Where Mad Gods Dance

Author's note: This story is for mature audiences only due to its contents.

The following are what can be expected. Proceed with your own caution:

Graphic Violence, Death, Sex, Sexuality, Substance Abuse, Religious Trauma, & Homophobia.

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The Cover for Where Mad Gods Dance. It was created by me the author. Feel free to use it if you're reading the story, just please credit both the story and cover to me.

It was a quiet, fog-covered day. One crept by the rot of autumn. One from an age past. One forgotten. One where mankind was but another species. Not dominant. Where beasts lurked in the early light of day, not scattered and burnt into mere shadows. Where men were barely scraping by from each threat of death. The Middle Ages. Noxious diseases, ravenous animals, and destructive warfare were all common fates that ravaged the course of man’s collective machine. Yet war dominated the others in scope.

War seemed to have a stronghold on all, especially for those of religion. Of all the things man went to war over, the call of God was most faithful to attract them. Yet what did their religion bring?

Horror? Authority? Guilt? To Alban, it was all it brought. In fact it was why he avoided such things. He found himself far from his religious homeland. The Holy Roman Empire is what people called it. Men would rave of its greatness, preaching of its beauty, its glory. Yet, Alban didn’t care for it.

Instead, he rode on horseback right then, following the fellow men of his mercenary band. He wasn’t an ornate man. He wore simple chainmail, covered by broader plates of armor. A sheathed blade at his side, with a shield displaying a woman, a sword plunged through her abdomen and poking out through their back.

Alban looked ahead, seeing the backs of his fellow mercenaries, and their horses. He grunted in a sort of quiet frustration. They’d been traveling for a week straight per the orders of their captain, Finn. He’d told them of a small town located near the border between Franks and the Holy Roman Empire. Supposedly the people were all of noble blood, and may pay a pretty price for work.

Where their captain had heard this info was up for debate. Either he’d heard it uttered by the drunken breath of a merchant, the shady lips of a vagabond, or the weak words of an opportunist bandit, masquerading as a feeble man. Either way Alban couldn’t help but feel a silent anger.

“It’ll be worth it,” he told himself, “You’ll get enough money to drink for weeks. Enough to court women for a night’s rest. Enough to maybe leave this life for another.” But then again, this word was of high debate to himself. He wasn’t even sure if some of those things were what he wanted. Maybe they were, maybe he’d convince himself it was eventually.

His thoughts came to a standstill however as he watched Finn raise a hand, a motion to stop. He tugged the reins of his horse and felt himself come to a standstill. He looked forward with the group, waiting to see what the issue was.

It wasn’t long before Finn bellowed out, “Hold thy reigns men, there’s a blockage in the road. Up ahead!” Alban turned, kicked his feet to his right and hopped off his horse’s saddle. He walked forward, attempting to come and see what the cause of the stop was.

“Great,” he thought,  “just a fallen oak, or branch.” That exhaustion and selfish desire within his soul made him seethe silently as he came upon the sight of his captain and the rest of his company.

Most of them looked the same, clad in the same conforming armor and mail, carrying shields with their crest upon their backs. All of them except for Finn. He was cladded in an ornate plate, with gold trimmings. A fanciful helmet was placed upon his head, one that displayed the face of a stag on its visor. He had a sheathed blade at his side, and a decorated shield upon his back.

He looked to his men and pointed at the object blocking their path. It made Alban freeze up a bit. It was no tree, in fact it was too stoney to even be considered one. It was what looked like an obelisk. One the size of a large carriage made of gray stone, that now laid split across their path like a bisected carcass from its lower half.

“What could’ve done that captain?” a scrawny man, Augustus asked.

“Hmm, a large beast no less,” Finn responded, “I say we try to move it, with our combined force it’d be no different from a pebble.”

“I’m not sure captain," said Bjorn, a large man with enough muscle to crack a skull, “looks a little too big.”

“Oh now Bjorn don’t feel discouraged, have a little faith. If we push enough it’ll be but a mere intrusion.”

“And if we can’t?” Alban asked.

“Well, will course correct. Just head down east of here. Surely we will find our salvation, another path perhaps."

Alban looked a bit closer at the obelisk. It was fairly aged. Cracks strewn the length of its body, and mother earth seemed to be claiming it once again.

“That's odd,” Alban said. He nudged Augustus’ shoulder

“What?” he asked.

“See around the obelisk? Looks aged doesn’t it?” Augustus kneeled down and took a close look, motioning for the rest of the group to do the same. It was the fifth man among them to speak first, Gunther. A man who could drink a keg of alcohol like it was nothing.

“He’s right cap’in. Looks old. You sure this isn’t some sort of setup?” Finn narrowed his eyes and looked off into the distance, as if to think.

“I’m most certain that that merchant was telling the truth.” His voice was hesitant. Alban sighed. Finn was a trusting man. Too much of one in fact. It made him susceptible to a lot of trickery. Such was the case for his noble blood.

“And if he wasn’t?” Augustus asked.

“Even in myths there's an origin point my friend, there has to be some sort of crumb of truth to it. A source to base it off, yes?”

There was a palpable silence till Alban interjected, “He’s not wrong. There's more behind a mask of deceit, whether that be the bones of lies or the flesh of truth.”

“Whatever the case, we should tread carefully. Never know what will burst out this fog. Best not to gamble,” Augustus said.

“I suppose you're right. Come men, we’ll make for the east,” said Finn. He walked back to his stallion, silently indicating for the others to do the same. Alban started to make his way back to his mount, but soon found himself walking near Augustus as he did so.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

“We’re heading into a trap,” Augustus said flatly.

“And you’d know, you snake,” Alban teased.

“It’s fairly common trickery to know. Stop a carriage or caravan in its tracks, loot and murder them, maybe take or eat the horse. Steal the jewels and supplies under rotting noses.”

“Where was that last night during cards? I thought you always pulled something.”

“Maybe I did. You just didn’t see it.” A sly grin spread across Augustus’ face and Alban couldn’t help but chuckle a bit.

“Let's just hope we can finally stop. I’m sick of horseback.”

“Depends. If this goes where I think it will, we’re likely to be gutted and thieved. If not we find a cushy brothel with rich men left and right to gamble with.”

“I suppose.” Alban finally reached his horse and mounted himself upon its saddle, grabbing the reins and tugging on them. His horse began to move with the rest of the group and into the mist.

* * *

It was a loud place, that church was. Men, women, and children congregated to serve in the House of the Lord. Some locals, others far away travelers in need of guidance.  The church was simple, one made of wood, most likely as a means of saving resources. Its spires stretched high into the Roman sky and pierced it like a blade. It was surrounded by a few homes, and the dense woods.

A young man looked on at the House of God that sat before him. He felt unworthy, as if he’d be a heretic to even try and step in it. The burning pain on his back had yet to cease and he gritted his teeth. It was a reminder of his sin. If it was just the state the wild had left him it’d be unwarranted. The bruises, cuts, and cracked lips were all undeserved. Yet it was that pain that made it all seem deserved.

“Just try, he thought to himself, no one knows you here, it’s a fresh start. A fresh congregation.” he let the words echo throughout his skull, bouncing back and forth. He sucked in a bit of breath and braced himself, walking forward toward the congregation.

He felt the grass between his toes, how cold it was on this day. With each step he felt his heart beating faster, and faster.

“I’m unworthy,” he thought, “a heretic swathed in desire.” He pushed down his fear, trekking his way toward the door where the priest stood.

“A snake amongst the gardens of his children.” the priest’s face at first was one of welcoming, then of concern. The man froze up, unable to move. He couldn’t do it. It was too much.

“Art thou alright? Thou complexion is pale.” the priest’s voice was soft.

The man looked at him, “Y-yes. I’m sorry it’s just, it’s just been a long time since I’ve stepped within such grounds.” The priest cocked his head at the man and stretched out a hand to him.

“Come dear brother, the Father shall forgive thy transgression. He is merciful, as am I.” the man looked at his hand and up at him. He took a deep breath and took it.

“Call me Father Abbe,” the priest said, “and thy name?” the man bit his lips, so hard he could taste blood on their cragged surface.

“Uh, call me…just call me sir,” he said. Father Abbe nodded and with the man’s hand, led him into the chapel. A thing he’d not seen since his exile.

* * *

They made camp by the time night had begun to set in. The sky shined with a million eyes that darted about and watched the group as they gave rest for the night. Alban stared up at them, looking to them for guidance in a way. He always found himself thinking they were the million eyes of God that watched humanities every move. Judging their actions, and how they went about their lives.

He wondered if God approved of him, and his life up to this moment. He looked from the sky to the rest of the group, all of them, including their mounts, around a central light of warmth and refuge within the ever present dark. The mares stood about, drinking from a bucket that Gunther had filled with water for them, a request met with a bit of grumbling from the man. For he was far from his kind of drink.

As for their seating, it was cut down by courtesy of Bjorn. The wisps of flame danced about the air, sending a faint yet noticeable scent of burning that both warmed and scorched Alban’s lungs. It gave him comfort, yet it bit like a snake within Eden.

Finn and Bjorn sat about together, talking and joking as they peeled about their rations, roasting them over the open flame. It filled the air with a fine scent, of slow burning rabbits and various birds they’d shot out of the sky. It tantalized Alban’s lips yet he didn’t take in it. He couldn’t. He may have been one of them, yet, he felt as if a fifth horseman alongside four.

Then there was Gunther, he sat, staring into the acrid flames of the campfire, seemingly displeased and bored. He could tell why in a sort of way, after all he craved the sweet taste of warm foam off the brim of a mug.

But he’d see flashes about his expression, ones he couldn’t discern. Possibly hurt, maybe anguish? In a way, he could relate, yet he dared not divulge such things. It hurt too much to do so. And with a million eyes in the sky, he bit his tongue.

“I deserved it,” he thought to himself. Then he turned to Augustus. He sat near Alban, seemingly in his own world, sketching with a small book that Alban had never seen the contents of. He had a vial of ink at his side with a quill Alban assumed he journaled with. Yet he wondered what there was to even catalogue? Thieving? He smiled a bit at that yet hid it out of fear of seeming strange.

In a way, he felt he did it so as not to embarrass himself in front of such a companion. He considered his word of value, and his looks, oh his looks, ones of a…he stopped with those thoughts, and looked toward the sky. He would not give into such a sin, not again. Not under the eyes of God. Not under his gaze. So, he resigned himself to mundanity. Not giving into conversation, only giving responses and comments when Bjorn and Finn’s stories extended outside their one on one nature. Yet, he felt watched as he sat. Not by God, not by his gaze, nay.

He turned his attention from the group and the flame they gathered about and looked out into the nocturnal gloom. Within it, he could’ve sworn he saw a shape moving about, seemingly scuttling from tree to tree to examine the crowd. A beast? He turned to the group.

“I just saw something out in the dark,” Alban said.

The group turned their attention to him, in a sort of collective silence. His comment was blunt, matter of fact, without any sort of question.

Bjorn then stood and grabbed his sheathed blade, “Where?” Alban pointed out from where he’d looked before. Out toward a distant treeline, yet it had gone from view. Bjorn looked out, trying to cut his gaze through the dark to possibly see just a flicker, anything. But there was nothing.

“Hmph. Must’ve been a trick of the eyes.” Bjorn said, “I appreciate the caution holy man.”

“Thanks,” Alban mumbled. Yet as he looked back, that figure appeared again. He could bring himself to say anything again, it’d only end up disappearing again. So he resigned himself to the group as Gunther began to speak.

“Y’know I’ve ‘eard tales of monsters within the dark at brothels and taverns. Lots of variation at them places let me tell ya’.” Gunther said.

“A lot of them are true.” Bjorn said coldly.

“I’d say some are, others sound like donkey shit to me,”

“Please, I’d know, drunkard. In fact a lot of beasts lurk just out of view, just out of sight enough as not to draw attention from prey.”

“Then enlighten me brute.” Gunther crossed his arms and gave an exaggerated huff of air that made Finn chuckle.

“I know many. One I can regale you with is draugr.”

“What?” Gunther looked confused.

“A draugr. They’re men. Men without a good soul behind their sockets. They lurk about, in torn clothing or naked, their bodies rotted and flymeal for any praying insects that dare to infest their many wounds. They can do a lot of things. Sometimes they’re meant to guard sacred tombs, ones full of gold and treasures, Augustus perked up at that.

“Other times, they stalk about as vengeful things of wrath and death. Brutally gutting and killing anything they see. They can even drive animals insane. Turn the most tamed horses wild and frightened, turn docile hogs into glutinous beasts of wrath and greed, and turn birds into small wyrms that gut and feed on the entrails of smaller beasts, even peck the eyes out of the most skilled warriors.

“Really, they aren’t to be taken lightly. They are powerful things of undeath. The only way you can kill it is to destroy the body, dismemberment by itself won’t work, the limbs will drag themselves back to each other, and get minds of their own. I’ve heard the head is an optimal solution, but I’ve yet to see such proof. But what I know is definitive? He gave a pause for effect.

“The only way to kill them is to dismember, and burn them before they can even possibly try to reassemble themselves and reanimate. They are nasty wretched things of the Nordic lands I inhabit. And I doubt such is limited merely to there.”

The group was silent. Gunther sat in shock at such a detailed recount.

“So you think there was one stalking us from the treeline?” Augustus asked, seemingly a bit skeptical.

“No. I do feel that such danger should never be considered obsolete however. Many beasts lurk about the entirety of Midgard. Whispered about my many, and told under the firelight and company of others. A constant state of caution should be taken, even in safe havens. For that's where the worst incidents happen.”

“Have you seen one?” Alban asked, his words shaken.

“Hah, oh I have. When I served as a mercenary back home I had to plunder a tomb with my group at the time. Only I made it out.” he said the last part with a tinge of guilt. Everyone felt a sort of sympathy for Bjorn at that declaration. Yet no one spoke, not even Finn. Seemingly too shocked from the recounting. They were like that for a while before everyone seemingly returned to their usual business. Yet Alban, Alban felt still as if he was being watched. By God’s a million eyes, and by something else' s eyes.

* * *

They left at dawn, mounting their horses in no sort of hurry, ready to continue another day’s travel. But they travel long, in fact it was maybe an hour of it, before Gunther who first saw something in the distance.

“Oi, lads, I think I see a town up ‘ere!”

“Are you sure you're sober?” Augustus yelled back.

“I am, you stupid arse!” A wave of laughter roared across the group.

“Finally,” Alban thought to himself. He watched as the town began to fade in from the fog. Slowly it seemed to disperse, as if to welcome them. Alban looked around and felt his eyes widen. That merchant knew what he was talking about.

There were large houses fit for noble blood, elaborately decorated and well kept. Colored and vibrant, elaborately painted by the handiwork of a painter. Pompous men and women walked down polished cobble streets waving to one another. All of which dressed in the finest of linens and wool, strangely colored compared to the dryness of the group’s armor. Yet his awe came to a screeching halt when he heard a familiar sound.

Ding.

Dong.

Ding.

Dong.

Ding.

Dong.

A bell. Each ring sent a shiver throughout his entire being. He looked out to the distance, knowing what awaited him. A large church stood ever present amongst the shops, homes, and fog. So large it could see everyone and everything, including Alban. It saw through him. His being. His presence. It smelled the sin on his skin and the cinders of hellfire about his form.

He shook his head, trying to ignore the prying feeling it gave him. He wasn’t in the mood to relive what had occurred before. What drove him to his current living situation. He buried it within himself, attempting to drive it so deep in his soul it wouldn’t bother him the whole time they were here. Yet he couldn’t help but feel its fangs gnawing about his essence.

The group stopped their horses, Finn looking for a spot to place them. He dismounted his horse and looked about till he saw a crowded building up ahead.

“Bjorn, could you join me in examining this place?” Bjorn grunted in acceptance and dismounted his horse. Men and women still passed by what members of the group stayed behind, some gave confused looks, others scowled.

