Origins

ORIGINS

Shall I be melodramatic? Would it catch your attention if I told you that I am death? That the velvet passion of my kiss, in the deepest shadows, will carry your soul to the darkest hell?

I could tell you these things and a thousand, but I won’t weary you with angsty anecdotes like that. Sitting here in the hazy, smoke-filled shadows of a nameless waterfront dive, I am willing to tell my tale … if you’re interested. Grab a glass of your favorite poison and listen closely; I’m not one to repeat my words.

My first birth came when I entered this world red-faced and squalling, still covered with the gore from my mother’s womb. The woman who gave birth to me reigned supreme amongst my father’s four wives, while I was just another sign of his virility.

Perhaps this isn’t the best way to go about my story. I’ve never really thought of the best way to tell my tale. This is the first time anyone has taken me up on my offer.

Let me give you a little background. At the time of my nativity those I though were gods walked among us. Their fierce, feline features, fair skin and flashing cat-slit green eyes were so different from the dusky skin, black hair and dark eyes of my people. But what really set them apart were their gifts. Those abilities made them deities. The capacity to call lightning out of a clear sky; to root around in a man’s mind, to rape his memories, thoughts and feelings. These and a hundred different capabilities and the minor fact that they never aged set them apart from the simple herders and hunters that made up my family group. They were magical, mystical beings. Too bad my family didn’t know them better. But I digress.

My second birth came on the fifth anniversary of my natal day. My people, like all those of the time, did not consider a child a true being until its fifth birthday, and then it was given its true name. Mine reflected what I was, Sevent. Seventh son of a seventh son and promised to the gods if I lived to see my thirteenth year. I would go to join them.

From the day of my seventh birthday until my thirteenth I trained with the clan’s shaman. Learning what I needed to know to protect me from the violent abilities of the gods. Little did we realize that it would all be to no avail.

I wish I could regale you with the great perils that I faced to learn and go to the gods, but I can’t. There weren’t any on that day. The only sign or portent was my natal day. My family brought me to the shrine, set up at the crossroads, with the sound of the cymbals and lyre filling the air. A young acolyte met us at the simple, white marble temple. The warm summer wind, redolent with the scents of ripening grain and hay, gently caressed his body, molding his white garments to his lithe, youthful form.

The slight young priest, who stepped out of the shadows, bore the mark of the supernatural beings. His ash-colored hair and soft, blue eyes set him apart from my folk and the fairness of his skin was accentuated by the colorless woolen robe he wore.

\"Greetings,” he murmured, in a soft tenor. “What brings you here?”

\"This is Sevent,” my father rumbled, his deep voice echoing in his chest. “As promised we bring him here on the celebration of his thirteenth year. He is for the gods.”

A faint smile drifted across the young man’s face. “Then let him come,” he said, his voice ringing over the heads of my relatives. “Prepare the feast and we shall worship the great ones with food, drink and carousing.” With that my family began preparing the celebratory meal.

Three flawless lambs, three kid goats and a pure white heifer were the sacrificial animals. Alters came into being under the strong backs of my brothers and my father’s direction. The chosen sacrifices bleed out their lives on the piled stones then they were skinned and cooked over blazing fires. The perfume of roasting meat soon filled the air, covering the scent of unwashed bodies and stale wine. My family, for all their good intentions, did not believe in bathing vigorously or often. Water was scarce in the region that we made our home in; often we barely drew enough of the liquid gold from deep wells to water our flocks. But the sheep and goats we raised were a hardy bunch and took to mild droughts with bland acceptance.

The chattering of the women floated over the general low hum of voices. I could feel the youthful priest’s eyes on me. They were devouring me, drinking in my visage with a great, well now I would call it lust; hunger behind that clear, sky blue gaze. I can remember being afraid of him and not understanding why. With a possessive glance in my direction, he disappeared into the shadowed coolness of the temple with one of my slightly older sisters.

I tugged at the hem of my scarlet tunic, the understanding of what I had seen giving rise to a small problem. I knew that my sister’s belly soon would grow fat with the seed of a godling. My poor thirteen-year-old body responded as any young man’s would and the mid-thigh length garment felt very reveling.

For three days my extended family rejoiced in their good fortune and blessing to have such a gift to give their deities. I suffered through the many toasts and songs sung in my name. Of course my embarrassment became buried in a wine-soaked haze and I remembered very little which, in hindsight, probably was a good thing.

