Theodore
The demon's hand approached the woman's. There was a tinge of hesitation, but his eyes were as dull as ever, as if they were ripped out from a corpse and crudely stitched back in his sockets.
"Sure... Just follow me."
If one had to describe the world surrounding the two, one could not find a better word than hell itself. Fire and devastation littered the barren battlefield, countless bodies littering the entire area. But not a single one was a corpse. Nay, they had been kept alive, far from mercifully.
They barely had the strength to moan any more, countless men bitterly defeated, all opposition crushed until nothing but broken shells remained. All they could do was gaze at the two harbingers, unscathed in their white clad clothes as if to contrast this wasteland. It was almost beautiful.
Just as she was about to perform her craft, the man's hand was held before her, as if to impede her path. He still had something to do...
“Brothers and sisters!”
Gazing down at the inferno -no, the entire world-, the one eyed serpent began his speech.
“What if I told you that your entire life had been decided by fate? That victors were born for glory; that the defeated live only to serve? You live your life as it had been decided in advance, always reaching the same finale, unable to diverge, no matter what happens. What if I told you that the universe was woven from such a cruel fabric?
“If such is truly the case, then hard work, negligence, hopes and dreams and prayers are equally and completely without meaning. What if I told you that the grace of the divines, as well as the wrath of the heavens… had already been carved into stone eons before? All of you sinless lot, labeled as the devil’s offspring, were born only to be destroyed, to be downtrodden, to be raped and killed and annihilated. Nothing more… and nothing less. Such is the nature of this detestable cycle — this ghetto.
“Death brings no release, merely revival, another cycle, another beginning – the beginning of your defeats, your losses, your pain and anguish. As such, even at the end of all things, you have nothing but eternal suffering and defeat waiting for you, merely because you were born to shoulder that very fate. Nothing more, and nothing less. Do you not find this abominable? Do you not wish to turn the tables?”
His grim proclamation reached all souls residing in the battlefield, be it those of the living or the fallen.
Nothing awaits you but eternal suffering, eternal defeat. As if it was the trumpet of the final judgment, his hopelessly powerful proclamation soaked into the hearts of all who listened.
He possessed otherworldly charisma, making use of the critical situation at hand to carry out this coercive manipulation; hardly could it be called a rarity, and yet, considering the scope of all mankind, it was nothing short of abnormal, equal to dragons and magical beasts from legends of old, his voice carried a tremendously powerful magical quality that penetrated the hearts and minds of all that listened; a juggernaut of a voice causing the weak to faint, the ordinary to tremble in fear or listen in fascination.
In a word: inhuman.
The silver beast. The jet black prince. The hateful light. The one eyed serpent. Every single word that left his lips was soaked deep in sorcery.
He gave the command.
“If you agree… then fight.”
If you wish to turn the tables on life, shackled by misfortune, then offer your very soul. If the chains of destiny satisfy you not… If you long to wash your names clean of the stigma of the defeated…
“Rise to battle at my side.”
Take the pen and sign the pact with blood. Therein lies the devil’s temptation. The daemon looked down at the people crawling below him, and voiced a question.
“What do you desire?”
It was all too evident. Among all else, their souls conjured the same simple words. I want to emerge victorious.
To conjure the words of Doctor Faust, his features reflected the uncanny equilibrium of a genuine smile and a grotesque sneer, his eyes as hollow as his soul yet shining with an unknown hunger. Mephistopheles, king of the hateful light. The name of the wicked fiend that can grant man’s every wish in exchange for his living soul.
“If such is your desire… then I shall allow you to join me and become a strand of her hair, ornate my beast's claws and fangs with your essence. You have my consent.”
The very moment that absolute declaration left his lips, the unthinkable happened. All men with gun in hand took it to their mouths. All those wielding blades thrust it deep into their own chests. Those with nothing left plunged themselves into the hellfire still raging around them.
Guns roared, steel drank blood, men plunged to their death – all committing suicide without exception. Were these the final touches to complete that daemonic ritual? All these men, all in reverence, all in devotion, longing for a savior, a redeemer, a messiah; all of them… their blood spilt on the sacrificial altar.
What followed was nothing short of unnatural.
Like a fog, or a haze, erupted multiple shimmering, opaque forms in their vicinity. At the very same time, Theodore’s senses were assaulted by low moans that made him want to cover his ears. Those were the cries of the cursed fallen, suffering and lamenting even in eternal un-death; their endless wailing causing even the seething hot air to chill.
They were the spirits of the dead. Among their swirling mass, one could almost make out the faces of the fallen, as well as the end towards which they were spiraling – straight into the daemon's fingertips. Converging into a single, homogenous shape, a swirling lollypop.
In all its grimness, all its cruelty, all its terror, it was…
"How boring."