“Seems a little up tight ‘ere, don’t it?” Gunther asked.

“It’s a place of nobles Gunther, of course it is. We’re flea-ridden hounds in the den of golden felines,” Alban said.

“Don’t they know we do work for ‘em? What's it matter if we rough up a few brothels and drink ‘em dry? We’re dirty by our position, best they get used to it.”

“Well, nobles don’t exactly take kindly to the poorer members of society,” Augustus interjected, “especially around places like these. People around here are born nobles and knights. Not dirt encrusted mercenaries or disease ridden barbarians. Even if we work for them it doesn’t cast around the inherent disdain they feel toward our kind.”

“I say they ‘oughta get some better manners, what happened to being respectfully classy, eh? Isn’t that what they preached at the dinner table?”

“It appears we aren’t at a dinner table,” Augustus said.

“No, in fact we are on smelly mares. A great observation as usual, Augustus.”

“And you call me an arse?” The three chuckled at that. Alban couldn’t help but feel a sort of warmth during moments like this. When the group and himself were enjoying one another's company in the moment, forsaking their surroundings and judging eyes. Especially around Augustus. His presence made him want to melt in joy and euphoria. Yet he found himself cursing at such a thought.

“No damn it,” he thought, “that's not how I should feel, he’s a sinful man, not a fair woman.” It made his sense of joy dissipate like a puff of smoke, never to be seen again. Such feelings were the reason he was here, and the reason his back still seemed to sting.

Yet, he found his attention refocused when Finn hollered out, “Men I found us a stable for the horses, go on and get them locked up for the night!” He watched as Gunther and Augustus proceeded forward. He felt his gaze linger that slightest bit on his friend.

If only I could, he thought, if only I could. He shook his head and tugged at his horse’s reins to move forward. All the while that church stared everpresent, its watchful eye upon his form. For it saw his sins.

* * *

A quiet set of adolescent children stood, singing a hymn of golden notes. Blessed notes. The man sat in a pew next to a set of people who seemed to scoot away from his form. He hung his head low, holding his head in his hands, trying to take some sort of solace in this place. Yet, how could he? He’d been cast out before, and he surely deserved it again. How could he sit in the house of God with such penance spread across his back, paining him to sit straight?

Then, a sight caught his attention, from the corner of his eye was Father Abbe. He looked up from his cracked, dirt-stained hands and could see his form behind the lectern. Clad in robes sewn by holy hands, passed from preacher to preacher, pastor to pastor, priest to priest. A mark of a disciple. A mark of one blessed to spread God’s word to all.

His holy essence seemed to illuminate the chapel as he began to preach, “Guilt. Within ourselves we find guilt.”

No one spoke. It was dead silent within the chapel. Not a sound rang out. “We as a collective have felt guilt since the days of our fathers’ fathers, our mothers’ mothers. All because of sin.” That word rang throughout the man’s head, reverberating from side to side within his skull as he processed that one singular term. It was like a ball of blades perpetually bouncing about and it made his back sting more. He gritted his teeth.

“But I ask of thou all this, are we truly doing this out of malpractice? Do we practice such sin with malevolence? Or is it accidental, caused by our nature to commit such acts? Eve did not know of sin till she committed its first act, she lived in ignorance before she ate of the tree of knowledge. She lived in bliss. In a way we carry that in ourselves.

“We do sin everyday whether we know it or not. We sin because it's in our blood. To harbor such guilt over what is natural is something we have all struggled with. I know for a select few it has had lasting effects upon thy soul and thy mind. Yet we all know it can be forgiven. Unless it is of blasphemy anything can be forgiven, for it is in our nature. The lord is merciful, he is kind, and he loves us as his children.

“All thou needs to do is to ask him for forgiveness, and I’m sure thou will find it. I’m here to conduct such a thing, through me the Lord can do such acts, for thou all can be and will be forgiven.”

The man stared at Abbe as he spoke, hanging on every word. Was he right? Could his desire be forgiven? But what of those who have been made an example in his homeland? Those burned on pyres of flame and branded for exile like him. Could they be forgiven? Would they be forgiven? He shook his head as the priest sat down and opened a book of hymns for him and all to sing.

* * *

The brothel was warm and snug. A campfire burned within the mantle, and lantern light casted the place in a warm orange glow. A few servants walked about carrying drinks to tables while a man stood behind the bar, wiping down glasses and the counter. Nobles chatted amongst themselves in quiet voices. Either gossiping about others or the affairs of their roles. All of which was in contrast to the group of mercenaries sat in the back of the place.

Bjorn let out a hearty laugh as Finn recounted a story of a certain scandal he’d remembered in his court. Meanwhile Gunther found himself enraptured within the taste of his drink and its contents. He stared at Bjorn and Finn as they chatted, laughing along with them and staying quiet when they talked.

Yet their companionship was nothing in comparison to his booze. If anything it gave him a more stable shoulder to lean on than anyone else had. It was a sad thing he knew, but it helped him forget. Forget them.

As for Augustus and Alban, they themselves sat quietly and listened. Giving a spare chuckle here and there with a few remarks when it was needed. Augustus found his fingers dancing across the wooden surface of the table as if in anticipation of something.

Alban looked over to his companion and could begin to tell what was going through his head. Cards. Peddling. Tricking the noble-blooded into emptying their pockets into his. It was something they’d talked of on their way to this place, and now that they were here, Augustus was equivalent to a river bound four. One anticipating the moment a trumpet would blare and they could rip themselves from their watery binds. Ready to bring about destruction on humanity, or in this case, the noble’s coin purses.

“What are you looking at?” Augustus’ voice cut through Alban's thoughts.

He stumbled for words, “Oh, uh nothing. I just noticed you seemed to be waiting on something.”

“On what sort of thing?”

“Perhaps a game, one of cards.” Augustus gave a grin, however it seemed to falter as he thought.

“Whats wrong?”

“I’m not even sure if they’ll understand us. We’re a bunch of people from Holy Rome, and they’re , they’re from Franks.”

“I’m sure they’d speak some sort of German. Nobles do speak a lot of languages.”

“That is true, especially in cases of diplomatic approach.”

“You think one of the others might be able to translate in case?”

“Hmm, surely Finn, I heard in Hibernia they speak some sort of d’oil.”

“Could be your ticket my friend.”

“Seems so, the question is, who else is playing?” Alban went a bit quiet at that. He wasn’t sure. He knew he might, after all it meant more time with Augustus. But as for the rest of the group they may or may not take up the idea. Finn would with some convincing, and Bjorn would be sure to follow. As for Gunther it depended how drunk or immersed he was in his drink. The issue was that Augustus was a snake.

It was a fact they all knew, Augustus was underhanded in how he played and wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to feel the rush and excitement of a win, even against his comrades. Even if it went into their communal share, the others sometimes couldn’t stomach an underhanded loss at times. Alban understood, he couldn’t either at points.

But even then, he always went back to playing against Augustus. It was as if he was in a realm of his own with him. A space shared between the two, with not a single soul there to peer in at their actions or thoughts. It filled Alban with ecstasy every time he did. There it was again.

Those thoughts, those damn thoughts. He tried to reinforce it all over again, with the same reason. He was a sinful man, not a fair woman. But what did that thought do for him? Nothing. That's what it did. Nothing. He was as bad as the lustful king of Israel. A man of desire, swooning after one he couldn’t have. One not meant to be his.

He was a sinner. A dirty, retched heretic, one swathed within-

“Alban, what's wrong with you? Are you playing or not?” Augustus’ words made Alban almost fall out of his seat. He looked around at the table to see the concerned faces of his fellow comrades, all of which were looking at him.

“Oh, yeah I am,” he responded.

“You alright my lad?” Finn asked.

“Yeah, just, just got lost in my drink I guess.”

“Aren’t you drinking water?” Bjorn asked. Alban looked down in his mug to a liquid clear as glass.

“Guess it’s strong water,” he rebuked.

“Wisen up lad, if we want any sort of money we need to be at our best,” Gunther mused.

“I will, just, give me a moment.” He grabbed his mug and walked toward the door, heading outside. Feeling the eyes of his group piercing into his back like crossbow bolts. By then it seemed the sun had set. Time had passed quickly since their arrival. It was cold, o’ so cold as it usually was in autumn. He gave a sigh of relief as he leaned up against the wall of the brothel. No one was there to greet him, only the dark and his own thoughts.

He stared into his mug, observing the way the water rippled about after his moving. It was dark out here, a cold abyss with no bottom in sight. He grimaced as he stared into it. He really couldn’t change things could he? Ever since his exile it seemed it was impossible to. The pain in his back never did cease, even after it supposedly healed. Their vitriol and threats never left.

None of it ever did. He thought he found some sort of reconciliation but instead he found the same answer that always greeted him. Disapproval. Even if minor, it was still there. If only he could change. If only, if only. If only.

But it appeared that Satan’s lust and temptations had forever seared his blood like…like…he couldn’t bring himself to think about it without feeling a burning in his eyes, and that o’so familiar pain. God. Why couldn’t he be different? Why couldn’t he be obedient, why did he act in the ways of God’s traitorous angels. Why? Just why?

He felt himself crumple onto the ground, his back sliding against the wall with a stinging so great he cried out. He almost spilled the contents of his mug, only barely managing to keep it in his hands. Finally as he reached the cold ground below he put his legs up and laid his head in between them. He sat there for a long time, steeped in regret, steeped in sin, steeped within his desire.

A child of God lost within his great manifestations and desires. But as he was thinking and deprecating himself he heard a voice. One unlike a noble’s, one more rough and dry.

“Are you alright there sir?” Alban looked up from his abyss of despair. Before him was a woman, about average height. She looked like she was from somewhere else entirely, not from Franks. She spoke German too. And her attire was one of a poorer social class, not one of nobility. Her clothes were not of luster, but of scraps and patchwork. Yet, it all seemed strangely elegant, as if all the pieces flowed together perfectly, in perfect harmony.

“Y-yes, my apologies ma’am.”

“Somethin’ wrong?” Alban didn’t find himself able to respond. Instead he stared into his mug, wondering if he should indulge the woman. He spun his finger in the water, making a small spiral within its darkness. It spiraled, and spiraled, deeper and deeper into nothing, till it all but faded away into a meekly disturbed surface.

“What’s your business knowing?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the water.

“It's my job dear. After all, it seems like you're someone who needs help forgetting.” Her words carried a certain accent of purring warmth and lustful comfort that made Alban shiver.

“I-I’m not sure what you mean ma’am-” His question was cut off.

“A night of indulgence to your liking, good sir.” She gave a grin. Her adamance radiated off her skin like his sin. He looked her up and down. Maybe this was his proof. Maybe this was the evidence he needed in his mind. A night of courtship with a woman as fair as her, one without the thought of man, nor their sin. All but embrace, all that was intended. All that the Lord envisioned, from the early days of Eden, to the modern monarchs.

“How much?” he asked.

“Depends, what are you looking for?”

“Don’t care what it is. Just-just something to help I suppose.” She seemed to cock her head.

“Well now, shall we proceed?” Alban looked down at the water again.

“I have something to finish, I’ll meet you upstairs when it’s over.” He threw the water of his mug to his side, emptying it all upon the dirt.

“Very well,” she cooed, before walking inside, closing the door behind her.

Alban looked back at the ground. “This is what you want. Courtship, and a fair woman. Not…not him.” He felt his hesitance. Yet he pushed it down like stale alcohol. He turned his back to the ground, heading inside.

As found himself entering the bar, he saw a large congregation of men around a table, some of which he happened to know.

“There ya’ are Alban, c’mere and take a seat.” Gunther’s voice was loud and drunken. He’d already had too much to drink. Alban couldn’t help but feel the slightest pity for him.

He walked over to the table, seeing a combination of the regal and vagabond, men of different calibers and playing fields. Men meant to say when and where to wage the war, and men meant to fight and win the war. These were aristocrats, giants of wealth and men of pompous and plump exterior compared to the muscled and rigid bodies of the downtrotted dogs that lay before their feline gaze. Flea-ridden they were, compared to the groomed coats of their contemporaries.

Alban sat in his chair and watched intently as across from him sat what he tried to drown out. His sly figure tapping his fingers against the wood of the table, a charismatic gaze upon his face, eyes of firelight. Dancing with desire much like his, yet for a non-living heart to which no soul truly belonged. Shining bright trinkets, that glittered and glistened within the firelight of wickers, much like the eyes of such men. Men that glittered within the sights of trinketry, and fell within the sea equivalent to their hordes.

“See, how could you lust after someone like him?” he asked himself. Further proof to himself, that somehow he could push down such desire. Yet as he looked into his gilded and shining eyes he saw such charisma that melted his soul. A feeling that made his blood run slow, and face burn like sin, red as Lucifer.

Orgasmic it was, yet, he found himself back within reality as he realized such things were not meant to be. He couldn’t. No, he’d courted a fair woman of love and desire, how could he do the same for someone of a differing lust? His heart lied in gold, while his desire lied within his grasp.

Why couldn’t he just accept what was? For David he would not be. He couldn’t be.

“Alban?” He almost jumped at Augustus’ words, yet he kept some sort of composure amongst himself.

“Yes?”

“Still here? Need you to focus.” He tilted his head, as if to motion for such a thing.

“Of course, just got a lot on my mind y’know,”

“Doesn’t hurt to share,” Alban shifted uncomfortably. He felt a bead of sweat on the side of his face. Slowly dripping down, sending a cold chill across the course of his arteries and veins. Culminating at the peak of his spine.

“I’m not sure if I should be, were in company.” The last bit was spoken quite as if a whimper.

“Is something wrong?”

“I…” He couldn’t produce any other words. His throat clogged with what could only be described as sharp stones. Augustus looked at him, a look of concern fracturing his composed face, his lust of luxury.

“On peut commencer?” a noble spoke. His face was covered by a carcass of gray hair, as if he wore that of a rodent upon his face like a shield for his lower jaw. His voice was ragged and aged, a witness to many occasions. Tempered and bitter. Augustus stared confused at the man’s speech.

“He’s asking if the game can begin soon,” Finn said.

“Tell him to shut his trap, still gotta get the rules in order.”

“The mouth of an urchin is no use in such a place, Augustus.”

“Neither is impatience, where’d such manners go to die?”

“That’s what I said earlier ya’ bastard,” Gunther’s voice rang throughout the room. Augustus visibly eyed him from across the table. Gunther merely responded with a dumb grin before taking a swig of his drink.

Finn gave a chuckle at the exchange.

“Il sera là dans un instant,” he spoke. Augustus sighed and took a moment to collect himself, placing his hands upon the table and holding his head, trying to think of things. Technicalities, his tactics, the game, what was supposedly on the line with it. He let out a breath and opened a small leather pouch on his armor.

He pulled from it a deck of waxy papers, about the side of a man’s hand. A thick bunch of them, their backs an elaborate show of symbols and artistry, crookedly painted in some areas, while others seemed perfect. The mark of the artist. The mistaken work upon such a piece, such a thing branding it as imperfect, such a thing irreversible, unwashable. For all to witness, for all to see.

Alban watched the cards be placed upon the wood of the table with a quiet thump. Then, the two steadily, sly hands of a man worked upon them, shuffling their symbols and arrangement for the coming game. Finally, he finished, and with a single hand, he picked up seven cards, and dropped each one across the table to a person.

The three nobles watched, one in delight, the other in contempt, and the last in impatience, tapping their finger against the table, a smug look about them. As for the vagabond among them, they stared off into their own thoughts, while others preemptively watched to see the man’s trickery or dirty work at hand.

Alban himself couldn’t help but watch, seeing the handiwork of his fellow man. Yet, he urged himself to look away, to the fire within the room, its delicate embers. But he couldn’t. Augustus did this rotation about seven times, till each person had accumulated that number of waxy paper.