On the morning of the fourth day the clan began to show signs of packing to leave. The loud ruckus of the past three days was replaced by the low murmur of a group who had imbibed to excess and was now paying for their lack of discretion. My parents approached the area where I stood, the priest no more than an arm’s length away.

“Remember, boy,” my father said, his deep voice made harsh by suppressed emotion and three days of heavy drinking. “Be obedient, but also find a way to be true to yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” I murmured around the growing lump in my throat.

“Watch your tongue and think before you open your mouth. Watch, learn and remember all that the shaman has taught you.”

Yes, sir.” The stilted, somewhat redundant conversation had begun to bore me. I knew, with all the naïve hubris of a thirteen year old, that I could handle all that life threw in my path. If only . . . . . . .

My mother reached out and drew me to her breast. The musky scent of her body and the myrrh perfume she wore left a bitter, biting taste in the back of my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes and threatened to unman me. With a gentle tug, my father pulled her away from me and they rejoined the rest of the group. Without a look back they headed back down the road that we had traveled three days ago. I could feel the tears coursing down my cheeks.

Pale fingers carefully wiped the tears from my face. The cool metal of a goblet pressed into my hand and chilled my fingers and I brought it indifferently to my lips. As honey mead oozed its way down my throat, strange numbing warmth radiated out from the pit of my stomach. My senses became detached, fingers losing all feeling, mind drifting, cut free of my body.

“Did you know,” the soft voice spoke in my ear, “that there are times that things aren’t what they seem? Take the mead I gave you, it’s prepared by my own hands from honey gathered exclusively in the poppy fields. Given the right amount it can dull pain and aid in healing. But if you consume enough of it, you’ll become addicted or possibly die.” He paced slowly around me, fingers tangling in my dirty matted hair. The palm of his left hand connected with my cheek, snapping my head to one side. “You, little swine, stink.” Warm breath hissed in my face.

With a quick movement he tore the robe my mother had so lovelingly made off my body, leaving my skin exposed to the chilled night air. His soft hands drift over my unresisting body.

“I’m going to do you a favor,” he whispered in my ear, the scent of cloves hung in the air. “Actually, I’m going to do you several good turns. One, I’m going to give you the language of the gods. Two, I’ll teach you to bathe. The gods don’t like smelly little barbarians. Oh and hairy too, we’ll have to do something about that.”

Easily he picked up my compliant body and laid it roughly on the stone alter in the front of the temple. With a quick gesture, he called an oak and copper tub out of thin air and filled it with steaming water. My limp carcass landed in the scalding water with an ungraceful thump and I could dimly feel the water searing my hide. Strong, supple hands stroked over my limbs, an intense pain following in their wake. All the dark body hair that had started coming in as I approached puberty sloughed off and decorated the boiling water. My natural reaction to draw away was hampered by the effects of the poppy in the wine; I could barely moan much less move from the unrelenting claws.

I must have lost consciousness for a few moments because the next thing I knew he was scrubbing my body with a heavily scented soap. The scent of holy amber filled the steam-laden air becoming more of a taste than a true odor. My eyes were captured in the fever gleam of the other, blue eyes filled my line of vision and I slipped into the safety of nothingness.

I awoke the second time to find myself ass-end up on the priest’s shoulder, his continuous, ranting monologue becoming more distorted and infuriated. I tried to move my arms and a lance of pain shot through my head; nearly causing me to lose what little still lay in my stomach. I felt like someone had taken the top of my skull off, reached in and scrambled my gray matter up with a spoon. I groaned, my voice weaker than my extremities.

“Ah, the piglet is awake,” he sneered, a nasty edge roughening his vocalizations. “Don’t worry little pig, I’m taking you to the one place that I can’t go, to the top of the mountain, to the gods. Unfortunately, I can’t stay and orient you to the strange world you’re entering. I’m, not allowed there. My father wants nothing to do with me. He would like to forget that I exist, but I’m his only heir.” He gave a dry bark of laughter. “I’m the only child that he’s gotten in a hundred different liaisons and I’m half animal. That’s all that you are to them, well-trained animals who can think for themselves … most of the time.” All the time he spoke, we were heading towards a glowing arch in the sanctuary wall. I had opened my eyes to see what was causing the red glow on my eyelids. The one time was enough; I retched, watching the swirl of power radiating from that gaping hole in the very fabric of the world.

