Eclipse 2 – Feast

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Klimt listened to the soft echo of footsteps approaching, but did not welcome them. He was kneeling before a statue of the veiled goddess, eyes closed in prayer, and was not about to let anyone interrupt his silent worship. The visitor paused, waiting patiently at length until the Archdeacon had finished. With a frail sigh, the elderly man rose on shaky legs and addressed his guest.

"Greetings, brother. What can I do for you?"

The young priest bowed respectfully, but his face was taut with worry. The candles of the cleansing chapel cast shadows across his features, deepening the creases of distress that sullied them. He opened his mouth to respond, yet no words came forth. The Archdeacon frowned as the man glanced behind him, eyes darting to the dark corners of the room, as if he might spot some frightful apparition lurking there.

"What ails you, my son?" Klimt pressed him. "This place is safe. You may speak freely here."

The deacon took a ragged breath before responding. "Your holiness, I... I must make a confession. I fear I have committed a terrible sin..."

"And what manner of sin might this be?"

"It's... It shames me to put it to words. It... involves the other Archdeacons..."

Klimt's spine creaked as he straightened in suspicion. "Your name is Alwyn, is it not?" The priest nodded. "Speak plainly, Alwyn. I will listen in earnest, you have my word."

The youth swallowed nervously. "The other deacons... Some time ago, they came to me, demanded to know if I was faithful. They questioned my loyalty to Saint Aldrich. I told them I was true to him, and to our Church, as always. Then... they told me there would be a test... a trial, to prove my devotion. They... I..."

Klimt began to lose his patience. "Spit it out, man! Tell me what has transpired."

The deacon looked as if he might crumble at any moment. "Oh, Lord forgive me... I ate with them, Archdeacon. I... I partook of... the converts..."

The wrinkles around the old man's eyes sharpened. "You what?"

"I... We ate them... all of us... We consumed their flesh..."

His admission lingered in the palpable silence between them. The priest was downcast, eyes clenched tight in guilt, as Klimt struggled to grasp the full implication of his words. "Alwyn," he said breathlessly, "what are you saying? You ate them? McDonnell, Royce... they actually allowed this?"

"Not just allowed. They joined us. McDonnell, he... he consumed more than anyone... anyone, save for our Saint..."

"Dear gods. Aldrich shares part in this?" Then, the Archdeacon reeled as the true horror struck him. "Alwyn... what of the children?"

At this, the young man stifled a cry and fell to his knees, shuddering visibly. "Please, your holiness! I have said all I dare say! I cannot... I do not want to remember any more!"

Klimt felt his insides knotting together, as if they had transformed into a writhing mess of serpents. He stared into nothing, wavering on his feet, before finally laying a hand on the weeping man's shoulder. "You must, my son. You must remember every face that attended that... that atrocity. You will tell me each of their names. That is the only hope you have of finding redemption. Do you understand?"

The deacon nodded frantically, grasping at the elder's bony hand for support. "Yes, Archdeacon! Anything, please! I wish to be rid of these horrible sights! I cannot stand them! I cannot sleep! All I see in my dreams are... are their poor faces... screaming..."

"Enough." Klimt dragged the man to his feet, cupping his face strongly so they were eye to eye. "Pull yourself together, and listen very carefully to me. After you leave here, go about your duties as if nothing were wrong. Do not lose your composure. Do not let them suspect anything. Once you are finished, make your way to my chambers. Be certain that no one follows you. We'll find a way to right this terrible travesty, I promise."

Alwyn continued to nod, fighting to hold back his tears. "Archdeacon... there is one more thing. I think they might be planning something. I can't imagine what, but something doesn't feel right, more so than ever. It's why I came to you. I didn't know who else to tell..."

"You did the right thing, Alwyn. Do not fear. I will seek out others to aid us. Whatever McDonnell is planning, we will stop him."

After the deacon had gathered himself, he departed without another word, leaving Klimt alone in the cleansing chapel. The old man's knuckles turned white with quiet rage. "Damn you, McDonnell," he seethed. "What have you done?"

