CHAPTER 7 - "BEGINNINGS"
The pain Damascus was feeling was horrendous.
The falling ash burned his skin and the heat scorched his muscles, it even singed his once soft, beautiful blonde locks to near nothingness. Smoke blanketed the sky as the volcano Vesuvius had erupted only minutes before with an such force and with such devastation that everyone in Pompeii had thought the world itself had exploded. When the ground beneath their feet shook with such violence, it was as if the gods had forsaken, giving them to the fiery depths of Tartarus for their lack of worship.
Damascus had known the city's true nature, but he had chosen to turn a blind eye. But apparently the Gods had not! The Gods were always watching, always witness to the city's inhabitants - to what everyone was doing and to whom they were doing it to. And this, he had decided, was the city's punishment for defying the Gods benevolent kindness that was bestowed upon this once peaceful bay city.
Chaos, destruction and total devastation incarnate was Pompeii now!
Pompeii was a lude, dissentient and sexually decrepit place, filled with adulterers, cretins, charlatans, thieves and many men and women of a crude and self-arrogant nature. Oh, some were honest, hard working people, like Damascus's parents, but most of Pompeii's citizens were immigrants from other regions of Rome and had become complacent in their ways, defying the Gods, engaging in licentious and lecherous deeds of a self-supplying wrought - and the Gods hated not being worshipped!
Much like another civilization in the ancient past who then tried to conquer other lands - Pompeii was not building an army - but they were part of the greatest empire the world knew: Rome, said to be cruel to and violent people. And Christians condemned it, often crucified for their belief in one god - The God, who believed in peace and understanding and equality among the masses. And this "natural" destruction was the Christian God's way of taking "revenge" on those who prosecuted so many of his faithful children, despite his teachings forbid such an act. But like all God's, they were known to change their mind on a whim.
Damascus didn't know and didn't care, but suffered like the rest.
His mother and father were dead, killed by falling debris - fiery boulders launched out of the neck of the volcano, soaring high into the air, through the clouds that masked the sky, then fell down into the blackness that encompassed the city - crushed to death, their bodies incinerated in seconds in their own home.
Damascus had managed to survive his parents fate by the volcano because he was outside at the time, only to run away into a field that quickly burst into flame, showered by tiny, whistling meteors falling from the sky - his body burning, his clothes chard black as soot, his skin melting from the intense heat. And he tried to crawl to the water's edge of the bay to soak himself. But he body hurt; tears crusted up the moment water formed, his left eye bubbling whiteness down his face from exploding inside his skull from the heat.
And yet, he was still alive.
He crawled, and crawled, using his arms and elbows to dig into the soil, his legs burnt and black and no longer working. He had been hit by a piece of iron in the spine that had been flung at him, when a tiny, fiery stone dropped from the sky, and he feared that the impact had shattered his vertebra from the waist down. He knew he had urinated, his bladder no longer able to hold any liquids like the rest of his body; the heat soaking it all up as soon as any liquids escaped.
And yet, he was still alive.
His right eye was quickly going blind, skin melting over the iris. He could see the bay and tried to reach out for it, but his strength left him and he fell face first into the black, burnt soil. The pain he felt was excruciating and agonizing, but tried to press on. He knew the sea was life and if he could reach it, even if he died in its embrace, his body would ride its currents forever - forever swimming; what he enjoyed best.
But his strength left him, and he screamed out - or tried to - his mouth parched with ash and soot, dry. His throat burning inside his chest from the awful heat surrounding him. All he wanted was for it to be over, to die with dignity. Instead of being naked, black and burned, and being covered with ash, forever buried, forever lost - like what he remembered Pompeii being for nearly two thousand years before excavated by archaeologists in the late 18th century.
Even with all his injuries that would kill a normal person, the pain and the suffering that he was experiencing, the gods would not take him, or did not want him…or he did he not want to go? Up to now, at twelve years old, he had always considered himself a strongly-willed person, independent, and self-reliant, but not even he could stand this much pain and suffering. A person had his limits.
And yet, he was still alive.
And he knew why.
He was coming.
The man walked through the fire and destruction of the volcano's fiery carnage, his boots crunching the black burnt and melted soil underfoot, but the heat and flames did not touch him, nor faze his approach. He was clothed in a dark shroud and hood and came to stand in front of Damascus, then crouched.
"Dear child, why has God forsaken such a sweet boy?"
He then removed his hood and a human face with thick, angelic white hair emerged. The beautiful looking man smiled at Damascus with skin as perfect as a statue could be, without blemishes or marks of any kind, save but one - a two to three inch scar over his left eye, but that did not inhabit his vision at all or his handsomeness, albeit even enhanced it. He wore all black clothing, but nothing covering his hands. Although his finger nails were as black as night.
"Do you wish to live boy? Or shall you lie in agony and pain never knowing when it will end?" Damascus could not speak anything. "Just think it boy and I will know your desire."
But it was too hard to think with all the pain.
The man held out a coin and presented it to Damascus, placing it inside Damascus's out-stretched hand that he had lain towards the bay.
Damascus squeezed it as hard as he could and looked upon the man, smiling as best he could with appreciation, his face burned severely. He thought the man was giving him a coin as payment for the ferry man for the River Styx, to carry him into the afterlife. It was a Greek belief, but a lot of Roman's believed in it and many Roman beliefs derived from Greek myths, thus this one was kept as well. Damascus thought the man was giving him payment for the ferry man, knowing he would die soon, and that Damascus was a kind, hearted soul and deserved to have his soul carried to the underworld without inhabitation. It was said without money to pay the ferry man, a soul would be trapped in purgatory, either for one-hundred years on the shore of the River Styx or forever at unrest. Legend be told, you must pay your way or be left behind.
