As we prepared to depart the crater, the weight of the god's ancient chains seemed to echo in the stillness of the cavern. Just as our steps began to carry us away, the god's voice boomed once more, halting us in our tracks.
"Payment is due," he intoned, his voice a resonant vibration that stirred the dust at our feet.
I turned, cocking an eyebrow, my response as caustic as it was swift. "Payment? Orichalcum chains not enough?"
He sighed, a sound like wind through ancient boughs, "Long ago, in the first realm of this age, there lived a king who feared the inevitable march of time. His kingdom was vast, his power immense, but the dread of death overshadowed his reign. He became obsessed with the notion of immortality, following the death of his friend. The king sought the counsel of a wise but cursed oracle, who spoke of a ritual that could bind his spirit to the earthly realm, beyond the reach of death."
"The king, blinded by his fear and desire, followed the oracle's advice and quested for a way for his un-end. His soul was tethered. With this act, the king was transformed; no longer was he merely a ruler of lands, but now a guardian of the threshold between existence and oblivion."
"However, the ritual had a price. While it granted him eternal vigilance over his realm, it also imposed an eternal isolation. His spirit, bound to the world, could neither ascend to the celestial planes nor pass on to the realms of peace. He became a watcher, forever anchored to a world he could no longer touch or change."
"Centuries turned to millennia, and the king's name faded from the memory of the living. His kingdom crumbled to dust, his legacy reduced to whispered legends. Yet he remained, his soul ensnared by the very power he had sought to master. As eons passed, the king's spirit grew weary, longing for release from his eternal bondage. But none could free him, for the artifact that held his soul was lost to time, its location known only to the forgotten gods."
"The king, once a mighty ruler, now prayed for the end of his unending vigil. He awaited those brave enough to seek out the artifact, not for power or glory, but for mercy. For in the hearts of those courageous souls lies the key to his release—compassion and the courage to end a suffering that has spanned the ages."
Liora, moved by the veiled plea, stepped forward, her hand reaching for a weapon. But Guy's grip was quick and sure, his hand clasping her arm tightly, holding her back.
"It's too grave a sin," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
I turned to Guy, annoyance lacing my voice. "Hand me your gun."
"No." His denial was firm, his eyes hard.
"Why not?" I demanded, my patience wearing thin.
"We're not executioners," Guy replied, his stance unyielding his voice lowering as he spoke. "not anymore."
"We're back in it, Guy! What is the game if not a series of necessary ends?" I said sharply.
The god met my gaze, his eyes a deep well of sadness and understanding, communicating silently his consent.
Guy's face was etched with concern, his moral compass grappling with the implications of such an act. "This is beyond us, Felix. The burden we would carry afterward. Can your soul bear that tax?"
Liora's agitation was palpable, "And what happens when you hold that power, Felix? Have you considered the consequences?"
"Guy," I pressed, my voice dropping to a coaxing tone, "he's asking us for his sweet release."
I looked back at the god, his ancient eyes watching our moral battle unfold.
"Sometimes," I said, "mercy is blade. We did not put him in those chains, nor can we shatter them, but mercy can be his chain-breaker. Either we wield it, or we condemn him to eternal damnation."
"Can we have a moment alone?" I asked, my voice carrying a rare hint of sincerity that even surprised myself.
The god, seemed to ponder my request for a brief moment. His eyes, ancient pools reflecting millennia of isolation met mine with a depth that was almost overwhelming, flickered with a spark of understanding. Despite the eons of isolated torment, he recognized the need for privacy, for a conversation unburdened by the weight of an audience.
Then, with a slow nod, he acquiesced. "Very well."
With a wave of his hand, more graceful than any movement should be for one so confined, the world around us began to dissolve. The dark, oppressive atmosphere of the crater faded away, replaced by an infinite expanse of white. It was a blank world, devoid of features, a place beyond physical and spiritual constraints. Here, in this nowhere space, it seemed as if the very concept of reality was suspended.