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There was a soft rapping at the door. Klimt shivered as he returned to the present, banishing the ghastly images he had conjured in his head. He had been trying to fathom the vile secrets surrounding his fellow Archdeacons, but he was certain that the truth was more diabolical than he could even conceive of. He cleared his throat, then bade his visitor to enter.

Alwyn slipped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. "Were you followed?" Klimt asked.

"No, your holiness," the priest replied as he took a seat. "The halls are empty... unusually so. Everyone's gone, or in hiding."

The Archdeacon folded his fingers in thought. "McDonnell must be preparing to make his move. You're certain you've no inkling of what they could be plotting?"

The priest furrowed his brow in strained thought. "I'm sorry. They didn't see fit to involve me in their most clandestine meetings. All I can say is that, with our converts dwindling as of late, there has been a rising tension. It doesn't feel like worry or fear, but... anticipation. They are preparing for something. I only wish I could provide you with their motive."

"Tell me their names. I need to know who I should count as an enemy, and who are yet our allies."

"There were many, your holiness," Alwyn admitted. "It might be easier to recount those who weren't there. McDonnell and Royce, and those closest to them, were all in attendance. Galen, Polk, Merle, Bahram, and many more. The remaining evangelists were there as well, including Matron Dorhys. I suspect the cathedral knights will also stand by McDonnell. They were not present, but I have witnessed the passing of bribes between them."

Klimt felt an acrid bile rising in his throat. "How has such corruption spread through our Church?" he wondered aloud. "How could we have been so blind as to their true faces?"

"They are deceptive beyond reason, your holiness. When they first approached me, they disguised it as a test, as I mentioned. From my understanding, if one were to refuse consumption, the deacons would treat it as the proper response. They claimed the true test was to refuse temptation, even when pressured by one's superiors. Then, they swore those who refused to secrecy, so that others would not have their trial spoiled for them. However, if one relented... one as hopelessly foolish as myself... then it was already too late. You had shared in their sins, and there is no returning from—"

A sharp knock interrupted them. Alwyn spun in sudden fright, but Klimt waved him down. "It's alright, my son. This is at least one person I can entrust to aid us. Enter."

The door opened as Captain Brommand strode into the chamber, dressed in his full ceremonial armor. "Archdeacon," the paladin bowed deeply. "How may I be of service?"

"Thank you for joining us, my friend," Klimt replied. "Alwyn? Please tell the Captain what you've told me. Every last word."

This time, the man's confession poured out all at once like a flood of remorse. He could barely contain his grief as he recounted the wicked deeds he had committed with the other deacons. He described the converts' terror as they were burned alive, and after that, consumed entirely. He trembled as he revealed how the others devoured their victims with glee, delighting in every scream and shudder that issued from the charred bodies. As Alwyn regurgitated his crimes, the captain's stony expression never faltered, but the color slowly drained from his face until it was pale as alabaster.

Once the priest had quieted, the paladin took a deep, steadying breath. "This must not go unpunished," he growled, fist tight around the hilt of his sword.

"On that we are agreed," Klimt said solemnly. "Now, Alwyn, tell us who we might still rely upon. Only those who you have complete confidence in."

Alwyn nodded eagerly. "As I said, there were many in attendance, but I can name those who were not privy to this evil. Not once did I see any heralds there, nor the priestesses. Of the deacons, I believe we can still trust Langrist, Cleary, Abner, Malkayne..."

As the names went on, Klimt tallied their numbers, slowly envisioning the ranks of his army. He could only pray they would be enough. "Captain," he spoke once the priest had finished, "prepare your heralds. We will need every able-bodied man armed and ready for battle."

Brommand gave a curt nod. "Of course, your holiness. We won't let these traitors take our Church without a fight."

While the warrior departed, Klimt returned to the timid priest. "Alwyn, seek out those deacons still faithful to our cause. Tell them to gather outside the Cathedral's entrance. We will meet there, and together, we will put a stop to McDonnell's schemes, whatever they may be."

Alwyn stood with a gracious bow. "Yes, Archdeacon. I will take utmost care with my task."

"Very good. We cannot tip our hand yet, not until we are prepared."

