Act Two: Interlude One: He Whom Walks through the Shadow of Death

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WARNING

This chapter is from the perspective of a priest. He believes in the Christian God and is a follower of Catholicism. Just because he is saying something does not mean that I believe it, nor is this chapter attempting to sway anyone's opinion on religion. I wanted to use this chapter to pay homage to a class from dnd that I am sure everyone is aware of. I hope it did the job!

Time for the normal spiel.

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He woke before the sun began its rise. The bitter air hung like chains, draping and forcing him down, lulling him back to the embrace of sleep. His vigilance prevailed as he took up from the resting position and lined his small clothes up, dressed till the final fabric rested over his shoulders and the silver crucifix dropped onto his chest, the familiar weight always present for observers to see.

After dressing, he opened his travel case. Bringing out the small, seated orb and three candles and setting them on the folded alter. With a whisper, the will of God brought the candles alight and the incense burner working against the cruel air. Next came the first prayer. Thankfully, another day had come, thankful for shelter and company. He thanked the Lord for gifting him life and the love of God.

He asked next for the Lord's aid.

For blessings upon his friends, to prevail against the flames that may come. To shelter them from harm. He asked to sharpen their movements and to keep shield them from the world's evil.

He asked and asked of the Lord, and God was good.

Every time he asked for aid, a small part of himself reached out, making the contract true. A trace of his spirit was held by the Lord, and with his aid the enactment of his touch on earth would be fulfilled.

For he, Father Tristan Lehner was his Lord's agent, and through him, God's wonderful works marked the world.

When next he opened his eyes, the traces of light penetrated his traveling home, a fresh day that was gifted to help him share the gift of God with so many who could not see it. His soft breath ceased the flames as a tin cap stopped the incense's power.

Tristan blocked the small rays which peaked through low valleys as he took stock over the camp. At present, a handful of elves and men scuttled through the maze of tents, one's not traveling with them that day.

Next, he looked away from the sun to the forthcoming obstacle they would pass. It loomed in shadow as it did the previous nights. Seated at the base of a triple peak, an entrance to hell peered out. A small stream guided into the mouth like the tongue of a wicked snake as the cave maw whispered high tones even kilometers away. Like a bottle being blown upon its eerie tune howled with every passing breeze.

In this dead range, nothing good lived in the black waters or its banks. Cursed trees had sprouted, but no hint of green nor brown touched them, instead of death gripped them, and evil forced them up, jutting like fangs upward from the ground below. On the shore what could be called grasses rose, but they were twisted and black and rough like a darkened piece of steel wool.

How long since the creature of apocalypse had exited, nature had shut its home with dead things. The servant of the fallen angel rested below, for what else could exude so much power and evil. He brought the cross to his lips and sent a prayer to those felled by the evil dragon, that they may know of mercy in the place beyond the mortal coil, in the presence of God.

Again, his thoughts drifted to the fallen, the ones he had failed to help.

Never had he traveled with such frequent misfortune. The pain his companions had levied was much.

How he wished he could have done more. The voices of fallen souls whispered to him from the dark places of the journey. When his mind slipped from the singular task, the dead called to him. They asked why he failed to save them. Instead of curing the rot of the limb of one, he healed the wounds of another. Instead of healing the wounds of another, he shielded more from danger.

He tried to save as many as he could and as a result, countless more died purely for his weakness.

Instead of putting a protective barrier over the camp, he slept in comfort.

He prevented those ten men from living a life.

When a man is cursed such as them, to crave upon the flesh of kin, it is a sin that would never allow one to pass on in peace, instead, they would be forced to wander without feeling until they fell into the fiery hell that awaited the monstrous thing they became, a soul rot without fault of their own.

Father Lehner hoped that by culling the sickness early the doors of heaven would be open again, but the truth was an unknown, for only God knew the answers that fell the self upon death's embrace.

