follow your orders.”

“Did they protest?”

“Only until I reminded them that I pay them to act and obey, as opposed to thinking–they are not philosophers, Jack, but warriors.”

“And warriors act.” I said over a sigh, taking a seat beside Santiago in an equally as boisterous armchair.

We sat there and spoke of little nothings, the weather and the day, the routines of the guardsmen and the colours of the local fashion, until, a half hour later, an average sized man in torn and dirty clothes entered the room.

“Pardon me.” He said in a gutteral way, “We had a scuffle at the end of the road. Two kids pickpocketed one of the guys we watch, and…” Santiago smiled and cleared his throat, causing Vidal to stop mid-sentence.

“I understand, Vidal. You do not need to justify yourself to me.”

He seemed to appreciate this; his countenance, which had hitherto been reserved in appearance, a forced sort of sobriety, opened up to a relaxed pleasantness. What followed was a slouch, hands in pockets, and weight shifted onto his right foot, previously kept balanced.

“If you’d please join us, we’d like to speak with you.” I said, pointing at a loveseat situated approximately across from Santiago and I. He took a seat there.

“I’m Jack, it’s a pleasure Vidal.” He nodded, saying “Nice to meet you, Jack. Are you one of the new guys?”

“Not at all, but a friend of Santiago’s. I’m here to help him with his business.” I lingered on that misleading little joke… business… as if extortion and smuggling were really, in the worldly sense, business ventures.

“Sure.” Vidal replied, bringing his right leg over his left, and planting his hands in his lap, right over left, “What can I do for you?”

“You can start by telling me a little about yourself… where you come from, what your interests are, and such. To preface this, what is likely an oddity, with an explanation, I shall reveal that Santiago and I are interested in promoting you, should you fit the bill.”

“Promotion?” He was almost confused in his questioning, in the sense that he didn’t expect to be offered such a proposition, or didn’t fathom its being an option.

“Quite so. The details will come if we decide you’re right. So, please, answer my question.”

“Of course.” Vidal started, uncrossing his legs, “I was born here, by the far walls in the west, before it became what it is today–a place for people to store their things. When I was a kid it was more homely, a place for big families stuffed into small flats.”

“Does your family still live there?” I asked.

“No.” He replied, “My Father died in the mines, where I too worked for a time before finding a job with Santiago.” He gestured at Santiago as he said that, eliciting a smile.

“My Mother is with my Sister, down by the east wall where the Lord moved the poors and labourers. I haven’t seen them recently, but that’s alright, and if it’s alright I don’t fancy talking about it.”

“I shan't press you, Vidal. Why did you leave the mines for Santiago?”

“Pay and cleanliness.” He laughed, looking down at his soot-stained clothes, “In the sense that I don’t find my bed each day wheezing and coughing up black blood anymore.”

“Absolutely.” I said in agreement with his description, looking then to Santiago who only nodded, subtly, “I think you sound like the right fit.”

“That’s it?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“I think you know we made our decision before you came in. I’d call this a formality, but really it’s not. It’s important to ask again, and keep an eye for inconsistencies.”

That description seemed to sit poorly with him, but I figure Vidal didn’t want to question his own promotion, and so accepted it wordlessly.

“Stand then, and accompany us, please.” He stood, and so did Santiago, who I then questioned, “Where’d you prepare the space?”

“I sent the men out and arranged it upstairs, in a workshop spot we aren’t currently using.”

“Fantastic!” I turned to follow him, allowing Vidal to naturally take a position between the two of us. Santiago led our trio through a few doors and a hallway, to the main staircase where we walked across the building to the back, into a tall rectangular room.

Vidal’s shock was immediate and expected. Who wouldn’t be surprised and amazed, in the worst possible way, to be brought with the promise of promotion to blood and sigils?

The workshop had been transformed into a ritual room. The approximate centre of the space housed a circle forged of blood that had caked and cracked, creating a crimson desert-rock like appearance. That larger circle housed a smaller circle that butted up against its top-right side.

The interior circle held six candles in its ring, all lit, and the larger circle housed a grey and black carpet with highly geometric, almost alien designs. On the right and left sides of the carpet, the long sides, three candles, respectively, sat alight.

A metre off of the outer circle, on the left, sat a podium with a weathered thin grey-leather book atop it, along with three pots containing two sticks of incense each, burning, that gave the room a vaguely piney scent.

And on the right, approximately opposite the podium, sat a single brown and black feather in a pool of clear water on a silver saucier. A ring of crimson blood encircled it in the vague shape of an ouroboros.