When he was alone again, Klimt rose from his chair and turned to the silver spear hanging against the wall. His fingers traced its smooth shaft, admiring its immaculate craftsmanship, then hoisted it from its perch. He was far from the warrior he used to be, yet the bident still felt light as a feather in his hands. After all these years, the time had come to wield it once again.

"Heavenly Mother, grant me strength," he whispered in prayer, clasping the pendant that hung around his neck for support. "Grant me the power to smite this evil that has infected our holy land. Help me to banish this darkness and return us to the light. I beg of you, watch over us in our hour of need. For our Father, for our Church... for those poor children..."

If the Heavenly Mother heard his prayers, she gave no sign.

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The heralds had gathered outside the cathedral fully armed. Archdeacon Klimt stood before them, two-pronged spear in hand, with Captain Brommand flanking his right side. Klimt gazed over the warriors, young and old, all sharing looks of confusion and concern. They had no idea what was to come, but in truth, neither did he. The old man sighed apprehensively as he addressed the gathering.

"Faithful deacons and warriors of White," he began, softer than he would have liked, "today we find ourselves at a dangerous crossroads. A terrible, sinful thing has found its way into our Church. Our own brothers and sisters... our very leaders... have been carrying out transgressions in secret. I believe some of you might have even been approached about this very sin without realizing it. How many of you were offered a trial, to prove yourselves to Saint Aldrich?"

As he expected — as he had feared — a vast majority raised their hands.

"You are all here because you chose rightly. You refused to debase yourselves, even at the command of your Archdeacons. But what they didn't tell you is that others... many others... chose wrong. They committed an unimaginable crime. They gorged themselves on the flesh of the converts. They ate their very bodies, yet they faced no punishment, no absolution. Nay... they were rewarded. They were invited to dine with the Saint himself, and feast on their fellow man."

He paused briefly as a ripple of distress flitted through the crowd. "I cannot speak for Aldrich's desires. Indeed, I have not been allowed to see him for some time now. McDonnell keeps his precious savior hidden from prying eyes, and now we know why. I can admit that I've never felt a kinship with McDonnell, but I would never have suspected him of such treason. And as for brother Royce... I still cannot believe he'd side with an outsider over his own kin. I cannot believe he would abandon our way, and yet he has. They have invited evil into our home, and it is up to us to cast it out.

"I am truly sorry for what I must ask of you, but please... have faith in me, now more than ever. We will face these blasphemers, and together, we will make them confess the truth of their sins."

Captain Brommand drew his greatsword, holding it high in the shimmering sun. "Warriors! You must be prepared to fight against your own brothers. Do not think that you have betrayed them, that you have abandoned them. It is our duty to save them from this wickedness and bring them back to the light, even if we have to drag them kicking and screaming! Are you with us!?"

"Aye, sir!" the heralds chanted in unison. Even though their faces were wrought with unease, their eyes shone in determination. Klimt's chest swelled proudly at the sight. They were many, and they were faithful. They were righteous. By the grace of Gwyn, they would succeed.

As one, they marched up the stairs and through the great iron doors of the cathedral. Straight ahead, on the raised platform where sermons were held, Klimt spotted a congregation of deacons and cathedral knights far outnumbering their own. Even at that distance, he could see the hefty McDonnell among them. The dwarfed figure hovering at his side was undoubtedly Royce. They all stood facing the approaching party, as if expecting their presence.

Klimt pushed aside his doubts and strode boldly towards them. He could sense the hesitation of the others at his back, but he could not falter now. They needed his guidance. They needed to see that at least one of their Archdeacons was still true to their ways. As they passed the sleeping giants, Klimt briefly wondered if the ancient beings might come to their aid, but he knew it was a hopeless folly. Despite their incredible strength, the giants would never raise a hand against the Church, regardless of betrayal. They were too simple-minded to be convinced otherwise.

No. This battle would be fought between brothers alone.

"McDonnell!" Klimt shouted as they approached the platform. "No more secrets! No more excuses! I demand to speak to Aldrich at once!"

The portly Archdeacon peered smugly over the commotion before him. "Ah, brothers," he welcomed them with open arms. "You're just in time. We were about to begin our sermon. We'd be honored if you'd join us."