We stepped through the gateway, my stomach flowing up to my brain for a few moments, then the air became brisk a sharp wind teased my hair and brought me closer to true awareness. The rattle of stone on metal distracted me from my various aches, pains and bruises and we came to an abrupt halt.

“Skylar,” a deep voice said. I twisted around to try and see the newcomer.

“Alain,” the priest responded. “I have a gift for them and would like to see my father.”

“You know that he doesn’t want to see you. Why don’t you just leave the gift and go back to your shrine?” The condescending tone in the guard’s speech caused my sponsor’s body to stiffen.

“Never. If the old man won’t come down here to see me, I’ll go up and visit him.” He tried to push passed the other man, with no success.

“Skylar, just do as you’re told and leave your package here. The old man doesn’t want to talk to you and we all have orders to prevent you from coming up. And I’ve been told not to leave my post for anything.”
I could hear the frustration in my friend’s snarl of annoyance. He dropped my heavy, unresponsive body onto the cobbled causeway we stood on. I became intimate with the cobbles as my face crashed into them. Fortunately I escaped with little more than a broken nose and a few loose teeth that were quickly put to ri by by the Healer at the novice’s dormitory.

Thus I began my third life.

My name, Sevent, was deemed unfit for the tongues and voices of my new masters. I was given the name Kieran, which means small and dark in the old tongue. And my thirteen-year-old body did nothing for any of them, being too thin, scrawny and undeveloped to entice any kind of reaction out of anyone. For that I had to thank my lucky stars. I had a great deal to learn before I would be ready to deal with that kind of relationship.

The similarities in the faces around me had me confused, trying to figure out which face went with what name. Only one stood out as different. Instead of the pure silver-gilt hair and emerald eyes, his hair was as black as a raven’s wing from the roots to his jaw line and his eyes were a muddy mix of blue and green, like they were in transition, in flux. Malevolence hung around him like a thick cloak.

Five years sped by in the mountain sanctuary. I found out what happens to those offerings deemed unworthy for the gods … manual lab The The great city sat high above the rest of the world and supported itself. A series of terraced gardens fed the populace and provided a lush area for courting or to restore ones balance.

The rocky mountain soil wasn’t conducive to growing much more than rough grouse and thistles. For some unknown reason, weeds always seem to find a way to survive. The rich soil, from various floodplains, had to be brought up load by load. The planting beds and irrigation channels were built by hand from the very substance of the peaks. For five long, backbreaking years, that’s what I did.

Time added inches to my frame and the heavy labor built on muscle. While I would never be as bulky as my father and most of my brothers, I have to admit that I did cast a rather dashing figure. Soon after my eighteenth birthday day they began to notice me. More frightening, he became aware of me. Quite often I would look up to find turquoise eyes watching and assessing me. One day I was informed not to go to the fields, but to go to the workroom of the mage Morbius, the dark-haired mage. Gathering my courage, I started across the granite and marble city to the great yawning maw that went deep into the heart of the mountain. To the place that I knew he resided.

“Master Morbius,” I ventured, allowing my voice to take on the accent of one still learning a new language.

“Come in, Kieran,” the master said, his voice cold and distant. I stepped into the forbidding gloom only to find myself pinioned by brilliant cat-slit eyes and magic.

“What? Did you really think that you could hide anything from me, Kieran?” He paced around me, hands clasped behind his back. “My fool offspring should have warned you that I could see through any falsehood.” He smiled, a feral grin. The pale ends of his hair reflected the dim light. The strange effect of his coloring reminded me of the moon in its darkening phase.

He drew his mahogany bronze athame, the grate of metal on metal scraping my already raw nerves to the bleeding point. With four swift succinct stokes of the knife he stripped the worn tunic and trews off my body, leaving me exposed to the cool air of the cavern. Gooseflesh sprang up in response to the drastic change in temperature. My body wanted, badly, to shiver but the spell of immobilization held me in stasis.
“You’ll do,” he whispered, his corpse-cold breath chilling my soul as well as my cheek. His clammy, icy hands forced me to the floor of the cave. He calmly, coolly raped both my mind and body. The first was humiliating, but to have his frozen, predatory thoughts invading my psyche tore at the edges of my sanity. After he finished taking his pleasure, he pulled me to my feet, using the thick braid of hair that hung down my back.

