CUSP

C U S P

The dawn rose, stretching her wings from the night's slumber, and singing a song only spirits of light could hear vibrating within her gentle morning rays. The uncertainty and secrecy of night waned as she ascended higher and higher; her chariot of light like a pearl of fire, and she the phoenix within it. The shadows hissed as they tend to do, and took shelter in the darkest of places; as is the usual behaviour of a shadow when Lady Sol rises from rest.

Her golden light spilled onto the earth, persuaded the chill to take its leave and the flowers to spread their blooms. Her warmth heralded renewal as a new day approached, and the broad shoulders of Nature were massaged into fertility by the gentle touch of the Radiant Goddess above. The forests began to sing and the lakes sparkled, and all began to stir into wakefulness; their souls pulling them hence towards that beautiful orb of light.

Ahh the shadows, they fled indeed. To the crevices, the ravines, the forests, the caves, the very cracks within the earth... And into the cores of men and women, as their eyes opened and beheld a world perceived by the tepid and stagnant waters of their hearts. The shadows fled to all of these places, and the sun rolled forth, higher and higher.

A young Apostate, this day, sitting within his study and knowing that rising pearl of gold after a seemingly endless night of devotional reading, hissed softly. This was not because an Apostate hates the sunlight, but perhaps this young Priest of Evil felt that it was necessary to hiss; to be the enemy. Perhaps it was what he thought was expected of him, and there could be no wrong in such naivety. He hesitated to move from his position, having been hunched over a thick and acrid-smelling tome the entire night. Subconsciously, his mind kept him frozen because somewhere within he despised the painful robes he wore; the thick and textured fabric that licked his skin raw. On the other hand, the day did not mean relief from his studies, and perhaps movement would be futile as he had much more to read; to learn.

A knock came at the door; reverberating through the room of books and dust. With a heavy groan the thick, wooden door came open. This young Apostate; hoping to display a sense of immersion in his studies, ignored the opening of the door. His eyes darted about with curiousity however, though he made an effort to remain still despite his quivering mind.

"Greetings, Malefic." The voice said. A deep and sturdy voice laced with restrained malice (perhaps this voice was yet another shelter for the shadows that fled the sunrise). The sweeping of heavy robes across the dark-stoned floor grew louder in the young Apostate's ears, signaling this man's approach. "What is it you're reading there?" He asked the young one.

"It is the Apocrypha." He said, this young thing, marvelling at the sound of his own voice due to the silence he held to his throat since the day before. "I transcribed it to my journal just the other day, and now I'm reading it through again."

"Ah" The man responded. "Very well. There are many teachings hidden within all of these books. Perhaps reading them all would do you good."

A tinge of discomfort shot through the young one's belly; a slight burn of disappointment that immediately reminded him that discipline is a valuable thing, and such discomfort was a good temper to his soul. "Yes, I plan to read them." He said. And the man did not smile, or make any gesture to show acceptance. Only the faint sigh of cloth over stone alerted the young Apostate to his superior's leave, and hearing the door groan with its laboured movement and finally clank shut by its iron latches persuaded a sigh of relief.

A swirling sense overcame him; that of someone watching his movements. He knew not where this feeling came from, only that it was a definite possibility that someone could indeed be monitoring him in some way. He was not aware of the powers that his superiors held, and perhaps in his luck, the Lord Himself would be watching over him.

But no, this vigilance from somewhere above him; in the dark rafters or perhaps behind the bookshelves, it wasn't threatening to him. Perhaps his complacency was to blame for this, but there was no sense of alarm, and with a heavy sigh he closed the thick book in his lap... Was it really the Apocrypha? He wasn't sure anymore. He was much too fatigued.

Nevertheless, he hauled the book back to its space on the shelf of the darkwood bookcase and began to browse for another. A glimmer of light distracted him from his dark surroundings, coming from somewhere outside it seemed. From the side of his eye, through his peripheral vision, he saw the forests and the sun and the warmth of the day in its stark contrast to the cold library he stood in. This was through a small window; the same window from which the sunlight entered. Feeling the need for a break, he turned to gaze out of this opening.

There are no windows here.

He stared blankly at a solid wall. No windows, no breeze, no sunlight. But how was it that he knew the sun had risen? What was it that stirred within him, within his mind, that persuaded a sense of disgust at the growing light? Regardless of whether that disgust was impulse, or acting.