I took a deep breath, the air feeling unnaturally pure, as I turned to face him. In this void, his form seemed less constrained, though the chains still shimmered faintly around him, a constant reminder of his eternal sentence.
"Thank you," I began, my voice echoing slightly in the vast emptiness. "I know this isn't easy for you, bound as you are..."
I droned off, trying to find words of comfort to salute his final moments as there is no afterlife for immortals.
"Can anything else hear us? Mortal or divine?" I asked, my voice low, almost a whisper against the vast nothingness.
He paused, his eyes scanning the infinite white. "No, save the-one-most-high of course."
"And his voice, can it hear us?" My curiosity was not just idle; it was crucial for the weight of what I was about to commit to.
"No," he responded, his tone carrying a hint of sorrow for his isolation.
"What about his reverse?" I solemnly asked.
After a moment, he answered, a trace of hesitation in his voice, "No."
I sighed, a mixture of relief and somber acceptance flowing through me. "No more secrets... no more chains."
"My name is Felix Ripley Evander Tresmegistus," I declared, giving him my full name as a sign of respect and recognition of his sacrifice.
"Will you remember me, Felix Ripley Evander Tresmegistus?" His voice was a murmur, laden with the weight of eons.
"I will," I assured him, my voice firm and resolute.
"Do you vow? To never forget about me, to tell all you can of the name Azazyel. Vow that, and that is sufficient." His request was simple yet profound.
"I do."
He released a long sigh, one that seemed to carry aeons of worry and pain with it.
His eyes began to glow a pure white, signaling the end of his imprisonment and the beginning of something new. "Arbiter, come forth."
A crack ripped across the white expanse overhead, and with a flash of gold and a wave of sheer impossibility, the mediator arrived faster than light. His presence was like a star's furnace.
"I willingly forfeit myself to the canonization of Felix Ripley Evander Tresmegistus," Azazyel announced, his voice echoing into infinity.
"Do you understand you will cease?" the Arbiter asked, his voice like thunder, resounding through the void.
"I do," Azazyel said, his voice steady yet filled with a quiet resignation.
"Been awhile," I remarked, almost casually.
His gaze swept over the scene before locking onto me. "Felix... I know not why people sacrifice themselves to you so readily."
His gaze left a sensation of static across my skin wherever it lingered, a feeling both unsettling and invigorating.
"Your puddle was not created to hold an ocean. I will have to break, stretch, and remold you around this. You will never be the same. A guardian was one thing, but one of the firsts? This will elevate you. Are you ready?"
The Arbiter began his work, and the enchained god dissolved into golden leaves. Azazyel's essence, his eternal power, started to coalesce into a white bead, a hundred times larger than the greatest tulpa I have ever captured.
As the Arbiter manipulated this massive reservoir of energy, he turned to me, a semblance of a smile playing across his lips.
"Felix, I will make this as pleasant as possible," he said, his tone almost benevolent.
Light began to seep out of me, pulling from the very core of my being. I felt euphoric, my senses altered as every nerve was alight with the fire of the stars. In this moment, between pain and paradise, I was being remade. The world around me blurred, and hallucinations of the past danced before my eyes.
The thick, humid air of the Louisiana swamps clung to my skin like a second layer as I trudged through the murky water, flashlight in one hand and an old book of local folklore in the other. I was seventeen, fueled by a headstrong curiosity and a burgeoning obsession with the occult. The swamps outside New Orleans were rumored to be haunted by spirits and cryptids, stories I devoured eagerly, each tale emboldening me to seek out these mysteries firsthand.
That night, the moon hung low, a white smile mocking me from beyond reach. The dense canopy of twisted cypress trees decorated with moss and kudzu obscured any signs of civilization on the horizon.
The sounds of the swamp were unnerving—frogs croaking, insects buzzing, and the occasional splash of something unseen moving through the water. It should have been enough to send any sensible person back to the safety of their home. But I was not sensible; I was captivated by the allure of the unknown.
As I ventured deeper, guided by the shaky beam of my flashlight and the directions scribbled in the margins of a folklore book, a sense of foreboding grew. I should have recognized it as a warning, but my youthful pride pushed those instincts aside.
