Chapter 7

Life, Death, Rebirth and Darkness

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Revelation chapter 6, verses 8


The hooded figure looked down on the sleeping Kelownan, hesitating in its movement as if unsure. It gently sat down on the bed and swept a hand from its forehead to its crown to remove the covering obscuring its face. The cloth fell to the form's shoulders and revealed a spark of chestnut hair that curled slightly by the woman's jaw line.

She watched Jonas breathe, for a moment, her flat hand hovering above his chest, trying to find the resolve to touch him. She smiled, as only a mother can and reached across to smooth his brow with her fingertips, her mind calling softly to his soul. He stirred; she pulled back, waiting for him to settle, wanting more than anything to hold him in her embrace as she had once done to her own child. She bowed her head and tenderly placed his hand in hers, feeling the blade of emotion stab her heart as she silently held the child she had given up.

Her memory floated back to the first time she had seen him, a small boy, stood in the dimness of Ragnarok's dormitory. She had hidden in the shadows between this world and hers, just wanting to observe, meaning to remain impartial.

Another boy was with him, a fragile being, twisted and deformed by genetic mutation, his crippled frame fighting death and losing. She watched Jonas hold the boy's crumbling hand until his heart trembled and sunk, unable to beat any more.

Jonas bent over the child and kissed his high forehead before pulling a rough blanket over the body. He then straightened himself up and looked over in her direction, cocking his head to one side.

He stepped guardedly forward, a curiosity swimming in his eyes, lighting him from within. He reached out, sensing her presence, his fingertips brushing the haze of her skin, his touch exposing her aura.

"Are you an angel?" He asked, with reverence.

She remained silent, shimmering into her womanly form, stepping closer to him; he did not back away. She smiled and looked into his soul, letting its purity bathe her with its compassion, innocence and light; she looked away.

"You are sad," he perceived, with all the honesty of a child.

Again she did not answer. This child was everything that her own was not and yet she was looking into his eyes.

Jonas took her hand with childlike eagerness and led her across to the dead child, "he was not long made," he informed her; thinking she had come to guide the boy's lost soul.

"Many, who are such as this one, perish in the tank, but he fought like a true warrior to live each passing hour," he looked up at her, "they didn't even give him a number, surely he is worthy of a name?"

"Then maybe we should," she declared, stroking Jonas's head.

He smiled for the first time, captivating her heart, "yes, maybe we should," he nodded and looked to her for guidance.

"Ingvar," she whispered, "it means warrior."

"Ingvar," Jonas repeated and then he posed, "is it dark?"

This caught her by surprise, "is what dark?"

"Death," his gaze did not leave the other boy, "it's just, we have lost so many, I would not like to think of them somewhere cold and dark."

She couldn't help but smile, "the journey is different for each but light finds light as dark must go to dark."

He seemed satisfied with this, "will you take good care of him; help Ingvar find the light he deserves."

She nodded without promising, "I must go," she whispered, slowly fading into the background.

"Will you come back?" He enquired enthusiastically.

She could not answer but Oma knew she could no longer remain impartial; she wanted to save this child even if it meant going against all that her fellows believed in. She struggled against herself as she journeyed back to the ascended plane but as the haze around her brightened she found herself not where she expected.

A soft breeze toyed with her hair as it spread its cloak around the twists and turns of a lush countryside. Feathered creatures bounced on its welcome thermals, skating across a cloudless sky that shone crystal blue in the blaze of the sun. Before her stood a simple cottage, its whitewashed door open beckoning her to enter; she obliged.

The room was lit with dusty sunlight, painting its contents an egg yolk yellow. An old man sat near a window turning the pages of a book; he did not look up, "ah Oma, my dear, please sit down."

He gestured to another austere looking chair; Oma nodded and sat down. "Master Olmec," she acknowledge, bemused.

He smiled, "perhaps you can aid me with a dilemma?"

"Master?"

He turned the book over and set it down on a small table, careful not to lose his place, "listen." He tapped his ear with an aged index finger.

She did as instructed and become aware of a frustrated buzzing; she looked towards Olmec.

"A fly, there," he pointed to the window, "entangled in the deadly lace of a spider's web."

She looked in the direction the old man indicated and saw for herself the fitful struggle of the trapped insect, on the outside of the glass.

"I do not understand?" She said candidly.

He sighed with benevolence. "My dilemma is this, should I save the fly, therefore restoring peace and silence to my humble abode or should I let nature run its course and let the spider have its well earned meal?"