As is typical, he dismissed his hallucination as fatigue. With a swift backward step he turned to face yet another shelf, and continued browsing the spines of the many texts that sat perched and ready to be read. That discomfort from earlier seemed to grow fuller with each title recited in his mind. "The Apocrypha... The Teachings... Priests of Evil, Priests of Good... The Seven Truths... The Essence of Malice... The Art of Manipulation Volume One... The Art of Manipulation Volume Two... Three.... Five... Nine... Four... Thirteen..." His skin screamed at the caress of his robes, his mind reeled and shuddered with cold, his soul burned with anger; fed by some unknown emotion... And a tear rolled down his cheek, surprisingly warm, and salty as it pooled upon his lips.

The energies of death and decay, the soft whispers of Evil, the illusions he harboured within his spirit to supplement his beliefs and create a suitable reality for him alone... They embraced him all too closely and their cold hands drew tears from his eyes. It was the bleed of sadness that seeped into his pores as he collapsed to the floor; trying hard not to tear himself out of his treacherous clothing as he did so, and as he whimpered softly with frustration, he heard the faintest sound and his body tingled with warmth.

"Behold the Powers of the Air." He heard. "Behold the Powers of the Earth." He heard. "Behold the Powers of the Flames." He heard. "Behold the Powers of the Waters." He heard.

His body filled with warmth and some unexplained ardour, and it grew thick and languid within him before suddenly receding.

"It's time for a break." He decided.

Gathering his things, he left the many books behind and headed out into the corridor, down into the streets of Mhaldor, down to the Stygian Crossroads, down and out of the city. Beyond conscious decision, he walked and walked; and out of habit, he spread his alabaster wings and rose into the air to avoid the carnivorous plants below, and perhaps to avoid having to gaze upon the grizzly reminders of his home city as he left it.

As he rose into the sky... Yes... It really is dawn... His skin seemed to crack and melt like ice dropped in a mug of scalding tea. It was a feeling he welcomed, because it was not a feeling of suffering, but one of relief. The light of the sun melted away the discomfort, and the shadows of frustration fled to some other heart far below.

It was as he neared the Great Rock that he decided to land. Drinking in the sensation of air rushing past his face, he paralelled his wings to the ground and floated softly to land atop the peak of The Rock, where he stood before the statue of Sartan. For a moment he only stared at the statue, but no force in the world would stop him from kneeling before that statue and uttering praise to the God of Evil. He pledged deepest allegiance to the Lord, and gazing at the Black Forest to the North, he spread his wings and took flight once again.

He landed after the chafing of his robe became too unbearable to sustain on the bank of the Urubamba, before the tall sentinel-like trees of the forest. Without thought he removed his horrible robe and all else that he wore. The pain of raw flesh being rent evermore by means of such clothing instantly ceased, and the spring air was intent on renewing him; caressing his body and guiding him (or so it seemed) into the warm waters of the river.

The sting of scratches on his body became all too noticeable as the water took its first tastes of his form. He lowered into the river anyways, ignoring the pain, and eventually that stinging sensation left him. He swam around for a good while before finding a warm rock upon which to lay and preen his wings. He was quickly forgetting the city, but every now and then he'd remember it somewhat, because the question "What beauty can rival this?" would arise in his head, and he dismissed the image of his city as soon as it appeared.

Eventually the images began to linger despite his efforts. He found difficulty in simply relaxing; incapable of peaceful thought because of the images in his head... The images of his lovely, beautiful, wonderful, and treacherous city. They became a flood, these images, and the dark waters of this flood carried with it all the responsibilities he had yet to accomplish. The shadows swam upon these mental waves, and frustration returned to him as he questioned his service... But no... That warmth... That feeling...

"Behold the Powers of the Air." "Behold the Powers of the Earth." "Behold the Powers of the Flames." "Behold the Powers of the Waters."

That feeling... That sensation...

His muscles seemed to melt and his form seemed to merge with the rock upon which he lay. The feelings that rose within him became so intense, that his once closed eyes shot open; allowing the light of day to stream painfully into them. The sky was filled with colour and the clouds danced like Celani in celebration. The whispers of one-thousand beings filled his ears and he gave out a long, plaintive, and rasping exhalation of breath.

"BEHOLD!"

And his body blossomed and wilted and blossomed at this sound.

"BEHOLD!"

And his voice rang out from his throat as he filled with some unexplained ecstacy. He writhed and shuddered and breathed heavily, eyes fluttering and his wings quivering vigorously.