"No boy, I am not giving your payment for Kharon of the River Styx; I am giving you a choice," the man said. "If you wish to live and live in perfect health, then give the coin back to me. If you chose to die, I will take them back and ask another, and you will wander for all eternality. There are so many others to ask."
Damascus could heard the screams of many of Pompeii's citizens. The sky was black as night, ash fell down from the heavens, and the constant whistling of falling debris filled the air. But this man stayed clean, as if the darkness was his home and the ash would not dare touch him, burning to nothing before it reached him. Was this Hades or Pluto in disguise or some other "god" offering to save him for his faith?
He didn't care, he wanted to live, and opened his hand.
The man smiled, taking the coin. "Very good, boy. For your honestly, I will grant you ever-lasing life."
Damascus looked upon the man with shock and awe, for those were the words of the Christian god, preached by the faithful and chastised by Roman archetype for blaspheme. Did he just make a deal with that god? In any regard, it resulted in death. The Emperor advised that the Christian's were tricksters, that their one sole god was nothing more than a fictitious being that had no power, no substance, and was a deceiver.
Had he just been tricked? Now the man had the coin meant for Kharon, the ferry man.
Damascus's hand twitched like a claw and he used all the rest of his strength to try to grab the coin back from the man, but without success and falling flat on his face.
"Excellent boy, you have great strength in you. You will do nicely."
And with a snap of two fingers, the world changed.
One moment it was hell's fire and brimstone -
- the next moment, Damascus and the man were it was a grassy hill top, basking over a field of serenity, with the sun brimming with a warm gentleness overhead like a beacon in the sky, and many birds singing their beautiful songs; nature in all its glory surrounding him with its stunning beautification.
Damascus still lain on the ground where he was only moments prior in a field of ash and soot, and the man was still crouched in front of him, smiling, like he was only moments prior.
The field he lain in was flat and free of any civilization as far as he could see from his vantage point, but when he looked around, he could have sworn he saw a familiar sight: a circular bay near a sandy shore, where he used to run and play with friends, naked, to swim and splash in its calm, warm waters. And the area was familiar, as well, and yet not, at the same time, as there were no buildings of any sort in this place, or docks in a harbor that carried supplies…
Damascus jumped too his feet - looked at his hands, then at his arms, his chest, and then down the rest of his body, and felt his face. He was free of burns and uninjured in any way. He was without clothes, but he was no longer burned, black and he was fully mobile, his back repaired. His spine was completely healed. He could also see out of his right eye. It was a miracle - and this man had saved him from a horrible fate? The only difference Damascus now saw with himself was his finger and toenails, black as night.
The man rose to his full height. He was tall, but Damascus was shorter, so the man looked taller. In his hand was the coin the man had taken from Damascus, or rather, the man had tricked him out of. He had not noticed before, but the coin did not have the emblem of the Emperor but a different marking: a five pointed star with what looked like a ram's head in the middle. Damascus looked up at the man curious about it.
"It is His sign, my dear boy, you are now a part of Him, as am I, as are all of his minions," the man said. The man placed his hand on Damascus's naked chest with the coin touching. For a few agonizing seconds, the coin sunk into Damascus's chest - but he did not flinch an inch. The man removed his hand. "It is now attached to your heart, child. If you attempt to remove it, you will return to that hell I took you from. Call it a covenant between us. I will teach you, train you - you will become my apprentice, and as you grow, you will then take an apprentice and teach him, to continue the line of His lineage."
Damascus put a hand to his chest, but there was no marking indicating of the coin's entry. The man waved a hand across Damascus body and suddenly a black tunic covered him with black sandals on his feet.
"Now, what do you say?"
Damascus placed an arm across his chest. He had once seen a Roman soldier do it to pay homage and respect to the Emperor and it was very well received. So he copied it, and bowed. "Thank you, Master. Thank you for saving my life. I will endeavor to enact your will to the best of my abilities." He knew now that he was much like a servant to a wealthy nobleman or a senator, but he was very appreciative.
"I am sure you will," the man said.
"May I be so bold as to inquire my Master's name?"
The man turned and appeared to gaze out upon the glassy bay of water in a moment of contemplation, his thick angelic hair blowing in a slight breeze, his dark shroud covering his entire body as if he were cold. It was indeed cold, even to Damascus, and strangely enough, he wished for someplace a lot warmer.
And as he looked around, his Master not immediately responding to his askance, Damascus finally realized why this place looked so familiar - the location, the bay, and the sandy shore. This was indeed Pompeii, but now buried and overgrown with foliage and fauna. The entire city and its habitants forever gone beneath the coverage of ash and soot, and the giant volcano looming in the distance, a veil of think fog now revealing its immense presence, hidden before. It was Vesuvius with a severely damaged and distorted neck.
They were a few years into the future from when the natural disaster occurred, and nature had now swallowed Pompeii up into its belly. It was as if the city never existed. The only reminder of his home was the shell of its former glory Vesuvius towering above, half of it blown away in its massive eruption, now sleeping.
He remembered this - this was how it all began for him. Renfrew Phantomhive was making him relive his past inside his mind, and it was all happening exactly as he remembered it.
But this was only the beginning of his two thousand year journey up until he met Ciel Phantomhive.
He didn't need to hear his master's name, he already knew it, but at this point of his beginnings, he did ask it, and he listened to his master when he spoke it.
"To those who know of me, I am known as Belial."
To be continued…