He traveled to the eating quarter, overlay with scattered tables of many sizes, though the number had dwindled from the days, weeks, months, perhaps even years since the trip had begun. The crew had lost and continued losing, finding the need to set up the furniture unnecessary.

Most seats were void, but a speckling of people decorated the venue. Most consisted of the strange fey folk, descended from these of northern Europe, but of the fewer human souls the youngest sat with his constant companion.

The father quickly broke glance from them, for his stomach would not hold the sight. The toad which perched on the table of the boy was a demon, that he recognized. It was a being which knew not of God, and by its nature never could. The Fallen One created and sustained it, and it existed as an extension of the damned Lightbringer.

Why then did God stay his hand?

The week before the meeting in the French port he had dreamt of a toad about to be driven over by one of God's clergy, but the man stopped and let it past. It took many minutes till the toad had crossed, and drivers behind raged at the stall on the road. As he finally drove again the bridge before he collapsed, and because of waiting and saving the toad did the man save the many lives behind him.

The dream stayed with Tristan; the long days had the unclear message from his savior enter his prayers for understanding day after day.

Then, the meeting came.

And the thing was there.

The flesh puppet of a soul not of this world whispered evil things into a young boy's ear. So young and so damaged was the boy he saw the walking pestilence as a friend and ally, smiling at the monster and speaking to it with kind words when he thought none listened when he assumed none watched.

The Lord had sent forth an obvious message to Tristan; the evil puppeteer was to be left alone, for, through the distraction it held, it would save many.

Approaching the pot, he smiled at the man attending. A sweet young lad clad in the robe of wizards. He was stocky and fuzz grew from his face. "Morning Milo, how is the day?"

"Uneventful, which is good." Milo smiled at him, crooked teeth preening behind his small lips.

"I agree. The lack of direct peril these last few days has been a godsend," Father Lehner glanced into the morning stew, a reheated version of the food of yesterday sprinkled with a few fresh herbs. "Do you mind if I tinker with it a bit," he pointed to the settled food.

"Of course, the easiest days are the ones where you do," the boy smiled again, this time the grin masked the whites behind.

Tristan palmed a flask. The contents had been thoroughly seen by members of the clergy, doctored, and granted the trait of faith. The priest emptied the small flask, a mouthful at most poured into the pot and slowly diffused into the thicker mix.

He started his soft chant, a prayer to God in the name of The Holy Saint who was consumed by flame. That her sacrifice would be used as payment for the future of man. To The Maid of Orleans, he asked forgiveness for the men and for her banner to guide them on their ventures against evil as Jeanne d'Arc had so many centuries ago.

A faint glow took over the cauldron as Tristan stood breathless, the sucking of his energy to power the rite, painting his vision with speckling pain spots. But he smiled through it, knowing that he would save others by his acts.

"Two bowls please."

"Two bowls?"

"Yes, this morning I do not eat alone."

He slid the bowl to the boy, avoiding any manner of being near the tempter's vessel as he could. "I brought this for you," he said in a reserved tone.

The child of his attention had grown from his shell in the latter days of hiking through the towering terrain. As if someone had pulled a weight from his small shoulders, his head had left the persistent watching of the ground. Still, the child's face bore ill will to him. His eyes which, for days, had come from detached to a level of the sparkle they began the journey with pierced him with a violent green. The flame of passion that roared at him threatened him on the spot as Tristan reflexively pulled back and strained his spine. "I am already eating, thank you." The boy's eyes no longer met his own as breath returned to the priest. The child, introduced as Harry and whispered to be the child who ended the dark reign of The Shadow within Britain, chilled his voice in the response, so cold that even the nearby flames diminished.

Was such a thing imagined; or did he hold the power to control the world around him with prodigal ability? Already he had demonstrated ability, having killed one parasite alone as well as keeping pace with men stronger and older than himself. Then again, he spoke with the tongue of Abaddon and appeared to look upon other's deaths as consequences to his goal.