Each person rushed to conceal their hand, the nobles slowed for the course, each taking their sweet time with such an act. Alban put his hand together and stacked them facedown upon the table nearby, knowing of the explanation ahead. He watched as Augustus sat still as a statue before taking a deep intake of breath.

“The game is called Der Letzten. The rules are simple. Be the last one to still have a hand of cards by the end of the game. The dealer shall hand out a card with a number and symbol. If any of you have that card or number, you must hand in the card. As I said, the last one with a hand wins. Got it?”

Finn began to translate to the noble three amongst them. Yet the smug one seemed to give a look of confusion.

“Est-ce un jeu pour enfants?” he asked.

“Non, non. C'est censé être simple. Cela permet de jouer à un grand nombre de jeux en peu de temps,” Finn responded.

“What’s he asking Finn?” Augustus asked. He didn’t answer, instead the nobleman began to speak once more.

“Quoi, pour nous arnaquer encore plus?”

“Absolument pas! Nous avons peut-être l'air sale, mais nous ne le sommes certainement pas dans nos actes.” Finn looked concerned.

“Finn?” Still no answer. Instead the nobleman seemed to slump in his chair and give a gruff snort of air from his nostrils. Finn himself seemed a bit taken aback, yet, a tinge of guilt had crossed his face. He knew Augustus. He knew his lust of trinketry and wealth from the day they met. It was, after all, how the two came across one another. Through deceit, through ignorance.

Augustus brushed off the look upon Finn’s face and conversation, chalking it up to some sort of argument. He took his remaining deck of cards and pulled the first one off the top. He slapped the waxy paper onto the table. It depicted a man slyly carrying four swords, with two plunged within the earth.

“Seven of Swords,” Augustus called. Everyone looked at their hands. Alban picked his up and finally took a good look at it. In his hand, he held a card depicting a man amongst a series of large branches, holding one like a walking stick. A card with a series of naked men and women standing in coffins, singing in praise of an angel playing the trumpet amongst the heavens.

A card depicting an old man with a walking stick and lantern, standing aimlessly. His final one had an animal at each corner, and a wreath surrounding a naked woman in the sky. The cards perplexed Alban. They always had since Augustus and he had first played cards.

Their artwork, so fine and trained, yet so imperfect. They were crafted elegantly and with a large surplus of time. It made Alban wonder where Augustus had gotten them. Their designs and supposed ‘meanings’ were strange, yet he found it charming, similarly to Augustus.

Gunther grunted loudly. He handed Augustus a card, one depicting several gaublets, each with an oddity within their rim. All of which surrounded by an air of clouds, and a contemplating silhouette.

“Targeting me already, ay?” Gunther snickered.

“Maybe so,” Augustus said, “maybe so.”

One of the nobles scratched his head and bumped Finn’s shoulder.

“Est-ce que ça entre?” he asked. He presented the card to him. Alban couldn’t see it right then until Finn nodded as if to a child, and the man handed it to Augustus. He could make out a similar card to his, with a man seemingly disgruntled against a leer of branches.

“That's it?” Augustus asked. No one said anything except for Finn who translated.

“Alrighty then,” Augustus pulled out the next card. It gave the nobles a set of wide eyes upon its sight. On the card was a pagan thing, a monstrosity with the head of a ram, a humanoid body, with wings of a predatory bat, and talons of the mightiest hawk. On its head was a symbol of sin, a symbol Alban couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably at.

Below in its hand was a torch, with a naked pair, a man and woman, no, a pair of demonic imitators that stood chained to such a beast of pagan sin. The nobles blinked a few times before even beginning to search through their decks.

“The devil.”

“Est-ce une sorte de jeu païen? Qu'avez Vous apporté dans notre village saint?” One of them asked in a tone of disgust. Augustus went completely silent.

“Non ce n’est pas ce genre de chose. C’est juste une œuvre d’art. Destiné à représenter,” Finn reasoned. They went silent at that, yet they gave a series of glares toward Augustus and the rest of the group as they sorted through their cards. Bjorn, who’d been quiet up to that point, cleared his throat to get Augustus’ attention.

He handed over a card, one with a burning tower, with people falling off its peak. Something in Bjorn’s eyes concerned Alban a bit. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Anxiety? Anger? Bjorn was a stoic man, one who laughed, yet never showed his hand emotionally. But this time, something was different, even if subtle. Alban could see something moving about the orbs in Bjorn’s skull.

One of the nobles plopped down a card upon the table and slid it to Augustus’ slowly and deliberately. It depicted a wizened, priestly man upon a throne, with friars by his side, ready to take any order sent from heaven through him.

Finn pulled a card from his hand and tossed it onto the table, as if to pull off a fanciful card trick. On it an optimistic man stared off a cliff into the sky, prancing about merely, unaware of the danger below his feet. Alban finally looked down at his hand closely, seeing the one with the angel, the old man, and wreathed woman. He clenched his teeth as he handed them to Augustus.

His chances of being the winner were looking slim. Augustus took the cards and put them amongst the discard pile before sorting through his deck once more. Finally, after a long moment of silence, he pulled out a card showing a hailstorm of branches. Branches Alban knew well. He looked down at his card before Augustus could even call the name.

“Eight of wands,” he said. Alban felt the claws of defeat dig themselves into shoulders as he stared at his now lone card. He gave a sigh as he handed Augustus his card.

“I’m out,” he said.

“At least you can watch,” Augustus responded.

“Not much in that course of action, besides I have someone waiting.” Augustus raised an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” he asked. Alban felt his face begin to burn, his ears igniting like the coals of a meek forest flame.

“A woman,” he said sheepishly.

“Ah, I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever do somethin’ of the sort,” Gunther called. “You and your ‘Good Book’ made me think otherwise.”

Finn’s eyes went wide at that and he shot Gunther a look to keep quiet about that topic.

“You never gave that sort of feeling, y’know?” Augustus said.

“No I don’t.”

“You just seem so…doctrinated I guess.” Alban knew what he meant. Despite such guilt he harbored he still kept a copy of his Lord’s word among him, one he pried off the corpse of a wandering man, his bones but salt for birds of omen and death. Within its pages he’d been told of adultery, what happens to men who feasted upon such desire and craving before they ever got the chance to exchange such holy and sacred vows of bondage. He knew that, yet he hadn't considered it.

“Well-I…” He felt his body begin to cool itself. He couldn’t think of a rebuttal.

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?” Augustus’ words struck Alban like a nail through his hand.

“Alban?” Everyone was quiet. The nobles stared on confused at this and one sat impatiently. His breath started to quicken, his chest began to hurt. Each one shorter than the last. He felt his desire leaking through. He wanted so badly not to court a fair woman, he wanted the embrace of his fellow, injured, dirtied man. The love of intertwinement between the two within the comfort of sheets, and as he stared at Augustus, he so badly just wanted to tell him how he felt, who he truly was. But he couldn’t. To do so was sin, blasphemy. All that came out was a combination of wrath, confusion, and stuntedness.

“Just-just forget it!” Alban yelled. He pushed out of his chair, the only sounds to accompany him being the wicker of flame within the hearth, and the clanking of his boots on the wooden floor. He made for the nearby staircase and ascended up, trying not to look at those he’d disregarded. The one he’d told off. The one he loved.

Augustus began to get up only for Bjorn to speak, “Don’t.”

“What do you mean don’t, there's something clearly wrong with him.” Augustus shot back.

“He needs his release from us.”

“What's the point in that friend?” Finn asked.

“He’s clearly emotional at this moment over something. Let the wolf hunt before it makes a meeting with the pack.”

“He’s always been an isolated fellow hasn’t he?” Gunther asked.

Finn gave a face of regret, “You're not wrong. Maybe it has something to do with us. I suppose we might not have given him the jolliest time. Make him feel like family.”

Bjorn looked to Finn, “In my homeland those who love their fellow man are weak. Things of meek flesh and brittle bone. You did your best Finn, he just needs time to himself. Best not to drown the mare in cloth.”

Augustus had sat down by this point and took Alban’s card and looked at it. He narrowed his, furrowing his worn and snake-like brow. In the back of his mind he had an idea of Alban’s hurt. Yet he was unsure if it was to be what he expected. For fateful hands only told so much.

* * *

The conversation below had fizzled out into mute nothingness and mumbling when Alban had reached the hall that housed the brothel’s rooms. It was an old thing, with the orchestrated cages of vermin and insect hunters hanging limply off the walls. Thick bouts of dust and dirt had acquainted themselves with the floor, leaving their light impression upon such a thing.

Finn had reserved them a few rooms for that night’s rest. That morrow they’d go about for work, yet to whom he did not know. He didn’t care. His frustration, his sadness, all of it found itself coursing through the veins of his body, burning with the guilt, the madness, the authority of sin. Sin. That word. Alban hated it. That stupid word.

How could such a simple, three letter word torture him. Yet he knew. He knew why it did. He knew why he and all of the man's children deserved such a punishment. For they now lived outside of Eden, and bore the knowledge of their forefather’s mistakes.

It was then he saw the woman outside his room. Waiting with a sort of impatience on her that melted when Alban appeared. He’d almost forgotten why he was up here.

“That game o’ cards took a bit, huh?” she asked.

“I suppose,” Alban muttered. He looked her up and down then. “You could’ve waited in the room, I’m not gonna force you to stand out here.”

“I don’t know which room is yours,” she said. He couldn’t disagree with that. He looked about the hall, trying to recall which one Finn had said was theirs to encompass. Finally he saw it. Room seven, with its numerals embroidered upon a plate that was nailed to the door.

“In here,” Alban said. He motioned for the woman to follow to which she passed by him and opened the door. The room was as unkempt as the hall before. It was littered with dregs of dust and arachnid silk. It was barren of any sort of decor, only housing the essentials of a room; a plush bed with a red wool blanket draped over it awaited their union. After it rested a balcony, one that seemed to connect with the other rooms, and gave a view of the night air through its slitted windows. Alban walked over to them and drew the shades, and went to lock the door with a key that hung loose from a nail.

The woman laid herself upon the mattress and watched as Alban turned around. He looked at her, her form.

He contemplated a moment, wondering, thinking. Could he do this? Was this what he wanted?

She cleared her throat, “Are you goin’ to stand there and look pretty, or am I gonna have to work for your coin?” Alban shook his head.

“I’m sorry, it’s just-I got a lot on my mind.” She didn’t seem to notice it herself, but a flash of concern struck her features, yet the woman rushed to hide them behind a veil of clientele.

“I do too,” she said, “but how about we forget it for a bit, hm?”

Alban sighed. “Sure, and…you're willing?”

She looked at him like he was stupid. “Right,” he said. He began to take off his plate, placing it amongst the floor gently, not trying to dent it. His sheathe and shield amongst it, and a pile of clothes as he undressed into his shorts.

He began to approach, and sat amongst the sheets, caressing the woman’s face as he pulled in for a kiss. She reciprocated, answering with her own. Yet it lacked. All of it did. The force of it, passionless, emotionless.

“You want this,” Alban thought, “this is it. Not him.” He put his hands behind her shirt, slowly snaking about her skinny, boney back, removing it, revealing her fair skin, radiant, glowing. He felt nothing. Her arms slowly began to move about onto his back, grasping for support for what she felt was usual, intending to strip what garments he had left below. He fell forward onto her, unable to drive himself into any sort of remote pleasure. He kissed and kissed her, she answered back each time.

However, her hands began to snake farther and farther among his back. He ignored it, focusing on her naked chest. Her shape. Trying to find something, just something. Her hands found the lower part of his left side. She reached for his shorts. Yet all she found was a scar. A flaming, pulsing scar. Alban kicked back in pain, struggling to remove himself as his mark burned. She relented, watching as Alban fell off the bed in a mess of sheets and blankets onto the hard floor with a loud slam.

She looked down at Alban as he struggled to get up, grunting in pain.

“Are you alright?” Her mask slipped.

“Ye-yes.” He managed to choke out. His breath was heavy, he tried to process what was occurring. The pain was immense, burning, and scalding. Still fresh upon his back as the day it had been placed. He gritted his teeth, trying to find something to cling to just to stop the pain. The woman watched from the bed confused, concerned, and unaware.

Alban began to feel the pain sizzle out as if the remains of a hearth. He couldn’t face her. His embarrassment immense, his pride broken, his mark revealed to her as he turned, and she covered her mouth in shock. His skin was still seemingly red, yet it had dulled. But the flesh was tender, soft, and barely scared.

Yet it was not the mark of a man, a blade, or an arrow’s shaft, but the mark of the beast burnt upon his back. A ram’s face depicted on his harsh, broken skin. A mark of his sin, a mark of religious heresy. A mark placed upon those of a loving man. Heretics, swathed in desire.

The woman couldn’t find any sort of words. She stared in shock at Alban as he sat upon the ground in the position of those unborn. Unbaptized. Unknowing of sin. She covered her chest with the sheets remaining amongst the bed, as if someone were to walk in on their intercourse, and tried to find something, anything to say.

“Sir?” she managed to squeak out. Alban didn’t respond. He lay in shock, all of it crashing upon him. Augustus. His temper. His sin. His loving intercourse that branded him as such an evil man within the eyes of his church. His actions to avoid it. His worship of desire, of lust.

What did it bring? What did it? What did it?

“Sir!” Her voice brought him back to reality, yet reeling and wounded. He looked over to see the woman’s concerned face. One of true emotion, one without a mask to cover her indifference, but human concern.

“I’m alright just-just-,”

“You're clearly not sir, what has hurt you so bad to revert to such a state?” Her words cut through his like a mercenaries’ blade.

He grimaced, debating whether or not to tell her.

“I won’t tell a soul I swear upon it. Even then you don’t have to tell it all-just how I can comfort you, how can I make you forget at all?”

Alban thought for a moment. Trying to think of what to even start with. If he should even speak of such things locked under such tight chains. Under it all. Under everything.

“I can’t do this,” he said.

“What do ya mean?” she asked.

“I’m-I’m not a man of such things. I don’t fondle the look and feel of a woman. I don’t caress such things. I don’t like women in such a manner.”

The woman looked stunned for a moment before she shook her head.

“Then, why did you go through with this?”

“Because I thought it was what I was supposed to want! But nay, I can’t. It’s not the thing I crave, what I lust for, what I love is my fellow man’s embrace. Yet I can’t do that.”

“Why not? I don’t see an issue with it.”

Alban was taken aback, “Huh?” he stuttered out.

“Are ya religious?”

“Indeed so,”

“Such things, I don’t think you should allow such things to dictate what ya love.”

“But it’s God's law I can’t just-I can’t-,”

“But ya can. Do ya think I care about such things?”

Alban looked her up and down, “No?” he said, confused.

“I don’t. I couldn’t care less. God didn’t do anything for me by putting me in my position, why should I care what he thinks?”

“Because he’s our creator,”

“But does the creator control the created? Do your mother and father dictate your destiny? Did they tell you to become a mercenary?”

“No.”

“Exactly, because that was your choice. Even if it was sinful in some manner, it was your choice. Life is your own to walk, not another’s to run.”

Alban sat silently for a moment, “You know a lot huh,”

“I do. After being a morsel for another’s warmth and desire, you tend to understand people. What makes them tick.”

“Do you do it by choice?” She went silent at that.

“I do it to get by, for your information. Nobles pay well here, whether for an affair or a night’s pleasure. I hope to leave this place, find a better life, and settle down by myself.”

“Without a lover?”

She chuckled at that, “Seeing how it all works really disheartens ya.”

“I guess so.”

“Tell me, is there someone you love, cherish?”

Alban didn’t need to think, he knew who to say, “Augustus. He’s-he’s my friend. I just-just don’t know how to even talk about that with him. He’s so-amazing. He’s funny, he’s sly, he’s really caring when you get to know him. But what would he think? What would the others think?”

“Who cares!” the woman said, “Are they your friends if they can’t tolerate you, especially for such emotions?”