Vidal’s instinct was flight, but Santiago and I, expectant of this, turned in unison and grabbed a hold of either side of him. This prompted immediate kicking and screaming that Santiago put a swift end to by slamming his fist into the back of Vidal’s head, knocking him unconscious.

“Damn, Jack, can’t we ever get one who’s at least a little curious?”

“Who’s curious about the occult, San, but those who are already insane or those fictitious blights in storybooks?”

Sharing a laugh, Santiago and I carried Vidal to the carpet, and gently eased him down onto his knees. As soon as he was settled, I let go and gave the weight of his ragdoll to Santiago, allowing me to approach the feather.

There, I snapped my fingers, and knelt before it, whispering. In this hush, and in my head, I centralised my mind’s eye on that feather, and spoke of its connectedness with the Mother. “Yhov!” I cried out, suddenly, “A carrier awaits your brood.”

Suddenly, the feather illuminated a soft, orange-yellow like maize, and spread that illumination to the blood-ouroboros. There, the colour deepend and deepened until it turned that same sanguine red, and then shot out, around me, two curved beams of light that struck the carpet.

This caused the carpet to react violently, shaking and wiggling as flat grey vines grew out of its base, up and along Vidal’s body, capturing and holding him firmly in place, as if they were chains or a kind of earthy glue.

“Take The Calling, San, and I will prepare him for injection.” Santiago nodded, and stood, free now from keeping Vidal in place, to approach the podium. Once there, he picked up the book, that weathered grey book, The Calling, and opened it to its first page. The prayers he recited sounded like gibberish. Untranslatable garbage, or the musings of a child. Such a strange phenomenon the book was, for one, upon reading, both understood and misunderstood the text, forgetting it the instant the reading concluded, and yet remembering thereafter, hazily, having had the knowledge in the moment.

I walked around Santiago to a table at the back of the room, collecting three fresh sticks of incense that I lit and carried over to Vidal. I waved them beneath his chin and nose, and then over his head, twice, in a circular motion.

By the time I completed my movements, Santiago reached the fourth page, which caused the room to become enveloped in an eerie crimson glow. This glow overwrote the glow from the bindings and the feather, and in that instant too the feather turned to dust, making the clear water black.

As the page turned from four to five, a fog, thick and silvery, rolled in from within the walls and floorboards, creating a nearly opaque cover a foot off the ground. Moving through it felt like wading through water, slowing my movements around Vidal, where I repeated my waving, ensuring the incense wafted over every inch of his upper half.

As the sixth page came, a spectral circle formed around Vidal, floating just above the fog, that then extended and formed a portal in front of him. This portal, an extension of the circle, created a vague ‘8’ with its upper half coloured in. From this upper coloured half extended two spectral arms of the same black appearance as the rings.

The arms, emaciated, held in oversized hands, with long, bony fingers, a wiggling, writhing, slimy grey worm, the size of a Human infant, with a ribbed body. It screeched and cried, and pierced our ears causing a mighty, migraine-inducing pain.

Thankfully, the sound lasted only seconds, as the hands reached forward and touched against Vidal’s chest, prompting the worm to take sight of him, and to burrow. It turned readily, and made haste into Vidal’s chest. The sounds it exuded were gut-wrenching, snapping bones like the breaking of great sticks, and squishy shredding like the muscle and organs turning to ribbons, but no blood left Vidal, nor bones protruded out of ripped flesh, for no flesh ripped.

Rather, it was Vidal’s soul that snapped and rived and made space, by force, for its new, permanent inhabitant. Over the course of ten, years-long seconds, the worm made entrance, and upon doing so prompted the hands to recede into their portal, and the portal, and its accompanying ring, to dissipate.

As the chthonic sight left this world, Santiago reached the eleventh page of the book, which in turn prompted the fogs to too recede, and the glow to fade, leaving us in a space thoroughly used, stinking of sulphur and rotting flesh.

Chapter 3: Yhov's Trials

Written from Vidal’s Perspective

Immense fear, immense pain… and then I was struggling against immense weight. My mind came to a knee under the weight. That terrible weight, it clamped against my brain with a mighty hold. Like a titan in the mountains, it gripped me unknowingly and squeezed, squeezing in its sleep with thoughts of love.

My mind, however, found no love in it, and thrashed my body. It was then that I realised I was submerged. My motions were slow but fluid, and I popped my eyes open to an intensity of red–red like blood, or red like flowers, red like… overwhelming red… I forgot about the red and was reminded of the pressure.