"You think this a game?" Klimt snapped. "We know what you've done. We know what all of you have done! Say it! I want to hear you confess for yourself this terrible offense you've perpetrated!"

"You mean the converts? The consumption of their flesh? I'd hardly call that an offense." There was an audible gasp behind Klimt as the truth came out, but McDonnell continued unfazed. "Their souls had been sacrificed for the greater good, as we all agreed upon. It only seemed prudent to keep the rest from going to waste."

Klimt grimaced, appalled at McDonnell's audacity. He turned his withering sights on Royce, who seemed to shrink even smaller. "And you went along with this?" he seethed.

The mousy man spread his hands innocently. "Surely you can see the sense in it, brother. You were all but eager to sacrifice their souls, and leave their bodies to hollow and rot. Is this really so different?"

"They were not sacrificed!" Klimt practically roared. "Their souls were to join in unison with Aldrich, to become one as a Lord of Cinder! We gave them a purpose! We granted them salvation! And you would defile their remains so disgracefully? You've all gone mad!"

"You're wrong," McDonnell interrupted. "We have finally seen the truth, thanks to Aldrich. To transcend the curse, we need more than just powerful souls. We need blood. The converts have joined with us completely, both in body and soul. They have not been defiled, but given purpose, just as you said. Together, we will attain salvation."

"The only salvation you'll find is at the end of my blade!" Brommand suddenly threatened, aiming his Astora steel at McDonnell. "Come down and face us, wretch! I'll slay every last one of you by myse—"

A spearhead burst through his chest. The paladin gasped in surprise at the stained metal tip protruding from his sternum. With the last of his strength, he turned stumbling towards the young herald behind him. There stood Oberthen, staring in fear, tears welling in his eyes. "You..." Brommand rasped, blood speckling his lips. "You?"

Without another word, the captain fell dead to the floor.

"I'm so sorry," Oberthen whimpered. "They made me do it, they—"

He never finished his apology. Another herald opened the boy's throat with a swipe of his halberd, nearly severing the head from its shoulders. "Traitor!" he screamed as Oberthen toppled over in spasms, the life pouring from his gaping wound. "How dare you stab him in the back! Have you no honor!?"

Klimt dropped to his knees beside the slain paladin, ignoring the pooling crimson that stained his white robes. Brommand's glassy eyes stared into nothing, a look of confused indignity frozen on his pallid face. The Archdeacon turned to Alwyn in distress. "You..." he choked the words out. "You told us the heralds could be trusted! You told us it was safe!"

"Forgive me, your holiness," Alwyn replied with only a tinge of regret. "It had to be done. They needed us all here, in one place... to bear witness to our new Lord."

Klimt's mouth hung agape as the depths of McDonnell's treachery revealed itself. He stumbled to his feet, then faced his fellow Archdeacons. His skin burned at the sight of McDonnell's arrogant smirk, and Royce's pathetic, apologetic frown. "You bastards!" he cried out, shaking an accusing finger at them. "You heathens! You've gone against everything our Church stands for!"

McDonnell's bloated body shook as he chuckled. "You're a fool, Klimt. This has always been the Way of White's purpose. You've simply been too blind to see it."

"What the devil are you talking about!? Our Lord would never allow such a trespass!"

"Gwyn abandoned us!" McDonnell bellowed. "He doomed us all for the sake of a dying flame! Our forefathers knew it could never last. They were wise enough to seek a better path. You think I am a traitor? Then you must also condemn Allfather Lloyd, Earl Arstor, even Bishop Havel! They all looked to an age without flame, when men would be free to choose their own destiny. We are not the traitors! It is the gods who betrayed us!"

"Liar!" Klimt's shoulders heaved in outrage. "All that leaves your tongue are lies!"

"No, brother. I speak the truth, and I will speak all of it, so that you and your flock may be enlightened in the end. It was the Allfather himself who first decided it, you know. It was his wisdom that first saw an end to the age of fire. Under his guidance, our predecessors sent their loyal, tireless undead on a grand mission... to reclaim the secret rites of the Gravelord. Those ignorant fools thought they were serving Gwyn, just like you, but they couldn't have been more wrong."

"Preposterous," Klimt sputtered. "The Allfather was a pious man. He was devoted to our Lord..."