“I wonder if they consider me as such, I’m more distant with them than anything.”

“I can tell you, they probably care. Mercenaries are brothers in arms. Family. Ya just need to be open with them.”

“I guess so,” Alban said. The sound of distant cheers, and footsteps below shook Alban to his core.

“I’d guess you’d be best to join them,” she said.

“I never did get your name,” Alban said.

“Eden. And you?”

“Alban. I’ll be seeing you I suppose-”

“Ah, ah!” the noise emerged from Eden’s mouth, “Those of Sodom have to pay.” She gave a sly grin.

Alban gave a faint chuckle and ruffled about his clothes for his coin purse. Finally he found it and poured all of its contents into his hand, then presented it to Eden.

“Take it,” Alban said, “you need it more than I do. I have a group to support me like you said.”

Eden gave a smile and took the money.

“Safe travels, and if your friends need a stay, I’ll be about the place.”

“Understood,” Alban said, putting on his clothes. He decided to leave his armor in the room, he didn’t need it now. There was nothing to defend against. He left the room, allowing Eden time to leave it as well before walking down the hall, only to see a room door open. One on the same side as his. He walked about to it, not trying to be nosey, yet his curiosity led him to see why such a place was exposed.

He gave a small gaze into the open space, finding a room nearly identical to his, with bits of armor scattered about, a bag and coin purse thrown on the bed, and the same type of door to the same balcony.

Alban gazed at the bag for only a moment, knowing who it belonged to. He’d seen it a multitude of times amongst the belt of a sly thief. A thief that stole his heart. He walked into the room, wondering where Augustus was. It was then he saw his silhouette amongst the dark outside, staring at the stars above, illuminated by the faintest lamp light.

Alban approached, and peeled through the door to it. He saw his form amongst the darkened sky. His slim body, his charismatic gaze, his gentle features, so subtle yet so strong. He looked out longingly at the stars above, their forms about a thousand scattered as if recently slew blood.

He debated to himself walking outside then. Conversation with him, how would it go after his mishap? Would he forgive him? Would he allow his behavior to slide as he did amongst city streets?

But he thought of Eden’s words. He took a deep breath and hoped she was right. He stepped through the door, its creaking made Alban cringe, yet he persisted. Through it, he found him, and a shocked look about him.

“Ah, I suppose your encounter was quick, yeah?” he asked.

“You could put it that way,” Alban said. He walked up next to Augustus, looking out at the sky above. A desolate, starfilled abyss. He put his hand on the railing, close to Augustus.

“How was the card game?”

“Fine enough. Bjorn was actually the one to win it for us.”

“Really? You didn’t pull anything?”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.” His smile was as sly as ever and it made Alban feel warm inside, about his body, about his mind. All over.

“Y’know, we actually learned something from one of those nobles,” Augustus said.

“Pray tell,”

“Told us the father of the nearby church is looking for some workers. Said he has an important task in store for us.”

All the warmth disappeared from Alban’s body. He froze in place as he had before. The smells of burning wicks, and incense were yet to leave him. And that bell. That damn bell. It’s song, one of divinity, one of honor, one of purity. Pure he was not.

“What was it you needed to speak about anyways?” Alban finally took in Augustus’ expression. One of concern, one of anticipation. He knew once it was said, it would not be untold. For such things remained about the air as did quiet hymns. He had to confess. Much as he did before this point in time.

“I can trust you, right?” he asked.

Augustus looked taken aback, “Of course! I might be a thief but I’m no prattling maiden of gossip.” He looked into Alban’s eyes.

“I-I think it’s finally time I tell you this Augustus,” Alban clenched his hands on the railing. This was it. His moment to speak. His moment to finally say it. What had eaten at him like wickering flame, what had torn him asunder and melted his form as if paper or mere wax. Who he was.

“I’m not as pure a man as you think.”

“We’re all impure Alban. Whatever you have to say is most likely tame in comparison to such escapades.”

“I’m not a courter of women, Augustus. I’m-I’m-,” Augustus looked confused and nervous.

“C’mon just say it,” He had to. He couldn’t let this moment pass. This moment of isolation, under the obscure light of Lucifer’s moon in contrast to God’s blisteringly known sun. In the light of sin.

“Embrace it,” he thought, “embrace it as Eden, embrace it as a courted woman!”

“I court those of our kin Augustus, men! Not the proper, loving women of God’s, no I’m-I’m a heretic. I heretic swathed within my desire for you, for thine scent, for thine form, for thine air, for thine breathe, for thine sin!” The words tumbled out as if fallen demons from heaven. Augustus was quiet. He looked not at Alban but at the stars.

He seemingly contemplated.

“I’m sorry shouldn’t have spoke, I-,”

“Don’t.” Alban stopped speaking at that. He stared confused at Augustus., “Don’t apologies Alban,”

“But you don’t seem to reciprocate such-such feelings,”

“Maybe I do Alban, maybe I don’t.”

Alban felt a streak of warmth across the stretch of his form. He tensed at it, his mouth seemingly hung agape.

“You mean it?”

“In a way I suppose. More as a companion. A comrade to my trickery and mischief, a counter to your morals. In fact I’m surprised someone of your liking would express such a thing.”

“Why so?”

Augustus was solemn, “When I snook about the streets of cities years ago, I saw men broken and humiliated for all to witness for their crimes against God. Never daring to express such things, let alone touch those thoughts, lest a pitchfork spring out from that well.”

“I guess it has been a long time coming to express it. I just needed a push.” He waved an arm back to where his room’s door was.

“Not just that,” Augustus said, “when our band stumbled upon you, you were but rags of soil and burnt by virtue. A man lost amongst a greater world at war, with a scorned apprehension to their guiding light. But a blind moth scarred by wickers.”

Both were quiet. Taking not another move, instead keeping to their previous positions, as if a game of sin and virtue in one's mind.

Finally, Alban spoke, “Do you truly have that sort of courtship with me, or am I, as you said, a comrade?”

“Depends what game were playing Alban, one of fate, or one of rebellion. I care not for what those above us think, not what our group thinks, not what anyone thinks. But, like the prospect of trickery, there’s the recourse of others. I don’t feel that there's a chiseled path for us amongst this grand tapestry of stone, but the chisel lays near. Either we shatter, or we stand the course.”

Augustus finally turned, and within the dimness of their lighting, Alban thought he could see the slightest bit of red amongst Augustus’ face.

“The question is, what game are we playing Alban?”

He didn't know how to respond.

“I’m unsure. But I feel that this tapestry of silk and chips can be laid out and strategized for a stretch of time. Either you or I may make the first move. It depends on how you're thinking when it comes time to make your mark.”

Augustus gave a chuckle, “You are a charmer, I will admit.”

“Tis the same with thou,” Alban responded.

Augustus began to lean over toward him, to what ends he knew, but he found himself straightened quickly as if normal upon the sound of footsteps upon the balcony. Alban looked over his shoulder behind him, seeing the familiar outline of Gunther walking about the balcony. A drunken, and distant sway about him.

He seemed to pay no mind to the two as he stared out into the dark. Alban turned back to Augustus, “What’s his plight?”

“You can never really tell with him. He's not the most open of us.”

“I figured most of you were quite vague, am I wrong?”

“No. But occasionally the time comes to give into confinement. Yet, Gunther never has. Finn gladly will, and Bjorn, Bjorn’s strange about it.”

“How does he manage?” Alban already knew the answer. It was an obvious one, and it hurt him to think about it.

“Drink, women, really anything distracting works. He doesn’t confront his problems, Alban. He runs from them.”

“Have I not done the same?”

Augustus stared contemplatively, “I suppose you do yes. In fact I can’t remember a time before this when you’ve actually opened up. You and him are always so distant.”

“Can that change?”

“With time, and action it could. But such things await a new ‘morrow. After all, there's plenty of days for us ahead, ones of strife, ones of labor. Tomorrow, tomorrow may be if our bets are of true value.”

“Wise words from a thief.”

“And such ignorance from a holy man.” The two gave a laugh at that, a brief respite that went up in smoke when they remembered Gunther stood about nearby, lost in his consumption. With only the guiding light of a shining brew there to greet his every waking day. A poor, and sorrowful realization that Alban never truly considered. For as himself, others of his manly kin suffered, and he never batted an eye, until such was pointed to him. It was not just that pierced him.

He thought of his conversation, his close sin and cursed himself within the temple of his mind. How could he dare to almost lay lips with a man again, after the supposedly rightful punishment he’d been dealt. How could he? How could he and Gunther continue on in knowledge of themselves? Of their sins, of their lusts, of their hierarchy, placing others above their creator. How could they?

As all his thoughts began to wash away in a grand, disastrous flood, he remembered Eden. A temptress she was, that's all she was. A means of alluring him to a darker version of himself, a character of himself that only thought of his lust, of only his most deep, dark, and boiling sins as a normal recourse. Eden. Such a name was but the devil’s play amongst him, tempting him with a false hope, for the garden was gone, its bright, amazing flora, and living beings wiped away in a clean slate only survived by those of holy nature in faith of their god.

How could he embrace such a temptress, such a succubus. How could he?

It was only then Alban had realized Augustus had gone, alongside him went Gunther. For he stood amongst the balcony alone. His sins ever boring their painful spines within his back flesh. He looked up at the sky as he had before. A million eyes, watching, only hidden behind dark specters of clouds. God probably was looking away in disgust and disappointment at such a nearly horrid act, at such submission to sin. Rightfully so he felt. For he could never win this game. Even with a favorable dealer, and remorseful opponent. For his hate left him the first to withdraw, and the last to forget it.

* * *

He never dreamed often, the man. He went night upon night merely emerging from his timed slumber without a vision within his nightly shelter. Yet, as he lay amongst the sheets of that old, dusty bed he dreamt. It was as if he was transported outside reality itself. All of it a vague echo of mist and dust behind him as he opened his eyes in a foreign land. At least, that's what he thought.

What hit first was the cold. Everything around him was freezing. Harshly so. He felt his teeth begin to chatter yet he snapped them shut tightly. He clenched his fists as he looked about where he was. Readying, fortifying himself. Yet all he saw was a freezing mist in front of him, that stretched on and on into a white void. He looked at the ground below.

It was but dry earth, cold and unfeeling, with the remains of some sort of plants scattered about in rows. A field. One brought to its end by something outside itself. Supposedly not the farmer, no, but by another hand. By the hand of fate. Something uncontrollable. He knew it was, and within his mind, he felt himself begin to panic.

His body was shaking, not just from the cold, but the panic within his soul. He looked about, and frantically, with all his might and will, he took his panic and forced it down like stale alcohol in his throat, all of it igniting in a furry unseen when he was awake, unless in the heat of battle.

He rushed through the mist, hoping to find his escape, somewhere, anywhere. He kept running, and running, his feet running over the remains and stalks of plants. Once shining wheat, brought to a dull, dying gray by the hand tied about the world’s strings. Running and running is all he did, seemingly for hours, he wandered this strange place, feeling for an escape, searching endlessly for something, anything. Yet there was none to be found.

He felt his breath begin to catch in his throat as he ran, the exhaustion and cold mixing and bringing him to his knees as he sank amongst the dead. He laid down upon his back, out of breath, his might exhausted, all of it used, and for what? All of it was out of his control. What was the point in trying to fight it, trying to fight fate?

He did not know. Yet, he fought, tooth and nail to keep fate out of his life. To keep it from taking away everything he had left. The comrades and men he wandered about the expanse of the world they knew, side by side, brothers in arms. But such a fight, such a fight he knew may very well be unwinnable. He gave a small, meek chuckle at that.

All of it was an effort unlike that of a boulder-pushing man he’d heard the story of during his many jobs over the past decades. Yes, he remembered it well. A man slaving away, endlessly toiling against the inevitable. He tried to fight death, escape a river Styx, yet that fight was inescapable. Such was the same as his punishment. Forever locked upon a hill, pushing an impossible weight to its hill, only for it to grow too heavy upon his back, impossible for any man to ever carry. Not even gods. So, he’d try again. And again. And again. All of it a futile effort.

Was that to end the same for him? Was he too supposed to lay down his life over and over again for those he cared for? Or was he to break that cycle? These thoughts were broken upon the sound of clopping hooves. He looked up, right in front of him on the ground. In the distance, was a dark shade. One he knew well. Oh so well.

He remembered where he was, now. A place he’d been before in warning of disaster. One he’d seen before an ultimate cleansing of those he held, those of his kin, former comrades. He’d seen it again and again, and he stood to face it. What sense was there to lay down, when fate seemed to be calling his name once more? To mock him with his efforts. No, he’d beat fate to a bloody pulp for such indiscretion.

Closer and closer the shade came, its form recognizable to him. In fact, he’d rode many of this beast before, some feral, others tamed. Some adapt to the ladder with time and care. Others, others rejected the ladder, and embraced their primality, what truly made their hearts beat. A mare.

Not just a mare, a black colored mare, one with a long and tangled mess of a mane, greasy and hanging on one side as if to cover its face. Its true visage, its true nature. Its fur was slick and unnatural, and he knew damn well why. For when he saw it, flies and insects seemed to accompany, even in the rotted carcass of this cold landscape. For it too was a rotted carcass, hiding its primal innards behind a mane of hair.

The smell, it finally hit him. One of rot, one of incense. One of some sort of orthodox place, mixed with a rotting body. It finally came face to face with him after a minute. It stood mere feet away from the man. He clenched his fists as he stared at it. It snorted at him with its rotted nose, its breath visible in the crystalline air. He didn’t move. He stared at the thing. His face was stern, and cold.

“What news do you bring me now, you horrid thing?” It did not speak. Instead, it gave an approach, close enough to be close to touching the man’s face with its towering figure. He could smell the rot off it, hear the maggots eternally crawling about its flesh. It shook its mane to its cleanlier side of its face, one meant to be seen, and turned it to the man. The sight never dulled to the man, despite his brutish features.

Its face was rotted and writhing with maggots and flies. The flesh was tender and slick, with fresh blood seeming to pour out with each bit devoured by the concoction of broods that resided within its face flesh. It glistened with a sickening sort of beauty, and behind that flesh, was the dirtied, and bloodied skull of this supposed mare.

The mare’s hollow eye socket held nothing but an eternal dark. The man was hesitant about staring into it, yet as he tried to step back, the mare only came closer. He took a breath the man did, he knew what he’d see signs of. The fate, meant for his comrades, and possibly himself. What this beast was to predict, like a demonic oracle that followed him at every turn of his life, ever since that one faithful day as but a meek boy.

The violence he saw, the gore and wrath inflicted upon all, yet he survived, undeservingly so. Left to live traumatized by such things, and to forever witness such things in his mind or when dreams like this happened. For he knew the sight of this field, not just from a spectral vision of sleep, but from a burnt, and dying home. One of family, heredity, love. All of it vanishes, a puff of smoke. All of it frozen in time for him to witness over and over again. A reminder, a reminder of how he acquired this beast. From his father, and for him, his father, and so and so forth.

Maybe it was a gift, yet all he saw was a rotted thing of malice and sacrifice within this dream. An omen of death. An omen of fate. As he stared into that socket, he saw shadows of visions of flashes of things to come. All of it, all orchestrated by the hands of fate in brief, uttered glimpses for him to piece together, vague flashes with meaning outside his comprehension. And that last sight to him, that last thing he saw, was but his fate. He pulled away, gasping for air, yet his throat burned with a cold anger as he did. He looked at the beast.

He knew this day would come eventually. In a way, he felt somewhat happy. He never had a seed. Never sprouted a child for such misfortune and omens to follow, he would die the last of his blood. And he laughed at that thought. He laughed in the face of fate, in the face of his warning, he laughed. For he in the end would win, yet such a thing was not to be said of his comrades. He realized as he truly processed what he saw. For he was not to die alone. It was then he could hear a distant, roaring laugh that echoed about the sky and shook the earth below his feet. The mare stood unaffected.