Immense pressure. I started to tear up as I thrashed around again, and flexed my legs, kicking to propel myself skyward. The pressure mounted again and again. The red turned white around the edges, and that ring began to inch inwards as I kicked harder and harder.

By the time white replaced red and consumed half my vision, I broke through a thin mucus, and found complete relief, both visually, and bodily. I thrashed some more, now out of pride and celebration rather than fear and discomfort, and cleared more of that film, allowing me to float freely.

Spinning, slowly, I surveyed my surroundings and found that I was floating in a pool of red, opaque red, in a small crater in a field of like craters. Some had their mucuses broken, like mine, just in the centre or entirely, and others had theirs in tact. I couldn’t see many, though, so I pushed forward to an edge, and hauled myself out of the liquid.

Despite it being a liquid, having felt quite like water, albeit more gripping, I found myself, much to my surprise, dry, sitting in orange sands. That sand formed the ground all around me, wrapping each stony crater perfectly.

This centre of craters went on for what looked like two hundred yards in all directions, till it stopped at a sloped stone wall broken only by catwalks around damage, and towers.

My fear returned, and settled itself foundationally. My desire, however, for life, that instinct to fight and flee and find peace away from danger stood over fear, and became energised in doing so.

With that impetus I stood, and started jogging in some direction, towards the wall where it looked most damaged. Upon arrival, I gave myself a running start up as much of the slope as I could manage, ‘till it became nearly shear, and I grabbed a hold of the base of the scaffolding.

It took three tries before I was able to hold on firmly, and not lose my grip. I used that firm hold to pull myself up, carrying my aching body onto a flat wooden surface. My new vantage revealed to me that, beyond the wall, lie a continuation of the orange sands, without the craters, and in the distance mighty mountains and thunderclouds shot lightning down onto the ground.

“Where the fuck am I?” I thought, crudely, and whipped around again to ensure I wasn’t being approached. Contended, I found the nearest tower, and within saw that it contained a spiral staircase that descended. I followed it to an archway that allowed exit from the ring.

Taking that exit, I again jogged, moving towards those mountains with a consistent, whipping gaze, right, left, right, left… seeking to spy any impending danger before it came too close too fast, and took me by surprise.

“Come on… Vidal… Come on…” I repeated to myself, making a mantra out of that reassuring push and reminding moniker. “Vidal.” My name is Vidal. I knew that, but why did it feel so foreign to me?

As the minutes passed, I began to grow aware of the air temperature. My breathing grew heavier and uncomfortable as heat seeped into my body. Annoying at first, as I neared what I figured was the two-thirds point it elevated so greatly as to bring me to my knees, sliding, digging into the sands.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck…” I said as I panted, sweat pouring off of my face, hands, soaking my clothes, making them icky and sticky. “Dammit…” I said then, tearing off my shirt and rolling up the legs of my pants.

I gave myself ten minutes, my panting slowed, and so too did the heat. It was hot here, certainly, but it was likely the running and the fear that boosted it. I was not burning, no, but pushing myself too near to hyperthermia.

I finally stood and resumed my movement, but now at a walking pace. I took that time to take in my surroundings. For an unknown distance, unto the horizon, that field of sand went left and right. The ring disappeared into my background, a dot in the distance now, and the mountains neared and jumped up in their intensity. I saw their raw detail, jagged cliffs and edges, spires, outcroppings, and such, and the storm too looked cataclysmic.

A fantastic bolt of lighting brought my advance to a momentary halt, as it struck the ground at the border of that mountainous region. The sands were scarred, scorched black–the blackest black I had ever seen. It seemed almost to bend the light around it, obscuring a wide ring.

My distraction therewith made me ignorant to the rumbling beneath my feet until the sands exploded in a cloud of dust that blinded me. Screaming, I was in pain–sand in my eyes!–and something grabbed my ankles.

I tried to thrash away from it, but was pulled deeper and deeper into the ground. More and more, I pulled and pulled, but only moved further downward until my head disappeared, and, looking up, I saw the sky, red, vanish as the sands filled in the gaps.

Pain. So much pain. I tried to look down but saw only orange sand. I felt my legs being shredded, as if pulled through a grinder or a spinning circle of razors. So much pain. It took me. Darkness freed me from the pain.

In that darkness I felt nothing. Not the absence of harm or the absence of bliss, but the sheer absence of sensation. It was as if I was floating in space itself! No single thing enticed my flesh nor my eardrums nor my nostrils. No, no single thing was.