"I insist," he said, backed by the will of God. Why did his Lord wish for this boy to consume the protective draught? Father Lehner did not know that answer. He knew the boy needed protection, even if he was not to accompany them in their trip into the labyrinth of the monster of end times. Was that saying, in a dream so similar to what the great king Solomon would have once dreamt, the evil would escape from beneath the bowels of its home and wreath judgment upon the unsuspecting camp? Again, Father Lehner had no answer.

He knew the red-eyed toad watched him without looking at it. The malintent crawled upon his skin, reaching below his clothes to do so. Harry again sounded to refuse, but the will of God would be met. "It is just food, and I believe eating more would do you well. You began this journey on the thinner side if I recall correctly." He forced a smile through the blanketing cold and ill will around.

"Very well." The child glanced away as he finished his first meal. He then wordlessly began on the second consuming the piece of divine implanted food. Tristan ate his own. The cool wash of protection wrapped him in the comforting hands of his God. The boy went to stand.

"You may talk to me Harry," he started, "though long removed I used to be a listener to many confessions," time removed longer than the child had lived.

"I have nothing to say," the 'to you' need not be said. The visage of stone reproachfully looking down on him as if sculpted from a giant mountain made him feel like a squirrel that had stolen from a hawk. But the danger of the situation was lost, for the will of God guided him.

"The words of temptation and evil are closer than you think, but I believe you are strong enough to choose your own path, child."

Stone cracked as an unkind smile graced the face of the boy. "Was that a threat?" He tilted his head as if to convey confusion, but the brimming sadistic intelligence in his cutting glance failed the act. The fire cracked behind Tristan as the wood resettled, the warmth of the flame helping strengthen his resolve.

"Not at all. I only wish to help you. You seem to struggle with some heavy burden. I wish to hold it with you." Air blew from the taught lips but no words followed, "I wish your companion no harm."

"So, you know of what he is?" His voice held no note of the confusion his body language hosted as if something were fundamentally broken inside the child, unable to act like people and merely imitating them. Did a soul still reside within, or was he purely a puppet as his familiar? "I thought you would have purged his presence before he could perform acts of evil," he spoke in an accusatory tone. The conviction the young one spoke with failed to match the body of the child across from him again. His words were ripe with knowledge and phrasing unmatched by his peers, of which he had spoken to many. Compared to the children of Germany who told of cursing, bullying, and earthy desired, speaking words mostly laced with lies and hiding the deeper sins below, his own held honesty and no regret. Though auf frischer Tat ertappt, which is to say, "caught in the act", he felt no wrongdoing for his sin.

"I felt I must spare him." He stayed by his faith.

"You are a hypocrite, priest." The confused facade melted away leaving fury behind, "you disgust me," without waiting for a response the child disappeared from his sight.

The open pavilion had more occupants than his last glance down. He wondered why the table was not the center of attention given the outburst that moments ago occurred. Looking where the boy had sat, he left his bowls behind, but next to them a small glint of light slowly fading. Collecting his bowl, he maneuvered to the opposite side to clean up after the child, only to see what glittered. It was a small person crouching with a bracket before him.

"The child is improving," a malevolent voice whispered into his ear. A quick swat saw the outsider flung to the table. Tristan's face twisted into a snarl as he glared at the offending monster. "He only started within the last year and yet can set a short-lasting ward." The sounds it made were like a cluster of flies, an uncomfortable buzz that heralded disaster.

"Why do you speak to me harbinger?" His hand clung to the divine symbol which lay abreast.

"What did I have to hide?"

"What did you do to make the boy so..?"

"Cruel? Stoic?" An unholy smile unnaturally sat across the animal form, "I have not influenced him so."

"Then why does he hate me so much?"

"You did that yourself, holy man." The corners of its mouth continued extending up as its red stare watched with inhuman interest.

"How?" He growled to the discipline of the dark one, but the thing stayed silent. "Speak to me." Anger crept into his tone.