He gritted his teeth and looked at the horse. Motionless. Emotionless. He clenched his fist tighter, tight enough to draw blood and rushed at it, intending to beat it to death in anger, in hatred of the news it brought. That fate had won. Fate won. Fate won. But as he went to bash the creature’s face, it disappeared in a cloud of familiar, lingering smoke. He coughed and coughed as he collapsed in the cloud. His throat burned and writhed for clean air, yet he felt his eyes grow heavy, his breath run out.

He awoke with a start, the meek chirping of autumn birds outside none the wiser were there to ground him. The sight of the rising sun on the horizon, and the distant church made him freeze in fear. For Bjorn knew the fate that he and all were soon to face.

* * *

Alban awoke to the sound of distant ringing. It drew him from his slumber, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and weakness. He gave a groan as he sat up in bed, rubbing what was left in his irises out. He looked about the room, at first confused at their location, before everything hit him like a sack of bricks to his skull. He felt his breath catch his throat as he realized everything, everything he’d said, and admitted.

The trick he very well may have fallen for from a wicked mistress of the night, yet he knew in the back of his mind she wasn’t. She only sought to help, but his religious pedestal forced him into such thoughts, especially at that night’s end. It’s how he lost his chance.

“Good,” he thought, “such sin was never acted upon.” yet he cursed himself so as he remembered the fall of lust he’d taken with that mistress and his admission of feelings to Augustus. He grabbed the soft fabric of his pillow and brought to his face, screaming into it a number of obscenities to avoid God hearing it. God. That word, like sin, bounced about the emptiness between his skull and brain. For today, he knew it was a holy day. A day of rest. The day they were to find work.

He sprung from the bed, throwing off his sheets and ran to the window, to see that of a dawn sky, still early and untainted, with that church staring back at him. He gave a breath of belief. They still had time, time to prepare themselves, him and the group. He walked about the room, grabbing for his armor, knowing it was the best he could muster to be ornate upon this holy day. He strapped his sheathe to his side, and his shield was slung upon his back, displaying the group’s logo.

Such a logo was in a way, an inadvertent bit of spite toward what was considered holy, especially in a cushy place such as this. It was violent, it was brash, unapologetic. Yet, it was a spite against seduction, against sins of lust, something one of their members seemed all but too eager to commit to avoid what plagued him, while another hid it behind a shield of denial and religious dogma.

Alban made his way out of his room, before he began to knock about the doors of his comrades to wake them. Finn was the first to emerge upon this. Seemingly having been ready before Alban even awoke. Then came Augustus, to which Alban couldn’t even muster to look at. Third was Bjorn who emerged with a more quiet measure about him. Unspeaking, and unresponsive even to Finn as he tried to make small talk.

Finally, came Gunther. He emerged from his room pale with signs of a hangover amongst his breath.

“Quite a night, ay lads?” He gave a mischievous smile.

“Suppose you could say that,” Augustus responded, his voice dry.

“What's with ya?”

“Oh nothing, just a hard time sleeping, that’s all.” Augustus’ tone was one of exhaustion, it made Alban feel a pound of guilt upon his back that stung his mark even more. Maybe he thought about their conversation a lot last night. Maybe he was the cause.

“Finn, I need to speak with you,” Bjorn said. There was nothing but a look of seriousness in Bjorn’s eyes as he said this.

“What is it, my comrade?”

“It’s…it's a pressing matter, friend.”

Finn’s bubbly exterior seemed to dissipate as Bjorn said this, “What is it?”

Bjorn looked at the rest of the group and shook his head. “I can’t discuss this one on one, you all need to know.” Bjorn motioned toward Alban’s room, which led out the balcony. The group followed him toward it, all of them overlooking the sight of the distant church, and the distant hills and forests, all of which painted a mix of dark hues of purple, and bright oranges. Finn looked to his friend, the man he knew the longest in this group, ready to support whatever he had to say. The rest looked at him in anticipation, ready for what he was to say.

It took him a minute, and then he began, “In my culture, where I’m from, we have certain…beasts, creatures that lurk about its landscape. My family, we always had a sort of beast following us. Ever since the dawn of man I suppose. A Fylgja. A thing that follows man to their fortune or…their fate. My grandfather saw it many times, including before his death, my father saw it, before…before I lost him, and I’ve seen it many times throughout my travels. Every time I lay eyes upon it in my dreams it always tells me of another’s fate. Yet now, now it’s told to me of ours.”

The group was silent.

“What did it say?” Augustus asked.

“That we are to die. I don’t know how, but all it said was that we would. Damn it, I should’ve said something when I got that damn card!” Bjorn began to grasp the railing tightly in his skull, crushing hands. Everyone was in shock, not even knowing what to say, all but Augustus.

“Do you mean my cards?”

“Yes, yes your cards! You said they had meanings when you painted them, no?” Alban had no idea Augustus was an artist. Let alone the designer of such a unique collection of cards. It only made him seemingly admire him more, yet he pushed it down, focusing on the current situation.

“That I did,” his eyes went wide, “which one, just which one Bjorn? This is important.”

Bjorn began to clench the bar tighter and tighter, it creaking as if it were to snap any second now.

“The tower.” Augustus went quiet, disturbingly so.

“What does the tower mean?” Alban asked.

Augustus couldn’t even face Alban, “Augustus what does it mean? Tell us please!” His panic was plentiful and spilling out.

“It means disaster, Alban. It means disaster, chaos, trauma. Even in the best circumstances we might avert it, or possibly be able to resist it, but it also means…delaying the inevitable.” His face was pale and disturbed.

“So there’s no good course at all?” Gunther asked.

“No. It seems not.”

“What if it was all but a dream Bjorn, I mean maybe it is, right? Maybe?” Finn asked. Yet Bjorn shook his head and Finn knew he would, just hoping and clawing for anything positive to grab on to. But nay. There was nothing. Everyone stood in silent contemplation, wondering what to do.

Finally Finn spoke, “Look, I know that things look bleak, men, but I wouldn’t be a good leader if I didn’t give any sort of morale to my fellow brothers in arms. We may not have a fortunate outlook, but I can assure that with enough hope, enough faith will get out of this. We will not be a death march, for I didn’t bring us here to become bones and minced meat. We will get through this, I promise. Just don’t lose faith. Don’t lose hope.”

No one spoke, but instead a silent sort of agreement came then. They may be doomed, but they could only hope that it was as inevitable as Augustus’ cards said.

Finn looked out at the distance toward the church, “We need to get going, we have work to do, and payment to earn.” The group began to leave the balcony, yet Alban felt himself being watched. He turned back to give one last distant look at the church. For as it saw through him it saw his sins once more. It made his skin crawl. He knew what he had to do, and he’d do it for the group's sake. For their mortality was on the line.

They descended the stairs down into the main part of the brothel, where tables were being cleaned from the night before by its workers, presumably before heading to church. Amongst the groups of people, Alban spotted her. Eden. She was walking outside where they were going. Alban felt a mix of emotions.

The pragmatic side of him that preached religion felt she had deceived him and tried to make him a thing of sin, while his other half saw her as a concerned friend. He didn’t know which to feel. After all, this may be the last time he saw her. As they exited, Alban subtly pushed past a few members of the group, trying not to alert them so he could reach Eden.

He approached her to which she turned with a look of artificiality upon her face. At the moment trying to sell her services even in this early morning hour. Yet upon the sight of Alban her mask once again slipped, seeming happy at the sight of him.

“I suppose you're doing well sir, on a fine morning such as this?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” Alban said.

“How so?”

“Our fates-it’s in the balance of a coin flip. One of our members seemingly had a vision.” Eden almost laughed before she saw the seriousness on Alban’s face.

“Really?”

“It is what he said. Bjorn is a quiet man, he never speaks an ill truth, and it seems that today, we may very well be punished or ascended.”

Eden was quiet at this. She saw the rest of the group walking by and asked, “Where are ya off to?”

“The church, unfortunately. We’re looking for work, and they have it. Seems to be our only option.”

Eden froze at the mention of the church.

Alban gave a look of concern, “What?”

“I’ve heard whispers of something Alban, I never passed those doors, yet I heard of a supposed thing from clients. They called it, ‘Le Idole’. Sometimes they call it, ‘Le Sans péché Tarasconie’.” Her French was broken, yet it seemed to get the message across.

Alban looked confused, “What's that?”

“I’m unsure sir, all I know is its name and its reverence to his populace.” She grabbed Alban’s hand, warm to the touch with her heart, her emotions, “Please tread carefully Alban. I don’t wish to see ya disappear into nothingness.”

Alban gave a delicate, understanding nod. She really did care. Alban let go of her fingers slowly and began to set off, giving a wave goodbye as he began to catch up with the group. Eden could only stand and watch as he left. She shook her head as she began to walk away from the brothel. She couldn’t do this today. For her mask needed repair, and her token amount of coinage needed counting.

She needed time, for she knew Alban didn’t have much. Hopefully, such time would be generous to his soul. Hopefully.

* * *

As if bearing his guilt and sins upon his back, Alban slowly walked with the group toward the church. He knew what was to come. That bitter ringing. The smell of incense upon his nose hairs, strong enough to burn them. The sounds of chatter of those who chose to congregate, and the words of a priest within a sermon.

No one spoke, all of them dreading their supposed fates, if Bjorn’s vision was to be correct. Each footstep echoed hollowly against the ground as if stone upon bone. Finally, they were at its entrance. Men and women swarmed past them in lines and droves, ready to receive the guidance of their lord, ready to joyfully serve him. But Alban felt nothing but dread.

He looked up, seeing the monolith of a building before him. Its structure ornately carved and shining brightly amongst the early morning sun as if designed to do so. A large glass window sat at the center of carvings of trumpet playing angels, yet the window itself was unique. For upon its stained glass was depicted a lamb, staring absently into the distance.

Alban shuddered as he looked at it. It was a sign of sacrifice. A strange one to have at its entrance especially. He and the group finally began to approach the large doors, of which were made of a dark wood. Before them stood a priest. He was a large man. He was ornately dressed in fine garb, with two large crosses on either side of his robe, each ornately dressed with a gold lining, and inside each was depicted a mountain. His face was old, and one of fatherhood. His hair hung in gray strands, seemingly greasy and unkempt.

He held out his hand each time a person passed, shaking and greeting them. Then came Alban’s group. His face already was in a joyful smile, and when he first saw Finn approach, his mouth seemed to stretch and crack as if it couldn’t contain such a grin. It made Alban uncomfortable.

“Ah, new comers to thy church. Tell me, who art thou?” He spoke German, fluently and smoothly as if it was second nature. But then again, how did he know they spoke such?

“Finn Ferguson of Hibernia, leader of the Murtóir of Leanan Sídhe.” Finn didn’t question such at all, he merely went about his usual theatrics.

“Père Bram of the Tarasconie Église. You travel quite far from such a land, tell me are these men twixt, your jolly band?” he asked.

“That they are friend,” Finn’s jolly and gullible outlook always seemed to come back when he came face to face with a new soul. Such was his sheltered way. Such was a draw, such was a flaw.

“Well then, feel free to attend today’s service. We’re glad to have fellow members to enjoy our readings and sermons.”

“That we shall,” Finn said, “I will say, I will need to speak with you after the service. I heard from a certain Franksmen that you're looking for work.”

“That position,” he seemed to flick his wrist in a dramatic fashion at that, “yes, yes we can arrange something of the sort. It’ll just need some discussion. Please, go take a seat, I have plenty more hands to shake and greet.” Finn gave a nod, and the group followed him through the line of noblemen and women, accompanied by their children. All of the group was in awe.

The ceiling was low, yet, the whole place was polished to a tee, their faces visible in the marble floor, and in the various church ornaments. And at the center of this congregation, at its head, was an elevated area of floor with a lectern, and altar behind it, visible, through rafters, up and elevated above in the air, illuminated and lit by orange morning light was that bell. That godforsaken bell. A man stood at the top, a rope in hand, seemingly biding his time before he gave a ceremonious ring.

All of it, all of it was a reminder to Alban. He believed in God, yet he tried to avoid these places. These painful, horrible places that smelled of incense, of melting wax and candle smoke, ones where choirs sang a haunting melody before him, where preachers raved and spoke madly or not, preaching of times to come, hardship to endure.

Then there were those memories. The ones that hurt. Of persecution before an audience. The ones where he saw another man’s face, lusting over its muscularity, its chiseled form, and engaging in the most nefarious of acts with him. That was, till he was caught, by a holy man, a holy man who was not just a father in church role, but a father to Alban. A man so disgusted.

Alban felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see it was just Augustus. He was ushering Alban along as people muttered in quiet spite behind him, he caught himself in thought again. Finally, the group sat, lining themselves up in the middle section of pews. They were made of just pure wood, carved by the skilled hands of some sort of master craftsman. Like that of Augustus.

As they sat, the crowds of people around them chatted. All of which on topics of varying discussion it seemed.

How's the wife?

How are the gremlins you call children?

How is your crop yield?

At least that's what Alban thought. He didn’t understand French. He couldn’t help but stare for a moment out into nothingness as the mundanity of it all collected around him, such places made his mind wander, and that reminder would creep back in. He turned to Augustus who sat beside him, trying to scratch for something to keep his mind from slipping away,

“You never told me you made those cards.”

“You never did ask,” Augustus responded.

“I thought they were merely a unique trinket, from lands foreign. Possibly swiped off the back of an adventurous aristocrat.”

“nay, I designed them. Gave them meaning. I always did think life had a strange way of working.”

“How so?”

“It means he’s not as thorough a believer as you, friend,” Gunther cut in.

“Really?” Alban asked.

Augustus laughed a bit at that, “I never really believed in a God. If there was one, why would he have inflicted my position on me? A boy scrapping by in a wealthy empire of elites, not of the fortunate few. A child with no purpose, only able to sin to live. Then they ask me to repent for surviving? Please, such is artificial. There's no empathy. All he and his followers see is sin. And that's all they equate it to.”

Alban took a minute to consider such words. Such may have been true in his case, a lack of understanding, of true love from his parents. From his father. Yet, he grimaced. He knew he was a sinner. Just for who he loved. What he loved. But did he hold others to that standard?

“I never found myself thinking of that,” Alban said.

“Tis is the course for a man of cloth it seems.” The group was silent for a moment after that, that was until Bjorn spoke.

“Religion isn’t important to just Alban you know. My beliefs are strong, superstition, and signs of destruction. I suppose that is the same for you, Augustus?”

He gave a pause to think, before saying, “That sounds about right.

“I always held belief. Not in thou’s sort, but a mix I suppose. Signs of action, and a god above. It always caught my imagination. My family was good in that regard. They were sheltering, but they were loving. Always pushing me to think, to imagine. To explore,” Finn said.

“That is how you got this band together. Funding from them,” Bjorn responded.

“Tis true. All of you, hired by me. But Alban, thou art the exception. You stumbled upon us, right?” he asked as if waiting for confirmation.

Alban was silent as he remembered that night. The night after his most recent attempt to rekindle himself anew upon exile. Upon branding. Bruised, scarred, bloodied, and afraid. All of it stopped when he emerged from a treeline into an area of plains with wickers of flame licking at the dark like a dog does its wounds.

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s funny how that worked out friend, we thought Gunther was the last we’d need, but then you came along.” Gunther didn’t even speak. He didn’t dare express what drove him to such a cause. What he believed.

“I hope I’m a good addition in your eyes, Finn, really.”

“Thou art a great man Alban, one of the greatest I did know. You're quiet, but I see heart in you.”

“Thank you.” Alban, gave a weak smile at that.

It was then he felt his skin crawl as the sound of an organ began to fill the room. He hadn’t noticed it when he came into this place. It was off in a corner, seemingly neglected until now, when it came to life to scream, to scream the collected sin, and dust from its mouths. As it did, the crowd of people around them seemed to silence immediately, as if a fingertip to a candle.

