In his domain of perpetual night, only the phases of the moon signified the passage of time. Twisting, thorny things in reds and violets were all that grew anymore, feeding off the dark energy that gathered there. Brambles of quince and climbing roses suffocated the castle walls, spreading in through cracks where no one had tended the stone for centuries.
That was why it was so easy to see that which did not belong there, a pure white being lying in the malevolence-warped garden of flowers and bones. A dirt-covered femur from some decades ago jutted out from the ground near his head. Whether it originated from man or beast was impossible to remember. The thorned vinery cut into the seraph's skin skin, drawing blood. That meant the seraphic creature's heart still beat in its chest.
He knelt in the dirt beside the seraph and brushed its cheek with his thumb, wiping a drop of that red life's blood from a fresh scratch. Its eyes opened, revealing slits of such a vibrant violet that it seemed out of unison with the rest of its ghostly pale features and white garments. They were without focus and blown, unaware of him. Then they fell closed again.
He licked the blood from his thumb. Seraphim had the sweetest taste, but this one's blood was tainted with the foul bitterness of some drug. Kneeling in the thorns and dirt, he dug his arms under the frail form and lifted. It was near weightless, this seraph.
As he stepped along the broken cobblestone trail that led back to the castle's main gate, the moon glinted off the seraph's hair revealing shades of aquamarine hidden in the silver. This one was a water seraph.
Mikleo woke, for a moment confused as to why he was not in his own bed back at home. Then he remembered, his name was drawn and he had taken the poison as agreed. Once his eyes focused and adjusted to the dim light of a single candle lit at his bedside, he saw walls that were once painted crimson with gold inlays, now rust colored and peeling. To his right, a window had been left half open and likely for a long time, as vinery blooming with red and blue roses crept in and along in interior wall.
These were the ruins of what was once a fine home. The others must have brought him here in keeping with their ritual, but the mystery remained why he was in a soft bed with a canopy top and down pillows, rather than locked in a dungeon, or dead.
Beside him on an antique dresser there was a basket containing two apples and a handful of blackberries, as well as a wedge of brie and a bottle of wine.
He thought, perhaps the lord of calamity likes his meals well-fed. He looked at the year stamped into the glass bottle. By human measure, it was over eighty years old and pristine except for a coat of dust.
The smudge of fingers left in the dust on the bottle meant this lord of calamity must have vaguely human hands, or at least someone here did.
He set the bottle down and continued to inspect the room.
At the edge of the bed, there were clothes folded and left out for him. He was still wearing the robe he'd been purified in, although it was looking tattered and stained with dirt, now. The memory of those last few hours rushed back to him. He winced, remembering the tears of anguish pouring down Lailah's face.
Naturally they all felt they should protect their youngest, but Mikleo's perspective was quite the opposite. The wisdom of his elders should be protected, not the idle promise of his own youth.
He held up the first article of clothing left for him, a tunic, and rubbed the fabric between his fingers. It was made of softer, richer silk than he'd ever touched before, and dyed in a deep turquoise. There were also a set of smallclothes and a pair of laced boots. He folded the tunic back into place and continued on.
Come to think of it, he thought, although his sacrificial robe was tattered, his skin was clean. He raised his arm up to his nose and caught a vaguely herbal scent. A scratch there, it had been cleaned and covered with a salve of some sort.
He was tempted to take the shoes at least because he was barefoot, but left them alone. The door to his room was in decent shape. Its handle gave him some trouble, but clicked open with some force. The hinges creaked, in need of oil, but opened nonetheless.
The hallway was in a similar state of disrepair, with more weakly burning candles lighting the way. The rug that ran down the center of the floor was faded and full of holes. Doors that led to other rooms were less maintained. They laid on their sides broken, the rooms beyond them dark chasms.
At one end of the hall was a staircase that led down to the ground level, to an open door where cold air blew in. The surest way out. To escape would be such a simple matter, he had to wonder why he'd been left so unguarded. But Mikleo didn't want out.
He walked away from the end of the hall that offered salvation, towards the black double door on the other side. Splintered floorboards tore at his feet. He stepped gingerly over topped candlesticks and broken pieces of a statue that seemed to have at one time depicted an angel, judging by the smashed bits of wings. Nothing left on the post where it was once displayed except the stumps of its legs.
He reached the door and felt its surface, how cold it was. He rapped his knuckles against it, not expecting anyone to answer his knock, but to make out how thick it was. The solid thunk it made suggested it was very thick, likely a defensive measure in case of attack. The handle was either locked, or rusted shut. It would not budge at all.