She looked into his violet eyes that seemed to sparkle in many different shades, "I do not know," she whispered, "it, it is only a fly." The words slipped cautiously out, holding more meaning than they revealed.

They sat for a moment listening to the frantic drone of the trapped insect. "In the scheme of things, yes," Olmec ventured, "it is only a fly but it is in my power to save it, should I not give it a chance to live another day."

Oma felt her heart soften into million tears as it throbbed against her chest, "but what about the repercussions?" They were no longer talking about flies.

He laughed, shaking his head, "there are always consequences for every action or inaction," he emphasised, "whatever our decision it has to be one we can carry with us until the end of our days without regret. The universe is a pretty canny insect; it never gives us a load we cannot bear, or a decision we cannot make."

A diligent breeze whispered into the room, its thoughtful embrace warming her skin, reminding her of a lost summer. Oma turned sadly back to the insect as Olmec waved his hand to free it.

"You saved it?" She sounded surprised.

"Yes," he responded, his eyes twinkling, "because I am a simple man who just wants to read a book in peace," he paused, "just as you are a mother first."

He reached across and took her hand, his touch was cold. "Maybe by saving something small we end up saving a piece of ourselves and a piece of the future. I feel the universe, I know its sadness, its joy, its failures, its hopes and sometimes I can make a difference," he smiled with regret, "not often, but sometimes."

"You save a fly."

He laughed and let go of her hand, "yes, and who is to say it is not worthy, not I."

"And the spider?"

The old man waved his hand dismissively, "he will learn to build a stronger web next time; such is the way of the universe."

She reflected on this but shook her head, "I do not know if I have the strength to defy our basic teachings."

He squeezed her hand and brushed her fringe away from her eyes, "do not think with your head when your heart rules you in this matter. Listen to its buzz, let it guide you. All things must change, my dear. What once was, now is no more. It is the only constant in the universe, why should the ascended be immune? You are strong enough to create a new path, know this and let it guide you."

She nodded and rose to her feet. She picked up the yellow covered book, keeping her finger in the page Olmec was reading, "The Maltese Falcon," she read, handing it back to him.

"Yes, have you read it?"

She smiled shaking her head, "ah, well," he replied, tapping the title, "it'll always be here if you want to."

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Oma pulled the blanket around Jonas, more for her own comfort than his. She had made her decision, back then; she had listened to her heart and had saved him and his friends from her own son. She lent over and tenderly kissed his forehead, knowing she would save him once more.

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Morgan entered his own chamber and dismissed his cavalcade of young boys with a sharp clap of his hands. When he was sure he was alone he retrieved several artefacts from an ostentatious dresser and placed them down on a square table by the foot of his bed.

He sauntered back to the cabinet and filled a copious glass with an ochre coloured liqueur, taking a long, satisfying, drink while watching himself in a mirror that filled most of the wall.

He looked over his shoulder at the artefacts and chewed his lips together in apprehension, draining the glass in one unconscious action. He placed it back down on the wood, turning to his reflection, touching the cold, lonely, glass and shedding a tear for the Dorian Grey who resided in its polish. He pressed his lips to his likeness to receive its unemotional kiss, stroking the flatness of its cheek with a shameless depravity and yearning; soon he would be no longer alone.

He laughed and threw his arms around himself, caressing his skin with his fingertips. He looked at his image and smiled, "soon we will have everything, my darling," he whispered, filling the glass again, "family, revenge and Ba'al's unconditional love. For who will be able to resist us when we give them the absolute power of a God?"

He began to spin around the room, glass in hand, "and he will love us for it and hold us in such high esteem that he will want us and only us."

He stopped at the table, "but first, my darling, I feel the need for a sibling."

He pulled a green crystal from a velvet pouch, beckoning the light to refract off its lustre by turning it in his grasp. He brushed his lips against its chartreuse blush before seating it in the oblong base unit that waited patiently to be coupled. The crystal pulsated with light, enveloping the room in its leafy glow. Morgan touched the cut façade, willing the stone to give up the secrets kept in its heart; the crystal obliged.

Ancient text shimmied around the room, whirling on the beat of sage light. Morgan touched the symbols, studying each connotation, feeling their worth tingle his heightened senses. When he was sure he had understood their order and meaning he set about his next task.

He loosened the robe he was wearing and licked his lips, feeling the closeness of the room stifle his uneasy skin with its heat. He began to unwrapped two pebbles that had been placed with the crystal, turning them over on the table so he could examine them carefully.