Then, a series of heavy footsteps as the priest began to walk down the aisle. His heavy figure was imposing and grandiose as the bell above. He stretched out his arms before him as he slowly made his way to the lectern, as if embracing the air about him. After a long, crawling stare at this man, he made it to the raised earth, and walked behind the lectern.

On it was a bible. He cleared his throat. It was then Alban felt his heart sink.

Ding.

Dong.

Ding

Dong.

Ding.

Dong.

The bell let out its harrowing cry, so loud it overplayed the organ, and drowned it out as if it was a feeble insect. Alban felt his breath catch in his throat as it rang. He remembered that moment so clearly every time it rang.

“Bonjour,” the priest’s voice was loud, and heavy with a French accent as he spoke. Clearly his native tongue, unlike German.

“Bonjour!” the crowd said in unison.

“Je souhaite la bienvenue à tous dans cette joyeuse assemblée. Aux visiteurs, nouveaux et anciens.” He gave an upward motion with his hand, signaling for all in the room to stand, and before the group knew it, everyone was singing. Alban knew what that meant, he looked for the hymn book, finding it on the back of the pew in front of him. He grabbed the book of hymns and stood, opening it, only to be met with a foreign language he couldn’t interpret, nor a number.

He didn’t understand it, yet even then, it sounded off, everything about it, its tone, its pitch, the organ’s sound. All of it was strange. Off in such a miniscule way Alban thought he had to be imagining it. He stood there unsure of what to do with himself, until he decided to just mouth along to the words. He felt horrible doing it, yet he had no context as to what he should sing. Neither did the rest of the group, well except Finn of course. Yet Alban could hear him seemingly leading the congregation in song. He was too enraptured in this already. He got a bad feeling at that.

The thing with Finn was that when he met someone and found their interest, he partook in it to the fullest extent, to where he’d be so seemingly brainwashed and hyperfixated that he’d do whatever the person wanted. He could only hope that this father, this père, was one of the best intentions. Not one to harm. He could only hope, maybe this was a sign, maybe all of this way a large carving engrained in stone that merely read,

Get out.

Finally, the hymn concluded and the group sat once more as prayers began to be recited. Alban, again, mouthed along when needed. It hurt to do so, especially in the house of God, in such a sacred place. Yet he remembered the hurt it did unto him. Justly or unjustly, he still felt unsure. In front of a seemingly endless populus, in front of the altar, he had his arms tied, beaten and naked. The point? To humiliate.

Then, he came. The true humiliator. A large man, a large man brandishing…oh God it hurt to think about, oh God! The sizzling smell of burning, smoldering metal, it fried the hairs in his nostrils, it made him clench his teeth till they began to crack and reduce to nothing but fine bone dust. He cried in agony, cried out in pain and wrath as the iron was placed upon his naked back. As it sizzled and murdered his virgin flesh, he heard a voice amongst the smoldering sound,

Thou art mine sodomite,

Thou art deserving of my mark,

A lustful heir of a holy man, his pure cloth to which he named you.

Alban. Alban, the sodomite. A tainted white.

Thou art the beast’s now, my color of rot, my color of ruin.

He screamed, thrashed about only to be hit into submission or bound by his restraints. In a way he got off easy. He was a son to a priest, a well renowned one within the ranks of the Holy Roman Empire. He was lucky. Yet his fellow engager, oh his fate, his fate was horrid. Alban didn’t feel nearly as much of the hellfire as his partner. His now tender and beaten flesh was strapped upon a large wooden stake, seemingly driven into the ground by a nephilim, wrapped in chains about the wood and prevailed high into the heavens for God to see.

For his angels, for his fellow denizens of the kingdom above, for his son. For those below, for those who suffered amongst hellfire, those who were castrated and impaled about their faces by horned menaces within the fiery depths without a single light to guide any sort of spirit to a needed salvation. Nay, for those below soon found another amongst their ranks, dropped into their laps from above, a fallen man, a meek peasant that Alban was close with. He was burned for all to see. Amongst wood, amongst kindling, amongst ashes. He died.

Those last two words rang about Alban’s head. He knew this would happen if he let his mind wander. That he would come crawling back from the fiery depths of his mind to which he buried him. Alibrand. His flaming, decrepit visage pictured in his mind as he weeped for him, right then he felt himself about to break down again. He held his composure nonetheless.

After that day, he ran about the woods, cast out, exiled from his home. Living on the fringes of society. He barely ate, he barely slept, that vision of his, that glance at Alibrand’s burning face, permanently placed in anguish and horror as he screamed for mercy. For angels. For the Father. For the Spirit. For the Son. A scream so great he knew it shook heaven to its core, God to tears as he wept at such cruelty from his children. Why he did, he wasn’t sure, but  just as Alban finally heard it ring out in his ears, the organ began to blare once more. He’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t acknowledged a sitting hymn.

He cursed himself for thinking about such things. He was a sinner, through and through to himself, yet others said otherwise.

Why so?

Why?

WHY?

Why did they say such?

Why? He held the mark of the beast, he held the permanent mark of his sin, seared into his back tissue, forever there, a mark to which he belonged. He belonged! But there was that assurance. A hand touched him as they sat. He looked over, and saw Augustus reaching out his hand, seeing the pain and reddened eyes of Alban.

He looked at his hand. Such was sin, a great one, how could he bear to do it anymore? Yet, he reciprocated. That voice was still screaming at him as he did. He still felt guilty, yet, he laid his hand down and Augustus laid his upon theirs. For such was a comfort. He didn’t know why, but such was. Even in sin, there was still comfort. But to embrace it, he knew he’d be horrid to do so. He pulled his hand away then, and Augustus looked at him, confused and hurt, yet Alban shook his head. It was too much. He couldn’t. He turned his gaze away from his love, and heard a loud voice boom about the walls.

It was then, the sermon seemingly began.

“Dans le chapitre vingt-deux de la Genèse, l'histoire de la foi d'Abraham mise à l'épreuve est racontée au lecteur. Dans cette histoire, comme tout le monde le sait, Abraham tente de sacrifier son fils au Père sur son ordre. Pourquoi nous, les hommes, faisons-nous de telles choses? Dans la Bible, nous voyons à maintes reprises des hommes sacrifier ce qui leur appartient, ce qu'ils aiment, y compris Dieu.

[“In chapter twenty-two of Genesis, the story of Abraham's faith being tested is told to the reader. In this story, as everyone knows, Abraham attempts to sacrifice his son to the Father on His command. Why do we humans do such things? In the Bible, we repeatedly see men sacrificing what belongs to them, what they love, including God.]

“Dieu. Le Père. Il nous a donné son fils, et qu'avons-nous fait de lui? Nous l'avons tué. Nous avons cloué ses mains à une croix en bois, son sang innocent coulant et tachant le sol pendant que cela se déroulait. Mais pourquoi l'a-t-il fait? Pour notre bien! Il nous a donné son fils afin de nous libérer du poids du péché. Pour nous permettre d'être pardonnés, pour nous permettre d'entrer dans son royaume sacré, grâce à ce sacrifice. J'ai fait des sacrifices, comme Abraham. Vous avez tous fait des sacrifices.

[“God. The Father. He gave us his son, and what did we do to him? We killed him. We nailed his hands to a wooden cross, his innocent blood flowing and staining the ground as it happened. But why did he do it? For our sake! He gave us his son to free us from the burden of sin. To allow us to be forgiven, to allow us to enter his holy kingdom, thanks to this sacrifice. I have made sacrifices, like Abraham. You have all made sacrifices.]

“Des sacrifices pour le Seigneur. Vous avez renoncé à ce qui vous rendait heureux auparavant pour le bien de Dieu. Nous l'avons tous fait. Nous avons tous péché. Nous avons tous fait des sacrifices. Car le sacrifice est essentiel! Dieu souhaite que nous le traitions comme tel, que nous lui obéissons! Maintenant, nous pouvons nous asseoir et être nos propres dieux, non, nous pouvons lécher ses bottes à sa demande. Mais nous ne nous demandons jamais pourquoi nous lui donnons?

[“Sacrifices for the Lord. You gave up what made you happy before for the sake of God. We have all done it. We have all sinned. We have all made sacrifices. Because sacrifice is essential! God wants us to treat it as such, to obey Him! Now, we can sit back and be our own gods, no, we can kiss His boots at His request. But we never ask ourselves why we give to Him?]

“Nous lui donnons en remboursement les deux plus grands péchés de l'humanité. C'est la découverte de l'arbre de la connaissance et la mort du Christ. Nous avons rendu la pareille, notre congrégation, mais pour que cela soit garanti, il faut du sang frais. Car tout sacrifice a besoin de sang. Un agneau. Une chèvre. Un homme. Car nous devons sacrifier pour le bien de Dieu. Par tous les moyens nécessaires.

[“We give him back the two greatest sins of humanity. It is the discovery of the tree of knowledge and the death of Christ. We have returned the favor, our congregation, but for this to be guaranteed, fresh blood is needed. For every sacrifice requires blood. A lamb. A goat. A man. For we must sacrifice for the sake of God. By any means necessary.]

“Sers-le. Amen.”

“Amen!” the congregation responded in unison. A sitting hymn soon began afterward. Alban sat confused, wondering what was said. He looked over to Finn, who merely sat seemingly in thought at the sermon.

“What did he say?” Alban leaned over and whispered.

“A lot. A lot about sacrifice.” Alban went silent at that. Bjorn shifted uncomfortably nearby.

“You don’t think,” Bjorn started.

“I…I doubt it, Bjorn. Their words were quite extreme but I doubt it was malicious.”

Bjorn shook his head and slumped back in the pew.

“The service will be over soon, then we can have a jolly chat with him and arrange whatever we need. I must say, I find that I wonder what he expects of us.”

Gunther gave a shrug nearby.

“Clean the bell, fix something in the church,” Augustus said, seemingly listing off cliffnotes.

“A bell could fall on us, one of us could fall off said belltower, we could be killed in some sort of accident with decor.” Bjorn’s panic was measurable.

“It’ll be alright, friend, will be okay,” Finn assured.

Bjorn gave a stern sort of look, “Without control what are we Finn?”

“Thy tell me.”

“Pawns. Pawns of fate.” Bjorn shook his head, a nervous habit it seemed. It was as they spoke, a basket came nearby, a stout man carrying it. In it was a collection of coins and payment.

Finn gave a slight grin and placed a couple of coins in it for good measure. A generous man he was, even if gullible, he was never ending in terms of magnanimous. It was that generosity that allowed Alban in. When he emerged from the dense wood nearby, and into their camp. It was that generosity that bought his armor, and tended to his wounds. Finn was a good man, one of the best Alban knew.

As the man walked back to the altar and placed down the basket upon it, Père Bram motioned for all to stand. He uttered a few last prayers, before finally giving a departing word.

“Maintenant, va et sers ton créateur.”

“Amen!” the crowd said back. It was then the organ began to sing from its dreadful throats, and men and women began to funnel out in a stream of colors, and bodies. The group however, stayed. They had work to find, and it was here they knew they’d find it. The best paying kind, in the village of rich nobles.

Alban gave a soft chuckle as he thought about how long ago it seemed. That man that told them, God was he right about such a place. In a way, Alban really did begin to think in this obscure part of the world. In Tarasconie. As the crowds of people, Alban tried to steel himself for what was to come. Being face to face with a holy man. It was something he hadn’t done in a long time, not since…not since those days of terror.

Finally, the last few people emptied out of the church, leaving the stout man and Père Bram about the altar. There were a few stragglers left, talking with one another about their lives, they paid no mind to Alban and his group as they approached Bram.

His face seemed to contort to contain his smile once more as they approached, and Alban once again felt uncomfortable.

He walked over to Finn, “So, shall we discuss,” he looked at the rest of the group. Dirty hounds in a den of gilded felines, that's what they were, “Including in front of your membres?” His look was hesitant.

“I’d prefer so, such is only the most courteous thing, I’m amongst my men, theatric I am, above I am not.”

“Humble I see,” Bram said through his smile.

“That I suppose.”

“Now, I have a certain job for your membres and you, their capitaine.”

“Go on.”

The priest’s face seemed to change from one of joy to seriousness.

“The job is below the floor on which we stand, deep beneath this church in its catacombs. We have a certain problem down there.”

“Pray tell,”

“A man. In a way, he’s kin, yet I wonder if he is anymore. He’s become decrepit, mad. Lost within those halls of death for years now. We’ve tried to drive him out many times, yet he won’t give leave. Instead, he feasts upon the bones of those sent. As if a demon, he stalks those halls day and night and with such ferocious conviction, I doubt I could even convert him like that of a tarrasque.”

“What does thy want us to do?” Finn was seemingly put off by such a story.

“Purge him from those tunnels. By any means necessary, get him out. I’ll pay you a large sum of coinage if you do so.”

Finn took a moment to think, his face one of hesitance “It is as you said, we give sacrifice everyday, and those men gave their lives for such a purpose. Will do it Père Bram.”

At first the priest was caught off guard by his understanding of French, yet he gave a grin.

“Excellent, now if you will, follow.” Before Père Bram could lead them off Bjorn said loud and sternly, “Wait.”

Finn looked back at him, and even Bram turned his head.

“We need to discuss this as a group Finn, you know yourself.”

Finn gave pause and gave a motioning hand toward the group toward Père Bram and walked to the group.

“Alright, what's your thoughts?”

Alban was first to speak, “How can we trust him, Finn? He said that men have died down there trying to purge that man from those halls. How do we know we won’t meet the same fate, if not worse?” His face was one of hesitation.

Bjorn nodded, “The holy man makes a point. How do we know this isn’t going to result in our deaths?”

“My question is his motives,” Gunther said. The group turned to him, to which he shrugged, “Ya’ never know what a man thinks, and who they really are till they show themself. Willingly or not.”

“The arse raises a point,” Augustus said, “how sure are we of his legitimacy?”

Finn, like Gunther before shrugged, “He’s a man of the cloth. He’s trustworthy. When has one led you astray?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Augustus seemingly gave a small glance toward Alban. Such a look stung yet he knew why he gave such.

“Y’know, this thing the priest described, it sounds like a draugr. Something lurking about a tomb, guard it with intentions of death to those who dare enter.” Bjorn said.

Alban felt himself agreeing with Bjorn. It was, after all, eerily similar to such a beast he’d encountered before.

“But this seemingly could be a man, and why would it guard this place if not specifically meant to?” Augustus asked. Gunther looked at him and seemingly began to consider himself.

“Such things may happen by accident.” Bjorn said.

“Even then you’ve faced such a thing before brute. Couldn’t you do it again?” Gunther asked.

Bjorn’s face seemingly went tragic as he remembered the experience. Augustus shook his head a bit at that, Gunther’s words had gone a bit too far. It wasn’t just about that, he knew it wasn’t, but also how he lost his companions before. Something that may happen again today.

But then Alban remembered those words, and who he’d told. For a moment he remembered Eden’s words,

I’ve heard whispers of something Alban,

I never passed those doors,

yet I heard of a supposed thing from clients.

They called it, ‘Le Idole’.

Sometimes they call it, ‘Le Sans péché Tarasconie’.

“Another thing as well,” he said, “I talked with my…friend from last night. She’d said she’d heard whispers of something called, ‘Le Idole’. There was another name yet I’m unsure how to pronounce it, but what if it’s connected?”

“The Idol?” Finn asked, “What kind of idol would this beast be?”

“I’m unsure, but such is to be seen. I’ve seen and heard of strange things in my homeland. You have as well Finn. A seeming worship of those undeserving, of an evil orientation. I feel we need to take a moment to vote, Finn. See which path we should take, for this involves both the death of a beast, and a man,” Bjorn said, “a crossroads, we are at.”

“So it seems. Well then, will take a vote.” The group fell silent.

“Raise thy hand if we shall pursue.”

