Chapter One
The candlelights flickered ominously as the door creaked open and the two men entered. The shadows dancing on the walls welcomed them; the walls themselves bare and worn out, perhaps from the burden of witnessing strange and dark events in their lifetime.
Events such as the one that was going to transpire tonight.
Kjen helped the old man into his hut, carefully laying him down on the wooden long table. The old man grumbled something in his drowsy state, the stench of mead from his mouth assaulting Kjen's senses, who leaned down on the man, unbuttoning his tunic.
But Kjen was used to such assaulting smells. Three pints of alcohol were nothing compared to three buckets' full of guts and blood.
Human guts and blood, to be exact.
Kjen carefully strapped the leather belts around the old man's frail body, making sure the frayed ends wouldn't hurt him. After all, Kjen was not a madman. He did what he had to, and that included not inflicting more pain on his victims than necessary.
He proceeded to draw a small, sharp but a beautiful ceremonial dagger from a cupboard nearby. The emerald embedded in its hilt sparkled in the candlelight, as Kjen studied it, mentally chiding himself for not wiping the smudged dried bloodstains on it.
The old man shifted uneasily, as he sought to get free from his bounds. He felt cool air on his whole body and panicked upon seeing his clothes gone, his body naked. The terror in his eyes, as he saw the shiny blade getting near to his chest, made Kjen more eager and excited to start the ritual.
"Hey, get that away from me! Are you mad? Urgghh! Let me go!" the old man shouted with as much strength he could gather after a long night of chugging mead down his throat.
His shouts did not go in vain, eliciting a response from Kjen.
"Mad? Why would you think I'm mad? It's most unfortunate that what I do seems to be the work of a madman. I'm not mad. A madman wouldn't go to such lengths to prepare for a ritual. A madman would simply start slashing and killing his victims. A madman doesn't understand love, nor power, nor glory. He simply kills for the sake of killing. I don't like that. What I do has a far deeper meaning than your mind could ever imagine," Kjen spoke with a fervent passion, his face contorting in sorrow at being misunderstood. He wiped the tears forming in the corner of his eyes.
The old man blinked furiously, his fogged mind unable to understand anything around him, other than the fact that he was probably going to be killed in cold blood, by a madman claiming not to be mad. "Let me go, please, I'm begging you. I have a wife," he pleaded, his heart hoping for a miracle, after seeing some semblance of emotions unfolding on his captor's face. He mentally scolded himself for not listening to his wife, who had warned him to stay at home and not go to the tavern.
"I am sorry. I can't do that. As I told you, I am not a madman. I'm a person of high mental wit and strength. I do things with utmost care and perfection. And you, sir are one of the lucky few that get to be a part of something as beautiful as this. Don't you worry. I am a perfectionist. Your death will not be in vain. See here, I'll show you," he spoke calmly and moved his dagger closer towards the poor man's chest.
The old man screamed louder as the blade dug deeper across his chest, carving strange, ancient symbols on his wrinkled skin.
Kjen laughed heartily as he completed carving the sigils on the whole body. But his heart sank, when he realised the frail, pale and wrinkled canvas did not do justice to his art. He strived for perfection, and this was far from it.
"Damn it! I knew I should have picked that young boy. Instead, I got this stupid bald old man. Damn it!" Kjen cried out, as he put aside the blade and picked up the bucket full of blood. "Never mind, this will have to do!"
The stench was filthy and nauseating, but Kjen's resolve was even greater than that. He dipped the cloth in the bucket and like a possessed artist working to create a masterpiece, he drew circles and strange shaped sigils on the floor. After that, he put aside the red stained cloth, and placed a burning candle in the center of the large circle. He muttered an incantation, his voice getting louder and louder as he went on and completed the ritual with the burning of his unfortunate victim's heart.
He held his breath as he waited for his idol to appear. Ten minutes passed by. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. Kjen gave up after the agonizing wait.
He picked up a mop and washed the blood tainted floor. He then chopped up the man's body into small pieces, hacking furiously at it with his butcher knife. His heart and eyes cried silently, the tears staining his sleeves as he wiped each and every drop that escaped his eyes.
He then tossed the parts in a large brown sack, and flung it across his shoulder.
He went outside, the large trees beckoning him with their twisted branches, his misery making them bend. He dragged his heavy feet and heart ahead into the forest, the growth thickening more the deeper he went. Even the moon shared his pain tonight, hiding behind the clouds, the thin light barely making anything visible.
Yet, Kjen did not need any light. He had memorised the path, having walked on it multiple times. His legs carried him ahead, having a brain of their own.
He reached a river, its surface all black in absence of the moon. He threw the body parts in it, scattering them in many directions, his each throw precise and calculated, careful not to alert the wild creatures lurking nearby. The parts glittered electric blue with the sparks of the sound muffling spell he had cast on them. The spell faded after a while, the blue being swallowed up by the river.
He sat down on the muddy bank. He gazed at the river solemnly, its deep and dark void reminding him of his own heart where ripples once fluttered, only to die soon. The only difference was the river couldn't feel the grief after.
But Kjen was determined. His purpose in life was to be the greatest devotee his God could ever ask for. As he contemplated on his goal, he forgot the pain and stood up, flinging the sack once again on his shoulder.
He would try again.