I stumbled over to the stone altar that had been carved from the basalt and granite that formed the cave, my body still not under my control. The head of the stone stood a foot higher than the bottom and the very end had been sculpted into a cistern. What its purpose was I didn’t know. He strapped me to the table with quick, sure movements and then gave me a cold, distant grin.

“I have a very important job for you, Kieran,” he coolly said. “But I think that your life has reached an utter nadir.” He canted his head to one side. “Yes, Nadir you will be known as. That is if you survive what I have planned for you.”

The bronze blade lay against the skin of my neck. With his weapon in place, he began chanting. The language he used sounded like a harsh, corrupted version of the water-fluid tongue spoken by his compatriots. As he spat the words, too twisted for me to understand, a sickly reddish glow materialized above my body. When the shimmering mist reached the consistency of coagulated blood, he slit my throat with a sure, firm stroke.

My blood fountained forth, a crimson stream. When it ran dry that would spell the end of my life or so I assumed. Darkness edged my vision the area grew rapidly, but through the growing darkness I could see the think vapor drinking at the cistern. I could feel each beat of my heart getting weaker. The once loud, strong thumping faded to a tired fluttering.

‘Fight it you fool!’ an insistent voice snarled in my head. ‘If you want to live, fight for your life.’

And fight I did. Grabbing onto the sharp, sarcastic voice, I clawed my way to consciousness. I awoke with a startled gasp and then realized that I wasn’t breathing. I lay on the stone floor, unbound, and could taste the very essence of the breezes flowing over me. The dim light held no challenge for me, I could see as well as a normal man under the noonday sun.

A rapid pattering captured my attention and the most delightful scent tantalized my senses. I looked about the room and saw, standing in the furthest corner, was one of the weaker goddesses. Her sweet aroma drew me; my canines grew longer, saliva pooled in my mouth with a coppery taste. The tatoo of her heart was like the sensual beat of the drum.

I flowed across the floor and pounced, sinking my teeth into that rich smelling flow. I greedily drained her life away; stopping only when I intrinsically knew her death was near. That was my first meal in my new form.

All of my senses had become sharper from that nourishment. My eyes could see the flecks of feldspar and mica standing in intense relief from the rest of the rock. The scent of bats and death hung in the air. A faint, musty breeze bit at my skin. No sounds, other than the slow drip of water and the high-pitched squeak of the afore mentioned flying rodents, reached my ears.

The scent of death became stronger and the soft rustle of silk on skin ca my my attention. The door to my room, my prison cell, swung open and standing there was one of the other servants, one that had come up missing a few months earlier. His once tan skin now was the color of old parchment and his eyes blazed like black flame from his face.

“Greetings, little brother,” he rasped. “The Master wishes to see you. He is very pleased with your reaction to his little…ah…experiment.” He gave a dry, demented laugh.

I cowered away from this mad figure, nodding my agreement to his words. I hate to admit this, but he frightened me. The most terrifying fact was that we both smelled the same. Neither of us had a heartbeat and we only needed to breath in order to speak. Not a good thing.
We reached the Master. He lay on a featherbed with one of the many women who were attracted to his dark beauty. He looked up and saw the two of us. Pushing his bed partner to one side, he stood and walked over to us. His hands were clasped behind his back as he sauntered around both of us.

“You’ll do,” he crowed in his dark voice. “Yes, you’ll do. All the pair of you need is to be trained to use the minor gifts that you were born with and I will have two undefeatable servants.” He laughed, a malevolent bark, and his eyes shone with greed. With an indifferent wave of his hand, we were dismissed.

I felt the slight tingle of a spell slide over my skin. And then it was my turn to laugh. Whatever he had made us; he had unwillingly given us a gift. Magic had no more power over my brother or me. With plotting subservience we left, not prepared to fight our master until we were stronger.

There ends my tale. There is, of course, more tales to my preternatural life, but the wind is beginning to smell of dawn and my body is tellie the that it’s time to track down my favorite meal. I come here often and if you want to hear more, just check the shadows and you may just find me. And if you’re one that flaunts the law, perhaps you’ll find not only me, but also my velvet kiss.