Gunther raised an arm, and Augustus did as well, same with Finn.

“Outnumbered it seems,” Bjorn said, his face didn’t reveal much of his hand, yet Alban could feel a sort of dread radiate off his skin.

Then he turned to Augustus, “I’m surprised you’d vote for such, Augustus,”

“There’s payment involved, Alban, and life, life has a strange way of working as I said.”

“That is true,” he responded. They needed the money to survive. Without money, a mercenary band was nothing.

“Then we shall proceed, come my merry band, we walk a line between fates, and it's a line I’m willing to risk. For I trust this holy man.” The group followed Finn then as he walked toward Père Bram, motioning for him to continue his lead.

So, he began, trekking out of the main hall of the church and behind a door. Behind it, a dark hallway that seemingly stretched for miles. Before entering, the priest grabbed a nearby candle holder from a table. It had three candles lit upon it, with elaborate displays of angels spent across them, holding up flames, seemingly within their hands. He motioned for all to accompany as he led them down the hall. The group began to move past him as he stood by, seemingly preferring to stick to the back.

As Alban approached, he felt hesitant, before looking at the priest. His eyes weren’t as joyous as they’d once been, only a sort of seriousness remained amongst their pupils. Alban gave a sigh and moved forward, untrusting of such a man. Then, once they all were within the hall, the père shut the door behind them. Sealing them within the dark, only accompanied by the wickers of flame amongst a holy pitchfork.

They advanced forward into the depths, through stairways, and long halls, Finn leading the charge while the holy man held toward the back. Seemingly undaring to see what this seeming kin of his had become. Finally, they reached it. Finn halted immediately when he saw it, the rest of the group crashing into him in the dark. Curses were exchanged as they stood to observe what lay in front of them.

It was an elaborately carved thing of stone, upon it, a large skeletal thing was depicted above, its arms seemingly crossed above its chest as if it had been laid to rest. Around the shape of its head were depictions of grandeur iconography; crosses, streaks of light, and what seemed to be veins as well. It was hard to tell in the darkness if that truly was the extent of such symbols.

Below the skeletal thing, depicted on the door frame, were a series of arms that clung onto one another, rotted and broken, barely clinging upon one another for some sort of structure, some sort of support in this trying time, as if their belief held them there. Upon the large, stone door was something carved in old French,

Comme le Fils siège au-dessus, le Diable réside en dessous,

Dans le monde éveillé et verbal, il existe un équivalent pour tous,

Ce qui est en haut est comme ce qui est en bas.

“This is it. Here, I depart. I wish thy group luck, Finn Ferguson of Hibernia. Your courage shall be needed.” He then handed the candle to Alban, for him to hand to Finn.

“Slay such as you did that vampiric fairy queen.” Finn gave a smile, and nodded. Soon after, the group entered. The door, closing behind them, truly leaving them within darkness. Alban kept his grip upon the candlestick, clutching it like a sacred pendant to God. He looked at the others within the dim light, their faces seemingly confused and graven as they looked about the area.

It was dark. The darkest place Alban had ever seen. He could barely see a foot, no, a few inches in front of where he stood. It was all consuming, ever present, a counter to the light above. He wondered if this was what Hell was like.

“So, shall we begin?” Finn asked.

“This place, Finn. It’s dark,” Bjorn said.

“No shit muscles,” Gunther responded. Bjorn gave a frustrated sigh and Alban thought he saw him look at Finn in the dark.

“We need to think of a plan. If this man is about these halls as the priest said, we need to know how to counter it. We need light as well.”

“I’d just hope our eyes adjust,” Augustus remarked. “Just think of it like a dark wood. Our eyes adjust eventually. We may be at a disadvantage for a while, but it’ll come.”

“You're right about such, thief, but I’d rather find a more instant source. We’re not going to be left liable to a predator within the shadows.” He outstretched a hand to Alban.

“Hand me the candle,” he said. Alban complied and before anyone could say a word, Bjorn snapped the ornate pitchfork into three pieces, each with a candle atop. He handed one to Finn, one to Alban, and kept the final piece.

“Now then, our plan.”

“Yes my fellow,” Finn said, “now, we have our blades and arms, yes?”

Alban checked. He had his shield and blade. Him and the others gave nods of silent agreement.

“Catacombs are winding places of bone and brick. It’s a labyrinthian place, and as such, it has dead ends. We should try to corner the man, then we can do what we must.”

“Murder him?” Alban asked.

Even in the dim light, Alban saw Finn’s face change to a solemn look, “Yes. Just think of it like that of a soldier. One we’re usually hired to fight. This time, it’s a man driven to madness, in need of…in need of rest.” No one spoke after that.

For an eternity it felt, they stood in the dark, weighing the possibility of what it was they were going to do.

That was, till Bjorn asked, “Shall we proceed?”

“That we shall, brother,” Finn said. Finn led the group through the winding miles of tunnel, outstretched before them like some sort of great complex. It smelled of rot, skin peeling from bone, bodily fluids leaking from the cadavers as they finally succumbed to the fate of fly meal. Their sounds echoed throughout the vastness about the place. The scuttling and writhing of their insectoid bodies as they feasted upon those recently and long dead, it crept through their ears as if the spindly legs of a spider.

It was then, Alban noticed the first thing that was strange. Barely noticeable within the firelight of his candle, he saw something shine.

“Finn?” he called out.

“Yes?” He stopped and turned to see what Alban saw. His face went from concern, to confusion. Nearby, upon the ground stood an elaborate ornament, not dissimilar from one you’d seen in a church, like that of above.

“What's the problem Alban?” he asked.

“Look.” Alban pointed at the golden object. Upon it, was wax. A candleholder. But the wax, the wax was melted. Alban outstretched a hand to touch it. It was still seemingly warm, and gooey as if someone had just recently been down here to light it. Yet, what sort of maniac would do such a deed with a beast of man lurking about this place?

“It’s melted,” Gunther said.

“No shit drunk,” Bjorn retorted.

“Who, who would light it?” Augustus asked.

Finn shook his head, “Would this beast be intelligent enough to do so?” Alban didn’t know. None of them knew.

“What…what sort of reverence would even be needed down here in a place such as this? You don’t think-” Augustus didn’t want to finish his sentence.

“No. I’m telling thou comrade we have not been led astray by such a holy man. I’m telling you. No such man, not one of such physique would I expect to ever hold such a pagan thing in their system of belief.”

“And they call my people that,” Bjorn muttered.

“We’re not sure. It could just be, a-a coincidence, ya?” Gunther tried to rationalize this seemingly insignificant detail.

“I’d hope,” Finn said. His voice was seemingly doubtful now. A sharp turn from his jolly demeanor. It put all of them on edge.

“Progress we must brothers, progress we must,” he said. They began to move forward once more. Alban felt a growing fear in the back of his mind, like that of his previous sins before. He could feel them here. Seemingly physically. The dark. So dense, so sinful. So inevitable, so interconnected to the world at large. Like that of sin. Sin. That damn word. That damned word. It still haunted him, despite it all, despite everything! It bounced about his ears making them ring as if he were the bell. His ears rang and rang. Ringing and ringing, till-

Eugh.

Alban paused his movement. The rest of the group didn’t notice till Finn looked back. This time, his face was of fear. He’d heard it too.

Eugh.

It rang out again. Louder. More distinct. Then came another noise.

Jingle.

Jingle.

Alban grabbed the hilt of his blade and readied himself, the likes of his brothers did the same. They could all sense it in the air, the tension, the energy. All of it right for something, just anything to appear.

And it did. It appeared in flesh. A decaying carrion. Eaten away by vermin, pale tissue decorated elaborately by golden charms that seemingly jangled as it moved about. Chains they looked to be, all of which elaborately decorated with engravings and jewels, made of gold and precious ore that the lowest of class would never see within their days of life. This thing, its back leaned forward to support itself, its arms long and covered by this jewelry. Gold and metal decorated its body, it shined a strange glisten as it moved within the dim, orange light of the candles the group held.

The worst part? Oh the face. That damned face. Alban would never forget it. Never. A face encased within a strange ornament. Rounded with circles about its sides, decorated elaborately with engravings of prayers and hymns, crosses and veins, jewels and dried blood. And behind a shining film of glass, behind it, behind the engravings, behind the vanity, behind it all, a rotted face. Dead. It should’ve been dead, dear God it should’ve been dead the group thought. nay, for it stood, it stood without eyes, without a nose, an agape mouth, its tongue seemingly gone, and naked for all to see, exposing its rotted, dying flesh, and castrated state.

Amongst it writhed obese maggots and flies that were bound inside such by its elaborate chains of gold and hymnal. It should’ve been dead.

Then came the smell. An odor of rot, the source of it all in this tomb. Before, they never saw a body, only bones, and could only hear the sounds of insectoid feasting within dense coffins. Yet, their scent of death was nothing in comparison to this. This beast. This thing.

Dear God, it should’ve been dead.

Alban didn’t move, he was in shock as it emerged from the darkness beside him. He didn’t speak, he didn’t think. Only stood. This beast, this thing, it moved. It moved fast. It didn’t go for Alban. Instead, it went for a man who’d already begun to run away. Gunther. In life he always ran. Ran from his problems. Ran from his family, a place of pain and harm. He ran away from it all at the promise of payment within a group.

He ran. The beast followed.

In life, he drank, sometimes to near death just to escape it, the hurt, the horror of it all.

He ran and ran. The beast followed.

He partook in acts of love, hoping to drown out the pain, somehow counter it in love, and relations.

With all his might he sprinted. The beast followed.

Yet it was all in vain. For every day he could only remember. He never did speak of it. Not even in death.

For in death he ran, yet the beast followed. It pounced upon his body. Bjorn rushed it, grabbing his large blade, dragging it amongst the ground as he ran, letting out a ferocious battle cry. His muscles tensed, ready to land the killing blow. Yet the beast turned and swatted him away with its skinny arms, sending him into the nearby wall.

“Gunther, Bjorn!” Finn cried out. Yet his cries did nothing. The beast then lowered its face to Gunther, giving him a dose of foul, rot stenched air, and a clear look at its source. Its face made Gunther want to scream, yet he couldn’t. For some reason he couldn’t. He couldn’t will himself either. He tried and tried yet when he did his vocal cords felt as if they may snap into sinewy tissue.

The beast’s face got closer and closer, the group could only watch to their horror. Then Gunther saw it. Himself within the beast’s reflection. This was who he could be if he finally just faced it all. Took to God’s word within scripture. Embraced him. Yes. That's what he would do.

Embrace it.

Embrace it.

Embrace it.

And as Gunther lay there, the beast’s hollow gaze stared deeper and deeper into his soul. His breath slowed and slowed, till finally, he breathed no more. His body began to shrivel into a skeletal form, draining any nutrients left in it, and the beast stood, its headpiece weighing its head down as it did so. It turned to the group, facing them with its gaze. It had taken first blood.

Bjorn stood, dazed and in great pain as he did so. He looked at the sights about him, he froze up as he did. By the gods no. No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be. No! His breath quickened as he stared at the beast. Its enrapturing gaze. He saw the falsehood in it, he clutched his blade and turned to the group who stood by in the same stupor.

“Run!” he yelled. That they did. They beast didn’t pursue, merely standing and watching as such occurred, before scuttling off into the dark on all fours like an animal, its head permanently fixed upon their direction as they made haste. They ran and ran, till finally they saw a room within the endless hall, and Finn threw himself in it, urging the others to do the same. Alban, and Augustus ran in, and Bjorn was last to enter, looking back before doing so. They all collapsed about the ground.

None of them spoke. How could they, dear God how could they? It was then Finn broke down. His eyes burned with tears until finally he began to sob softly upon the ground in a heap.

“Gunther-oh Gunther-no, no, no!” he cried out, only for Bjorn to place hand on his mouth to silence him. He looked at his friend. Grief stricken, broken. He removed his hand, and he collapsed into Bjorn’s arms, crying silently as Augustus and Alban sat shocked.

“It killed him,” Finn spat out. “It killed him. Without a scar, without blood, it killed him.”

Bjorn stared off, in shock. His vision, it was true. Fate was to win. He didn’t cry. He didn’t shout. Instead, he stared off into the wall nearby, unable to muster any sort of words. He wondered if it was a draugr as he had before, but no, it couldn’t have been. Such wasn’t so…tactical, so pristine it in its movement. And how it killed him, Gunther, how it killed him, there was no explanation, no visible splatter of crimson ichor, no gaping wound, not a dented skull mixed with brain matter.

No, this was something else.

Alban couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. How could such a thing happen? How was it possible? Then, came what Augustus had before said.

“Was this a trap?” Alban mumbled. No one spoke. They didn’t know. They didn’t know. Oh how fate worked, how it pulled its strings. So cruelly, so horrifically, as if they were a man’s tendons and veins. Stretching and stretching them and bringing about agony to those attached. They didn’t know. It very well could’ve but was this not the beast described to them.

“By God this is my fault,” Finn managed to weep out.

“Finn. You're not at fault, this could've been deception,” Augustus said, trying to comfort him. “It takes a con artist to know another.”

“What does that matter!” he snapped back, “Gunther’s dead, dead because of me. Me. Not that holy man. Nay, I fell for what was possibly his scheme. I brought us to our grave inadvertently it seems. For Bjorn’s visions were true.” Augustus didn’t respond. How could he? In a way he was right. He believed him, and led them to this fate. For this was the consequence of that.

“We're not dead yet,” Bjorn muttered, still dazed, “I may not have been able to save him, I may have not been able to save my family from their fate. But I’m this group's protector. And I’ll ensure you all make it out of here. Alive. Outside of my fate.” He grasped the hilt of his sword. He might’ve been weakened some from their encounter, yet that fire, that drive for control in his life, still burned within Bjorn like coals in a furnace.

Finn looked up at him through tears, “What's our move then? We can’t stay here forever. It’ll find us.”

“Simple. I get us out of here through the door. Meanwhile you all watch me as-”

“No.” Finn's words were blunt, and it caught even Bjorn off.

“What?”

“I’ll stay behind and draw attention to myself. I got us into this mess Bjorn, you all may try to argue with thee, but I did. I failed as a leader. I let my trust drive my decisions. And now? Gunther’s dead. But you know what I can do? Be a leader, and let my brothers, my comrades live. A leader puts others first. Not themself.”

Bjorn didn’t know what to say. Alban and Augustus sat in shock as well at the declaration. Alban thought he felt tears in his eyes. Finn went to stand and Bjorn grabbed his arm.

“Finn, you can’t.” His voice was weepy, as if he were to burst into tears, “After all these years worth of companionship, and travel.”

“It's how a leader dies, my friend. For the sake of others.”

“But I’m supposed to protect you. If I can't protect my family, if I can't protect Gunther, and if I can’t protect you, what am I?”

“You're a man Bjorn. A mere man, a strong man, but not a god. Even without me, there’s Alban and Augustus. They have lives to live still. They’re young. You and I, friend, we’ve seen so much. I find it’s my time. My time to embrace the mare of death before me.”

Bjorn looked at him, years streaming through his mind like the tears did down his face. Then he embraced Finn.

“For them I suppose. I’ll never forget you Finn. Mark my words, never.”

“I expect as much, Bjorn.” He removed himself from his friend’s grasp and went to the threshold of the doorway.

“I’ll head out first toward where I think we were heading, you circle back and get them through that door. Understood?”

Bjorn nodded, whipping tears from his eyes. Alban and Augustus watched as this happened. Finn was a good man, one of the best Alban knew.

Meanwhile, as Finn embraced the darkness before him, he gave a smile. For the sake of his comrades, for the sake of his morale. The drying streams of tears on his face stretched and cracked as he did so. He walked and walked, thinking of Bjorn, and the group. He remembered meeting Bjorn. A man originally fighting for his parents and their noble house, and given to him as protection in a new world of possibility. The two always got along from day one, they were friends till the end it seemed. After him came Augustus. He’d scammed Finn due to his naive nature, and Bjorn managed to catch him and threaten him into payment. Said payment was to accompany them.