McDonnell ignored the old man's murmurings. "With the Gravelord's ancient knowledge secured, the Church called upon our brothers in Carim. Together with the dark magics of Velka, they harnessed a power that could slay the gods themselves, and thus lift mankind into its great ascension. They called it the black ember. It was lost to us for countless ages, locked far away from our grasp. But at last... at long last... it has been returned.

"We have finally borne fruit to the dreams of the Occult! We now wield the power they forged so long ago, and we... I... have given birth to our greatest weapon, that which will end the line of the gods forevermore!"

McDonnell smiled, his black eyes glistening in the candlelight. "Do you still wish to see him, brother?"

A deafening crash resounded across the cathedral. Klimt's blood ran cold as he realized what it was.

The doors to Aldrich's sanctum had opened.

McDonnell turned away from the crowd below, looking to his Saint with arms upraised. Royce mimicked the gesture, and one by one, their loyal deacons did as well. They welcomed the approaching nightmare in rapture, even as Klimt's heart was strangled by fear. His eyes went wide as he beheld the abomination Aldrich had become.

A viscous black slime oozed around the statue of the veiled goddess. It heaved over itself in a roiling mass, churning with the bones of countless dead. It pooled around the feet of the deacons, then rose to their waists, then latched its slick tendrils onto their bodies. It kept surging forward, a neverending wave of death. Klimt stared, frozen in revulsion, as it consumed the willing sacrifices, submerging them all beneath its putrid muck until they had become one with the shapeless horror. The dark sea swirled about itself, climbing higher and higher, a swelling vortex of bodies and bone.

Then, the wave broke.

Screams erupted as the sludge cascaded over those below. The torrential flood constricted around the clergymen, dragging them down and silencing their cries. Some struck back with their weapons in sheer terror, but steel did nothing to halt the tide. The slime thrashed about in an insatiable frenzy, engulfing all that it touched. Heralds and priestesses threw themselves against the unforgiving walls of the cathedral, clawing frantically in a futile attempt to escape their fate.

Klimt abandoned all hope. He fled.

The Archdeacon struggled to push through the hysterical crowd. He shoved himself between the jostling bodies, and when they became too crammed, he forced his way through with his spear. His vision was filled with terrified faces. His ears rang with shrieks of death. He could feel the cold strands lapping against his legs, threatening to draw him under. His heart thundered against his ribs. He could not stop. He dared not stop.

He burst free from the mob, nearly stumbling over his gown, and kept running. He could see the tall double doors ahead, tantalizingly close, but he was sure he would collapse at any moment. The icy wetness that tickled his neck spurred him onward. Klimt panted in agonizing breaths until he finally fell through the threshold on hands and knees.

He had no time to rest. He spun around and heaved against the doors with all the feeble strength he could muster. He wailed aloud as his shoulders cracked from the strain, and the thick metal groaned reluctantly in response. Slowly, they began to slide together, inch by inch. Through the opening, Klimt saw dozens of survivors closing in. They cried out to their Archdeacon, begging him to wait, even as the black mass swallowed them one by one. He clenched his eyes shut, half in pain, half in disgrace, and kept pushing.

The doors sealed shut with a condemning snap. No sooner had they locked than a flurry of fists rained against the other side, pounding uselessly. Suddenly, the doors shuddered under an immense weight, and Klimt fell back as the cries were instantly muffled. His foot missed the first step, and the Archdeacon tumbled down the stairs.

He hit the bottom in a broken heap. The old man gasped for breath, feeling daggers in his sides. His legs bent at odd angles; one foot was nearly wrenched around completely. Even though his frail bones seared in agony, he dragged himself forward by his fingernails, the pristine silver spear scraping across the floor beside him. At last, he passed through the final gate, then struggled to close the heavy doors behind him.

Even after they had shut, they could not block out the echoes of the dying. As the Archdeacon listened to their tortured screams, he sunk to the ground and wept.

In his grief, he did not see the blood-red sky above.

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Author's note: If you're curious about what the hell McDonnell was talking about, you can check out my full theory on reddit. Search for user dankbouls87 and find the newest post called "Aldrich, Way of White, and the Occult.")