"BEHOLD, THE GLORY OF LIFE!"

Some being... Some spirit... Something descended from the sky. It formed from the light itself, and it lowered closer and closer to this young priest of malice. It was a beautiful thing, although it was blindingly radiant; composed entirely of light it seemed. Its gaze was like the rolling of thunder, the splitting of the air, an ensemble of five million flutes...

Its presence was the sound of a singing wind, a screaming wind, and its body was composed entirely of light. So radiant was this being, that this young Apostate was incapable of ignoring it. So radiant was this spirit that even with his eyes squeezed shut, the perfect form of the entity still shined bright and unwavered. His name was repeated over and over in his head by a gentle voice, all the while the fierce spirit burned bright and fearless before him; brighter than the sun.

Kalios... Kalios... Kalios... Kalios...

The light never ceased to blaze and crackle like thunder, but within that light a form took shape, and that form was as perfect as the light, and was so beautiful in its splendour that dear Kalios was struck dumb, and nearly struck blind. It was a man, a tall and lithe man whose body was wrapped in shimmering blue silks and golden chords, whose hair was gold as the purest of such, and yet red as blood, whose wings grew large and beat softly about the perfect presentation of his body; sapphire as his robes and green as his eyes.

Kalios waxed full as he stared upon this being, and although in any other situation this would embarass him, it was hardly the case at that moment. He climbed to his knees, trying hard to ignore the ardour that rose within him as he stared at this radiant creature, and he forced courage past his lips to speak:

"W-Who are you!? What do you want of me?" He screamed, hoping to be heard over the sound of voices singing and instruments blasting.

The being of light opened his perfectly-formed lips, and as he spoke:

"I. I. I. I. AM THE DIVINE PRINCIPALITY OF NATURE."

His voice, his physical voice, summoned ferocious and warm winds. It made the waters of the river jump and the clouds slide outward in all directions. It threatened to destroy Kalios, that voice.

"YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN, KALIOS. BY CELESTIA YOU HAVE BEEN BLESSED."

The young Apostate grew blank with confusion, and yet his mind whirled with images that seemed to burn away all that he once worried about.

"I. I. I. I. HAVE COME TO GRANT YOU THIS GIFT, YOUNG ONE. THIS IS A TIME TO REJOICE!"

The angel, as apparently that's what he was, drew nearer to Kalios. As he did, the mortal body of this young man threatened to explode and render him incapable of competence. There was some great need in him, and some sensual pull this angel had.

Eventually the angel hovered directly before Kalios, and his mortal screams overpowered the sounds of Celestia rejoicing as his body blossomed and wilted again and again... And this power washed over him so intensely that it seemed he was engulfed in cold fire, and the eyes of heaven bore into his soul. He felt his aura begin to sing and scream and burn like the sun itself, and its colour faded from the deep and malicious black he was familiar with, to an aura that was blindingly white.

The last words he heard in this state of pure ecstatic bliss were thus:

"I. I. I. I. HAVE GIVEN OF MYSELF TO YOU, KALIOS. NOW YOU MUST FOLLOW YOUR HEART TO THE LIGHT YOU IGNORE WITHIN YOUR SELF."

And he awakened in the cold library that smelled of mold and dust. The candles had all gone out and his eyes opened to pitch black.

Hunched over some thick book, Kalios rubbed his eyes and stretched his back; immediately reminded of the torturous robe he wore as each vertebrae popped and cracked. He stretched his wings in the darkness and yawned mightily. The sound of thunder outside signaled a storm, and it reverberated through the spires and buildings of Mhaldor along with the sound of helpless screams.

Remembering his dream, and feeling a strange moisture upon his person, Kalios uttered a short prayer to Sartan that these images may be purged from his mind; these feelings from his body.

The response to this prayer was a certain command, and Kalios felt compelled to open the heavy book in his lap upon which he apparently rested his head as he slept. The book groaned open to page sixty three, and the words appeared to give off some strange glow. Rubbing his tired eyes once more, Kalios realized that it was not the words that glowed, but a single sapphire blue feather.

On a telepathic channel, the one designated for novices of the guild, he sensed the voice of that same superior from before...

"Cat and Mouse shall commence soon... All Malefics are to join and meet at Maric."

Kalios blinked and stared at the feather; ablaze with some white fire. He turned his face to the East and looked up into the darkness.