He traced the symbols that had been etched on their respective surfaces, 'death' and 'life', two words that are perpetually joined, each a step away from the next. He looked back at the cabinet, he needed another drink.

He filled the glass again and toasted himself in the mirror, trying hard not to notice the fear in his own eyes; 'he could do this,' he told himself, 'what had he to lose? Only his soul.'

He laughed but it was more a tense cry than one filled with joy. He touched the mirror, once more, thinking he saw something move across the room, a shadow creeping into the light but he dismissed it; it was just nerves.

Morgan went back to the table and picked up the two pebbles, placing one each in his hands. He closed his eyes and thought upon the Ancient text, letting the letters join in a prayer to bridge the void between the living and the dead.

The room tumbled towards him as the 'death' stone let out a surge of energy like an angry, ebony, sandstorm. This vortex covered him, ripping at his body to get to his soul, pulling at his flesh, sucking it from his bones. He struggled, mentally trying to shield himself, feeling the Reaper of all men squeeze his heart with icy fingers until his breath ceased and darkness summoned….

Morgan quickly placed the two stones together, pushing them against each other to terminate what he had started. He was thrown across the room and his heart began to pound like the hoofs of a pale horse, galloping back to the otherworld.

He pulled himself up to the mirror and touched his likeness, observing the age lines that had gathered around his mouth and eyes. They were hardly noticeable, to anyone else, but Morgan saw the crumpled depression of an old man. He pushed the liqueur bottle and glass off the dresser in anger, "this is his fault," he spat to his reflection, "Jonas Quinn's."

He buried his head in his hands and began to weep heated tears. "Then he should pay," a dark voice whispered in his mind as the shadows in the room surged.

Morgan looked up, "yes, yes he should," he replied, touching his face, trying to smooth the lines around his mouth.

"Use your anger, Morgan," the voice instructed, "use it to acquire what you seek."

The Kelownan looked round, answering the darkness that had encroached from the corners, "I don't know if I can…."

"You can. Ba'al has put a great trust in you, are you going to fail him at this most simple of tasks?"

"No, I just…."

"You need her Morgan and she will be dutiful to you and aid you in all things without question; she is the key."

"Yes," the young man replied, trance-like, "she is the key."

"As is Quinn," the gloom hissed back at him, "they are both the key to Ba'al's heart."

"Yes," Morgan answered with contempt, "I need them both."

He went back to the table and picked up the pebbles again, placing one in each hand. He let the bitterness and animosity of his soul stimulate his senses, drawing the energy he needed to protect his being. This time the 'life' stone emitted a ray of bright light opening a doorway above his head. Twisting around this shaft was a darkness discharged by the other pebble. Morgan felt its blackness bypass him and search for another, a soul still tainted, not quite complete and true, one that had tasted all the fire and rage of hatred, one who could be persuaded to return, one whose light was made from the darkness within her.

Morgan felt himself weaken as his very core was sapped of its energy. His breath grazed his chest as the stones used each heartbeat to fuel their quest. His mind began to float, trapped in the whirlpool of Ancient knowledge that was beyond his comprehension and nature. He felt sick, his stomach swelled in a tsunami of acidic bile pushing with force against his throat, he lurched forward and fell to the floor; everything stopped.

It was dark. The lights flickered like a moth against a burning bulb, their power fused by the stones' capacity. Morgan rolled over on his side, his body leaden and clumsy. He coughed, pulling himself up onto his hands and knees, his hair damp with perspiration. He wiped his sour mouth in his robe and looked up; he was not alone.

A pale body lay in front of him curled up in a foetal position, its spread of silver hair incandescence against the floor; the colourless form was naked and still. Morgan inched forward on his hands and touched its arm, drawing his fingers back as the figure stirred and stretched, almost cat like. It snapped its head in his direction, its dark, unfeeling, eyes considering him with all the savagery of something inhuman; and then it smiled an empty, heartless smile.

Morgan stood up and backed away, unsure. The form studied him and then looked down at its own body as if remembering each limb and movement. He watched as its skin began to bloom into a milky porcelain, almost the colour of his own. He smiled, unafraid, and held his hand out to the young woman on the floor. She took it in her own and he led her across to the bed, wrapping a sheet around her. She touched the silk of the material and smiled again, her eyes changing from black to a vibrant blue.

Morgan stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, "welcome back Cassandra," he whispered tenderly.

And in the corners of the room something nefarious laughed.

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And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Revelation chapter 6, verses 8


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