"Are you alright, Father?" One man asked behind him. A simple glance let him know that power had fallen completely from the rune, leaving only a vandalized table in the child's wake. The toad had left, leaving Tristan stained in his humiliation.

"Perfectly, son," he said to the red-headed child, "just a little scrambled this morning. Make sure you and your brother eat well."

"Well, Bill is still sleeping, but I will be sure to remind him." The boy smiled at him again, something the priest matched.

"I will see you in a few hours then."

"Ya." The smile fell as fear crept into his eyes.

"It will be fine," Father Lehner reassured the young man, "for the Lord our God is watching us." The child eased slightly at the words; he would see soon the might of God.

He Who Walks through the Shadow of Death.

They broke before midday. The collection of men most suited for battle walked the long path to the gaping maw of dread. The elf in the lead had also been scouting the upcoming terrain for most of the previous week, so he walked the uneven ground with practiced paces, often stalling for his followers to catch up.

Father Lehner stayed near the middle, to most quickly help those on either end.

He thought them close to the opening, but the mountains had other plans, making them wade over mighty hills and through deep valleys, for the river that flew next to their camp had carved its path so clear through the mountain, that only the river could pass through many of its erosions.

They had paused on the cliff-side before a steep path carving down an almost sheer face. There they ate a quick meal of cooked food before resuming the downwards trek. The sky above glowed with a vibrant blue as the clear air welcomed him to stay.

Instead, he followed the group. The nearer to the cave, the thicker the evil feel of air became. A disgusting stench of rotten eggs permeated from the entrance, which only grew as they drew in. He watched as the river that passed their camp, a mere rook measuring only a couple meters across, joined with other drainages from chilled peaks creating a rushing whirl that could fit many men lying down. The cave, which before he thought large, defied his expectations, being as large as many of the mountains they had passed before. Despite the large opening, it seemed only darkness existed beyond the gargantuan entrance.

"Last chance to turn back, boys," an Italian man shouted back, earning a quick chuckle. He failed to remember the name, but he used to be full of jokes and humor. Instead, the man spent more and more time in isolation. "I think that the dragon we seek will not be so kind."

"Kill the dragon,"

"For Adelard!"

"For Elouan!"

"For Pierre!"

"For Fanucci," The Italian finished, his words quiet as others called for comrades lost on the journey. Their names lining before the caves, beginning like marked graves. Tristan prayed for the souls lost, recounting them as they passed the lips of friends and praying for their safe trip to the father.

They stepped into the darkness.

He Who Walks through the Shadow of Death.

Time was already odd.

The continent they sat on screwed with timekeeping. A curse lay on the land, preventing any meaningful way of deciphering how time passed beyond the sun moving above.

That said, the darkness of the beast's lair caused the flow of time to become something even more lost. The thunderous wash of water constantly rang in the ear, the sounds of soft conversation the only way of knowing that men still traveled with them.

The spells of his comrades still worked in the cave, but the cave actively snuffed out light, preventing simple spells from coming into existence who had the goal of light. They had tried a few fire spells, but even those could not light the path.

How long had it been?

Tristan had cramped in his legs from the tireless walking. The elf guide had found no trace of the beast. As he led them further and deeper into the cavern, the muttering of his companions grew faster and less stable.

Time in the dark did that.

Had it been a day?

It was so hot.

Would they rest soon?

He drank from his flask. The metal almost scorching his skin. The water like lava going down.

He reached out, grabbing the man before him by the shoulder, causing the man to screech.

He was not the first to yell for the purpose.

Just knowing that you were not alone was important at a time like this.

"We will rest here, make sure you are with someone, we will do a count both here and after we rest. We are not sleeping, only resting." The elf guide spoke in his heavy accent. The count was twenty. Only twenty men to face a roaring beast.

As they packed, a pattering sounded above the roaring river. It echoed along the entire cavern, giving it no direction. From the direction they came, an orange tint covered the side of the cavern.

Sounds of men rustling into action greeted his ears. He hoped it was not to fight. The orange gleam of the light was a symbol of joy to him.