There I lay in stasis for some time–for how much time I was unable to say, for I felt no time, nor recognised time. It was, however, the coming of a sensation of red that birthed time, and gave me a sense of space. It was at a distance, some distance, and neared and wrapped me, like sheets, and pulled me into it.

I saw therein a great armchair, and seated upon its leathery cushion a woman of unimaginable beauty and purity draped in grey. Around Her, a brood, a collection of ribbed, circular worms that writhed and wriggled and made noise so faint I could only but recognise it as noise.

She smiled at me, and spoke without words, and I understood. Completely, as if instinctually, or as if caused by my mind, I comprehended each and every word, and the sentences those words formed.

“You are Vidal, of Jacobi. You are Vidal, known to Santiago. You are Vidal, brood of Yhov. Obey me, and know beatitude.” She said.

“I shall be your honest son.” I said, and She smiled. She knew.

Then, darkness.

#

Written from Jack’s Perspective

I stepped over to Santiago and pulled him into a hug, rife with giggles and instilled with joy, “God, San! It’s been a while, but never has a ritual felt so good, and gone so smoothly!”

Truly, it was perfect. No piece was out of place. The fog and the light, the sounds and the actions, all came on queue and left as they were ordered out. Truly, should an example of perfection with the ritual ever be made, this ought to be that one that is referenced and rehearsed.

“Aye, Jack.” He replied, grinning, “I think it’s this… the two of us… this reunion.” He suggested, and hugged me back with a loving grip.

“Thank the Mother.” I returned, and released him, walking around Santiago to lean against the back table, “And so, a waiting game. Do you think he will survive the trials?”

“Whatsoever they shall be.” Santiago said, joining me, “What they were for you, they were for you…” I continued his statement,

“And for you, for you.” I poked him on the shoulder, “To each, their own. A unique experience. I spoke to an Elder once who claimed that it wasn’t always like that.”

“Oh?” Santiago questioned, promoting my elaboration, which I did so only briefly, struggling to recall those distant conversations,

“Consistent imagery, always the Mother, and a trial of breaking and enduring suffering. Finding oneself needing to muster courage in the face of celestial horrors… something like that.”

“Yours was a labyrinth, right Jack?” I nodded, adding,

“Trials of the mind, tricks, and moving walls. It was confusing and nightmarish, but now it’s too distant. I only have emotions and vague thoughts.”

Santiago bobbed his head in agreement, “I remember being on a boat under siege. It was on fire…” He trailed off, furrowing his eyebrows as I figured he delved into some attempt at recalling exact details–a futile effort.

I let him play that game while I set my gaze on Vidal. He struggled unconsciously against his bindings, and had a very intense, focused look on his face. His features contorted from time to time, as the minutes passed, and eventually he began moaning and groaning.

“He may be coming too. Let’s get ready.” Santiago and I stepped forward and put ourselves on either side of him, prepared to grab him once the vines receded as consciousness regained control.

It did, shortly thereafter, and he lurched forward with a deep, painful wail that trailed on and on for nearly six seconds. Immediately he began weeping, and together Santiago and I grabbed him by and under the arms to carry him out of the chamber. We moved swiftly down a hallway to a room at the end, a bedroom, to place him on the comforter.

“Vidal… Vidal… Vidal…” Santiago chirped, sitting beside Vidal, who had curled up into a foetal position, clutching his legs as if his life depended on it, with his face buried in his knees.

Although I felt an inkling of pity, I smashed it, reminding myself that all us Ascended had to endure the Mother’s gauntlet. For, it t’was a trial of creation. Only the worthy could be so blessed as to serve Her.

So I left Vidal with Santiago, placing my implicit trust in him to ease the sod out of his depressive frenzy and back into reality with enough footing not to lose track of his mind. Mother willing, he would return to us stable, lest this entire affair was a terrible waste of time.

“Jack.” He called out to me as he saw me leaving, “Briefly… please…” He requested, I figured, to make mention of my departure.

“Go ahead.” I said.

“Remember how my sponsors treated me. You know how they beat me, Jack. You were perfect for them…” I tried to interrupt, but he insisted, “…just go easy on him. This seems to have hurt my Vidal as much as it hurt me.”

I thought to myself, “And it took you five years to break out of your shell. Five years to shirk shyness and timidity. Five years to act like a man.” However, I neglected to say it, knowing it would be poor to speak to a friend, so grown, in such a childish way. I only nodded, looking grim, and left to find myself a place to sit and think.