It was still only metal and wood, and he was a seraph. He summoned his powers, pulling water from the ether, soaking the doors and the imperceptible cracks between them. With a wave of his hand, the water became ice. Then another a splash of water to crack the frozen doors. The lock, or whatever jammed it, gave way, the doors swung open.
He took a deep breath and stepped inside. Beyond the door was light, although very little of it. Struggling flames on two lamp posts cast dancing shadows around the room. Cast in their darkness was the shape of a throne, not so illustrious as the ones kings sat upon in books that Mikleo had studied, but befitting of a lesser lord.
And a second later his eyes made out the form sitting in it, the vague edges of a man.
"I thought seraphim were supposed to be wise."
Mikleo gasped. That voice was so youthful, and although the humor in it was biting, he'd been expecting much more snarling and growling.
"I gave you clothes," he continued. "I left the door open for you. Why are you still here?"
Mikleo squinted his eyes and attempted to make out the form of this creature. "Because your hunger has not yet been sated."
"You're a brave little thing, aren't you?"
He leaned forward in his throne and propped his head up, resting an elbow on one knee. In the light, weak as it was, Mikleo could see a human face. He had the form of a young man. They told him the lord of the castle was a beast, not a boy.
The man noticed him flinch at the sight of him and laughed. "Or do I scare you?"
"I'm just shocked is all. You aren't a monster."
He tilted his head back and laughed boisterously at that. "I haven't heard a line like that in years."
Mikleo took a step forward. "So you are, then. The lord of calamity."
"Oh, only in a manner of speaking. To be more precise, I am a fallen shepherd."
Mikleo's eyes got wider at that. "Shepherd? There hasn't been one in two hundred years. He disappeared. Are you really shepherd Sor-"
Before he could even blink in response, the fallen shepherd pushed himself off his throne and bolted at him like lightning, clapping a gloved hand over his mouth with enough force to lift him off his feet and send him back against the wall behind him.
Mikleo stared down the arm holding him in place to the human face baring his teeth at him. His eyes gleamed with the dark power barely contained within him, but they were green- still human, somehow. "Don't say that name."
He relaxed his arm and let Mikleo slink to the floor. He wheezed for breath on his knees. "Why don't you just consume me and get it over with?"
"I told you to go. Hearing that name makes me angry, but not half as much as a fat, juicy morsel of seraph meat trying to get indignant with me."
He was Sorey. Mikleo was not born until much later, and Lailah and the others avoided the subject. But he'd heard from legends told by humans that Sorey was the last shepherd, who was lost, and never had another been born in his place.
As soon as he got back on his feet, Sorey was on him, encircling his waist from behind with his arm. Hot breath on his neck.
"Did the humans capture you and leave you here?" he asked, inhaling through his nose. Smelling him.
Mikleo pushed out a tense breath and relaxed his muscles. He was Sorey's. To be eaten by Sorey. "No. I come from a village of seraphim. When the lord of calamity becomes active, we draw names by lottery to see who will go and be offered to him, to put him to sleep. If it wasn't voluntary, we'd only invite more malevolence."
"So you're stupid and unlucky?"
Mikleo huffed. "I fixed the lottery, of course. I made sure they drew my name."
Sorey tightened his grip, pulling Mikleo's back against him. "So you're just suicidal."
"I prefer to see it as self-sacrificing."
Laughter tickled his ear. "Why the poison then? Did you take it yourself?"
"They gave it to me, and I took it."
"Trying to kill me?"
He shook his head, unintentionally brushing his cheek against Sorey's. Despite the malevolence, in the cold air he was so warm. "It was for me. So I wouldn't need to endure..."
"What, did you think I'd peel your skin off first like a grape?"
He turned and cupped Mikleo's face in his hand, but Mikleo forced himself to look anywhere but into his eyes. "The fear and the pain could have corrupted me," he said. "So it's better we feed you an unconscious meal."
"Not wanting to die? Wanting to live is malevolence?" He scoffed and pushed Mikleo away. Not hard. This time, he maintained his footing. He looked up and found Sorey covering his mouth with the sleeve of his crimson shirt. "Gods, but you do smell good, don't you? Get out of my sight before I do more than eat you."
"Do you think I'm afraid?" Mikleo stepped up to him, grabbed his arm, pulled it away from his face. "I want you to."
Those green eyes stared back at him and he was met with something he did not expect and could not understand. There was fear there. Mikleo released his arm and Sorey yanked it away.
"Please go." Sorey pushed him again, gently this time.
Mikleo stared at him a moment more, witnessing the contradicting affects of malevolence and mercy play on his face, and left the hall with hastening paces.