The one who arrived was not their foe, but instead the child. He had a large lantern gripped in front of him; the flame blooming from the wick.

"Harry?" The trip's benefactor spoke, his voice the most emotionally filled he had ever heard the stoic man say. His tone dripped with confusion and concern.

The boy spoke to him, the language obviously English, a language in which he was not familiar.

Turning from the boy, Tristan used the light to see that which was hidden. They appeared to be in a massive cavern with the largest lake he had seen in the middle, so wide that the light failed to see its end.

The boy argued against his elder.

The walls dripped with moisture, and the lake bubbled below. Empty passages decorated the walls of the hall, many near their resting place, now seen to on a ledge over the large lake, a three-second fall would await them if they so tripped.

"Very good, manling." A voice shook the cavern. When the vibrations hit his ears, he understood the words spoken, as if they were in the German of his youth. The words that came were not in German, the speaker had spoken in language. The sounds he made were incomprehensible, yet he understood. "But your warning comes too late."

The world shook as small pieces of stone splashed into the loch, some falling onto their safe ledge.

"Everyone, run," Nicholas shouted, his eyes wide, "into the smaller tunnels." He gripped the boy's arm and did as he asked, speeding to the nearest gap in the wall.

"What?" A man started, but the floor below him gave way.

"Oh God," another shouted, his head pointing to the ceiling. The clatter of the lantern hit the ground, and the flames grew larger, burning evermore.

Tristan looked up. A mistake.

What he could have called the ceiling shifted as deep red rocks moved and reshaped above. A single golden eye watched them from above as the long serpentine body uncoiled from the sky.

He began his prayer.

"Lord Jesus, let your supernatural power fill this place. Send your warring angels to fight on my behalf," he muttered in Hebrew, grasping the constant lifeline attached to his neck.

The body before him stretched from the top to bottom of the cavern as a claw, as large as a man, connected to their standing.

"Keep me safe from every manner of trap that the enemy has set before me. Strengthen my faith that I may keep on standing in your word, which is the truth," he continued as the faint shimmering of God's protection began around him. There was shouting behind him, but he ignored it.

The beast unfurled its wings; they stretched so far, he could not hope to see the full view. A flap sounded the cavers as a reed pipe, singing an eerie tune of death.

"Give me supernatural strength to keep going, even when I am weak. Make me bold like a lion so that I can fight all spiritual battles in my life," Tristan prayed. He called for aid by his God, and the barrier which grew more and more beautiful was a judge of that will. The weakness growing within the cost of such an action. A man had grabbed the back of his robe and started pulling Father Lehner away, but his concentration would not waver.

Before him, the monster unhinged its jaw, showing curved teeth basked in orange light from the beast's throat.

"In Jesus' name, I believe and pray, Amen." With a flash, the prayer ended. From within the massive gob, fire like none other spilled out. As if unleashing a volcano, white-hot concentrate rammed into the landing, sending chunks of the wall falling unceremoniously into the burning lake below. At that moment the cavern's full extent was shown as the light of a thousand suns pasted the black walls in a sterling white as the ones nearest cried into long tear spills.

It soon met his barrier.

The wall of God's will creaked under the strain of heat, the demand on his body grew more with the passing seconds as someone dragged him further into a passage. The white death only stopped by his faith in the Lord.

"What the hell was that?" A voice behind him spoke, shaky and horse as the flames of hell reseeded. "What the hell was that?" It was like a mantra. Tristan wiped away the thick beads of sweat that had formed on his brow.

"Run, run little mice. Welcome to my labyrinth. The only escape for you now is death. I will enjoy watching you suffer," the words in language came from both in front and echoed behind him, "but the one who defied fate, you will live. Forever alone in my home, slave to the thing you sought to undo."

The caverns breathed, the hot air tasting of rotten eggs filled his lungs.

"Do entertain me manlings, I do so need entertainment."

The walls shuttered.

It was a cruel laugh.