Suddenly, the air shifted. The usual cacophony of swamp sounds fell silent, and a cold mist began to rise from the water. I stopped, heart pounding, as the mist coalesced into a form—a figure, shrouded and indistinct, hovering just above the swamp's surface. My breath caught in my throat as the figure slowly became more defined, revealing a spectral visage twisted with malice.
"You should not be here," it hissed, a voice like the rustle of dead leaves. "This is the yellow one's land."
I tried to respond, to assert my presence, but fear choked my words. The spirit moved closer, its form flickering between solidity and vapor.
It whispered, its voice echoing around me. "And you, young intruder, will pay the price for your folly."
Panic set in, and I scrambled backwards, slipping on the wet mud. The spirit lunged, ethereal hands reaching for me with an icy grip. I felt a deep chill seep into my bones, a cold that spoke of the void.
Desperately, I fumbled through my pockets, my fingers closing around a small, crudely fashioned amulet—a protective charm I had made but never truly believed would work.
With my nerves, I dropped my handiwork into the murk at my feet. I across the thick mud and ran as fast as I could, thought it felt more like skating across ice than loosing myself in a track competition.
As I sprinted through the dense underbrush of the swamp, my heart hammering in my chest, I could hear the spirit's enraged howls echoing close behind. The damp earth beneath my feet was treacherous, filled with hidden roots and sudden dips, but fear propelled me forward. Yet, despite my desperate pace, the spirit was faster, more attuned to the tangled wilderness of its shadowy domain.
With a malevolent shriek that split the heavy air, the spirit surged ahead, its form a blur of mist and malice. It caught up to me with terrifying speed, its chilling presence enveloping me before I could react. In a moment of sheer horror, I felt its icy hands clamp down on my shoulders, its grip like the cold of the grave. With a violent jerk, it hurled me forward, and I collided with the gnarled trunk of a dried tree.
The impact was brutal. My leg smashed against the hardened bark with a sickening crack, pain exploding through me like white-hot fire. I screamed, not just from the agony of what was undoubtedly a broken leg but from the paralyzing fear of what was to come. Pinned against the tree, I tried to move, to escape, but my body refused, pain anchoring me in place.
The spirit loomed over me, its face a grotesque mask of twisted rage. Its talons, sharp as the night is dark, shimmered with a cruel light as they extended towards my flesh. I braced myself for the end, for the tearing pain that would surely follow, my breaths coming in ragged sobs.
But then, a bright, searing light cut through the darkness—a pure, white fire that burned with an intensity that was almost holy. Manon appeared like a guardian angel amidst the chaos. Her face was set in a fierce determination, and in her hands, she wielded amulets and relics, their surfaces glowing with runes of protection and banishment.
"Holy fire," she shouted, her voice heralding the streams of white lancing from her hands.
The light emanating from the sorcery intensified, casting long, lively shadows across the swamp.
The spirit hissed in pain and fury as the white fire reached it, the holy flames licking at its ethereal form. It recoiled, the light searing it, burning away the shadows that composed its body. Manon stepped forward, her expression resolute as she chanted words of an ancient incantation, her hands weaving through the air in complex patterns.
As the spirit writhed and howled, the white fire enveloped it completely, the holy flames purifying the night air with their fierce glow. Gradually, the spirit's cries diminished, and its form dissipated, leaving behind only a faint trace of its malevolence.
With the immediate threat gone, Manon rushed to my side, her hands now gentle as she knelt beside me. She placed an amulet she created—a small, intricately carved cross—against my chest. The pain in my leg receded as the white fire's warmth spread through my body, healing not just the broken bones but the gashes left by the spirit's talons.
"Thank you," I gasped, relief and gratitude overwhelming me as the healing magic stitched my flesh and soothed my battered spirit.
Manon smiled softly, her eyes filled with love mixed with a hint of reprimand. "Always rushing into danger, Felix. One day, I might not be there to pull you out."