At first the man was distant, but he grew accustomed to the two, friends even. And when his debt was paid, he didn’t give leave, instead he stuck with them, allowing for a fourth member. Gunther. A quiet man from a horrid home. Finn never asked him about it, if anything he wished he did. Maybe he would’ve been able to cope better. Maybe.

Finally, bruised and wrapped in dirtied cloth, came Alban. Disgraced, and forsaken it seemed. He never told much of what occurred in his life, but he was always there, a sort of balance to the group's antics as a holy man. He wished he would’ve been able to know him better. He really wished he did. But at least him and Augustus got along. Those two. Inseparable, and it made Finn ponder if more was at stake in such a relationship.

He wouldn’t have cared, he’d have embraced it, Bjorn might’ve been tough on it, but t’was his culture. He’d learn. Gunther wouldn’t care. It was then he saw Gunther’s corpse. Dried and shriveled. The life and essence sucked away from his body. Finn looked at the dent in the wall, the one left by Bjorn. The thing was strong. Yet he’d fight even in vain for his comrades. And to attract it, he began to whistle. A familiar tune, one from his homeland of Hibernia.

The tale of the Dun Cow. He whistled it, as such a tale was told to him in song. He whistled as loud as possible. For such a song was about seemingly impossible odds, even for a great warrior, yet Guy of Warwick slew it.

“Such was to be this beast,” he thought. And said beast emerged.

Eurgh.

Jingle.

Eurgh.

Jingle.

It followed the sound of song and even in the darkness, and low light Finn saw its silhouette running forward.

“For Warwick was saved, not by him, but his comrades.” Those last thoughts, and that always present smile were what Finn took to the grave. And even within his final moments, he never let it falter.

* * *

Bjorn looked about each corner carefully as the trio progressed. They were silent. Not daring to make any sort of noise out of fear of being spotted or found. The dim, orangish light of their candles gave an eerie glow to the place. Painting all in a demonic orange like that of hellfire. It was then, they saw it.

The door, still there. There was hope. Bjorn looked around, and approached quietly, Alban and Augustus not far behind. Bjorn took a deep breath and popped his knuckles before he placed his fingers between the crack of the door and its frame. He began to pull. Its stone not moving an inch, not even producing a sound. He tried harder, and harder, yet it didn’t give way toward him. He removed his fingers and felt a primal rage consume him.

“No!” he thought. He wouldn’t allow for Finn’s final wish to be disregarded. He was going to get them all out of here. Protect them. He then backed away from the door, before putting his full weight in shoulder. Then he began to ram it like a mighty goat. He did this again and again, and it didn’t give any sort of way. Finally, he took one last run toward it, and as he hit it, he felt his shoulder bones break, the sound of their snapping marrow echoing throughout the endless halls.

He collapsed onto the ground in a heap, falling backwards. Alban and Augustus were on him within minutes.

“Are you alright?” Augustus asked.

Bjorn gritted his teeth, and said through them, “It won’t budge.”

“What?” Alban asked.

“Nothing worked. We’ve been set up. By the Gods my vision was right. We’re going to die.” he began to chuckle at that.

“We’re going to die,” he laughed.

“We're going to die!” he cackled madly as he rolled about the ground.

Alban tried to say something but was blocked out by his mad speech.

“We’re going to die! Die I tell you, die!” he’d finally lost it. After years and years of loss, after years of losing those around him, Bjorn finally snapped. First was his family. Killed in cold blood by a roaming band of raiders that were rampaging across Norger.

Then came his comrades in war. Killed by blades, catapults, spears, and impaling through their entire bodies, exiting out their mouths, and chests. Then came Gunther. Then came Finn. Now he’d failed his last wish. His last ask of him. A failure he was. A loser in the fight against fate. Oh he always was. He never could win. And fate laughed at him as he flailed about madly.

Now he rolled about, mad and a failure.

“Bjorn!” Augustus yelled. He didn’t listen. Instead he cackled a maniacal laugh.

Alban shook his head as he looked down at his once stoic, and sane comrade, simple in word, and blunt. Blunt he was now, yet madly so. And now, all he could do was watch as he’d been reduced to nothing within mere minutes of loss. You think a mercenary would be used to it. Loss. Tragedy. War. Yet, Bjorn despite it all, all that Alban had heard of his experiences, wasn’t. It was then Alban heard a sound.

Jingle.

Eurgh.

Jingle.

Eurgh.

It approached.

“Bjorn snap out of it! Protect us, we’re still here, and will find another way!” Alban was done trying to be quiet.

“Don’t you see? We’re dead. All of us. Everytime I see that damned mare within my nightmares, oh does it bring such, does it bring death, oh by the Gods does it! Fate is sealed. What's the point in trying? We’re dead Alban! We’re going to die!” His breath was slowing and he merely gave rough coughs in place of laughs.

Augustus and Alban looked at him and to each other. Alban felt his breath catching in his throat as the beast approached. They couldn’t leave him here. Yet, it seemed convinced that his time was over. And Alban understood that. He turned to Augustus and gave him a look.

“We can’t Alban we-”

“His mind is made up, our lives are at stake within seconds, now we must hurry!” He cut him off. Augustus looked to Alban and Bjorn. He turned to Bjorn saying, “Farewell comrade. I’m glad to have been indebted to you and Captain Finn.” He grabbed Alban’s hand and they ran. To where they didn’t know. As for Bjorn he looked at fate, to which fate took the form of a beast.

It was then he realized the connection. He laughed weakly at his stupidity. The signs were there. It was the Idol that Alban had heard of. They were but horses to a slaughter, similar to those given to the Norse gods. He knew his fate. He knew his failures. In death, in the face of fate, he laughed. He laughed at the Idol. He laughed at fate. He laughed at his death. And as the Idol lowered itself upon Bjorn he saw what he could’ve been. A protector, a defier of fate. Yet such, such was impossible. And he knew it, so he laughed. He laughed till his lungs shriveled like his skin.

* * *

The two ran. Augustus and Alban. A man of trickery and moral dubiousness, and a man of cloth and righteousness. Funny how it worked out. Funny it was how they were drawn to one another. Yet, Alban couldn’t bring himself to defy his fate. He knew the consequences of such. He knew the world at large. Yet that voice in his head. Telling him to embrace it, spoken by Eden, and another before her.

The two ran and ran till finally they saw a room and ducked into it. Alban’s candle light wasn’t able to see everything, yet its flicks of ember shone off the iconography within this room. Bits of church decor, and candles that had been placed recently, and ages before. The coffins of others lay parallel to each other on each side of the room. A circle was painted in red upon the ground in between them, within it a cross, and severed objects that lay about, rotted and mummified into almost nothing. Such was a strange thing. Then it hit Alban. Blood. Sacrifice. That thing, that ornate cadaver was the Idol.

The two collapsed upon the ground, their energy spent. They’d run and run. Hoping to outrun the beast and its seemingly deadly gaze. The two were silent, not daring to speak. Instead they breathed. Alban had a hard time still looking at Augustus. He didn’t know what to say now. If these were their final moments, he wondered if he should truly express himself to him. Tell him how he felt, his confliction, possibly indulge within such sinful desire one last time before their passing. The last, the last was impossible to Alban. He shook his head silently. But he knew he should say something.

“Augustus?”

He turned his head, “Yeah?”

Alban tried to contemplate what to say, “I’m sorry,”

“Sorry for what?” Then a look of recognition crossed his face.

“I’m sorry for not reciprocating. I do love you, I’ll say it, I love you and I’m sorry I didn’t express it sooner. It’s just-my faith, my trauma, I can’t bring myself to know if such would condemn me if I were to love you. I’m sorry. I do love you. I just-I just-”

“I love you too,” Augustus said. Alban looked over at him. He gave a weak smile.

“I’ll say it as the game draws to a close, I love you too. I show my hand now. And I forgive you. I relent. If we don’t make it out of this I wanna say it like you did. I love you too. No matter what.” Alban fell silent and could only stare into Augustus’ eyes. He imagined what their life together would look like if they somehow got out of here. Live isolated in the woods, work farm land possibly, and it be just the two of them. Their love for each other, fuel for an everburning fire. It was then Alban heard that scream, saw those flames in the corners of his eyes.

It was sinful. That was it. There was no other retort. It was sinful and he should feel bad because that was what was said. It was not to be questioned. And as Alban felt those feelings rush back, he heard it.

Eurgh.

Jingle.

Eurgh.

Jingle.

The Idol was approaching. Alban glanced quickly to Augustus who seemed petrified by fear. He looked about the room, and Augustus only looked on in fear and confusion at such an action. Then he saw it. The coffin. He moved the granite lid, the noise of stone against stone echoing throughout the room, and Alban looked inside. No one was within. He looked to Augustus and took his hand.

“Alban, no you can’t just-”

“Augustus.” He looked at Alban.

“I’m not going to let you see me die. I’d rather you not have to see that if that’s the case. And I’d rather you be safe than me. I’m the one deserving of the beast’s mark, I’m the one left scarred and broken. You're not. You still have life to live. If I cannot love you, I’ll save you.”

Augustus had tears in his eyes. Today was the most Alban had seen the group cry. It was the most he had in a long time. He felt tears stream down his face, his breath shaky. He helped Augustus into the coffin and before he closed it said, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Augustus said.

Then he moved the lid shut, sealing the coffin. Alban looked at the door’s threshold. He saw an approaching shadow in the dim candlelight and unsheathed his blade like he had before. He placed the candle upon the coffin and waited.

Eurgh.

Jingle.

Eurgh.

Jingle.

It got closer and closer till finally, the Idol stood at the doorway, staring at Alban. Its head shifted, and cocked about as if to admire its prey. Alban began to back away and the beast approached, and before he knew it the two’s steps were in sync, the two were in a dance. Their steps correlated about the bloodied circle and cross as they moved. Walking and readying themself to pounce as if a predator circling another. Alban felt his fingers dig into his hand as he tightly grasped his sword’s hilt. The Idol’s chains rattled and jangled a haunting melody of death and despair.

He wouldn’t let it get anywhere near Augustus. Even if it cost his life, he wouldn’t let it. And as Alban readied himself, the Idol lunged. It knocked him to the ground, bashing his head off one of the nearby stone coffins. Alban felt a sharp sting in his skull, yet his adrenaline drowned out the pain. It was then the sickly sweet lifeblood of his body began to drip from his head wound. He held his blade up with his arms, the Idol fighting against his force upon the blade to get low enough. It was getting closer and closer to Alban’s face. He began to see into the glass, he saw its horrid and decayed face, and its features. He felt a will to let go yet he fought it. But the Idol only seemed to push his blade down further, and as it did Alban saw something within the glass besides that face.

* * *

As those within the church left to start their day and week anew, father Abbe noticed the man. A straggler compared to the rest. He stood, clutching the pew’s top as he waited for him to notice him.

“What doth thou do standing here, sir?” the priest asked.

“I am here…I am to confess, father,” the man said. He looked at the man. He’d noticed his condition since he’d walked in. Broken. Bruised. Exiled it seemed. Yet, every man deserved such a right.

“Very well sir, follow me.” The man followed father Abbe, past the altar, past the shelves of books into a nearby hallway. In which a small, wooden confession booth sat. The priest stepped in one side, the man the other. The two were silent for a moment. Father Abbe wondered how to begin before he managed to think of something to say.

“Tell me thine son, what troubles thou?” he asked.

“Father, I come to repent,” the man said.

“For what such sin?”

The man was quiet for a moment, trying to think of what to say.

“Take thy time. Everyone needs time. Everyone has plenty of it.”

Finally after what seemed minutes of silence the man spoke, “I am a sodomite. I slept with a man. To which I was punished by my father and his clergy. My partner burned.”

The priest was taken aback.

“By the lord’s mercy…” he said.

“I-I ask of you, father, what can I do? I can’t help but like those of my ilk, those of man, what can I do?”

Father Abbe took a minute to think. Such was inhumane in his eyes, the deaths of those for whom they loved, it made him sick. God wouldn’t have approved of such, Jesus, Jesus would’ve wept at such tortuous fates. He didn’t agree with it, he didn’t think it was normal, but he knew such was just how some felt.

“Nothing sir. I don’t agree with your choices, who thy love, but as is human nature, such is thy choice. Thee cannot decide such for another man. Such brutality is no answer. Understanding should’ve been what was key, my son. I’m sorry for such tragedy and loss.”

The man was silent, contemplating.

“I assure thou, that such is thy choice, no one else's, not mine, not your father’s, not even God’s. For thou should be who they wish. Tell me, what is thy name sir?”

The man was still silent. It took him a while to even speak.

“Alban.”

As those words rang throughout Alban’s head, he finally knew what he saw within that glass. A reflection. His face. Himself. Bleeding and fighting. This thing was what he could be if he lost himself to what others wanted. This was who he could become. What he could become.

Such is thy choice,

no one else’s,

not mine,

not your father’s,

not even God’s.

Alban drove his blade upward and with all his might he cleaved the blade of his sword into the Idol’s neck flesh, and with a leftward swipe he sent its head flying into the air. Before finally it fell upon the ground with a crack and the hollow sound of metal against stone. Alban sat up, his breath quick and hard to control. He’d killed it. He’d won. He touched his head wound with one of his hands and it stung, he pulled away and saw a glob of blood about it. He gave a laugh. A laugh of acceptance. Embrace.

He stood up his movement wobbly, and with the same might he pushed the coffin open. Augustus’ looked up at Alban and before he could react, he embraced him in a large hug. The two souls intertwined. The two souls, infatuated with one another.

* * *

It had been days since their venture into this place. Maybe weeks. Alban didn’t know. Augustus didn’t know. The sun never shined within this place, nor did the million eyes of the God above them. Instead, it was replaced by an eternal dark, an eternal mask to lull those heavy, distressed eyes into a comatose slumber, to finally embrace such tire, to finally embrace such slumber.

They’d tried to find an escape, yet they knew such was impossible, and they were at a disadvantage if someone did come down here. It was over the course of a few days they held one another close. They laid about the cold, hard ground that was littered with webs and dust. Attempting to ensure one another’s warmth. They talked a lot, surprisingly. In a way, Alban felt it was the last few conversations they’d ever share together.

They talked of their pasts. Their ambitions before this, what little they really had. Their comrades, and their fates. By those final few hours they began to randomly laugh.

Within it became a prevalent madness that burned at their eyes and their skin, at the ends of their throats. They laughed and laughed, giving a mad cackle as they embraced one another, falling to the ground. One last time. This time they’d do it, for their sake, for if they didn’t they wouldn’t have another chance. They were gods of this tomb now, everything beneath them in intelligence and manner. They ruled it now, having beheaded its previous monarch, its previously worshipped messiah, and they took his place. They were bound by no rules, no judgement from others, for they ruled, and all that was below them were but vermin, and the dead. And it was then through laughs and labored breath they finally danced, one last hurrah within their final moments. They danced and danced, partaking in one another’s essence and gaze as they did.

That love apparent from both sides. That doomed union. That oh so doomed love. A maddening dance of such feelings, and emotion so raw it was laborious for them. They danced and they danced, a mad dance.

For they were no longer men bound by their constraints, by society’s expectations, by God’s views and words, but by their emotions. For in this land, they danced, and danced in this buried place, till they could dance no more, till the air left their lungs and their moment of passion left them sweating and clinging about onto one another about the ground as they took their final, laborious breaths as they laughed. It was then they kissed, so passionately, so lovingly. For even in this dying place, their love would endure, for even in Heaven amongst judgement, it would endure, for even in Hell amongst torturous centuries, their love would endure. For in every land, t’was where mad gods danced.

The End

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Written by ButcherExMachina
Content is available under CC BY-SA