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Drought. Plague. Famine. Monsters. Disasters that have left people angry, helpless, lashing out and trying to find someone to blame. But even amidst all that, there are those who would seek to use the situation for their own gain. People in such dire circumstances are easy to manipulate, easy to convince to commit sins they would normally never consider, if they weren’t so desperate to survive. Like sacrificing an innocent in order to appease whatever god or demon was angry enough to cause those disasters in the first place. And if that ‘randomly’ selected sacrifice happens to be the familyless young upstart, who has been getting in the way of your plans and who has figured out one too many of your dark secrets, well... While his death won’t actually prevent any future disasters, like you claim, it will buy you time to come up with a new plan to stop the angry mobs from coming for your head once they realize.
But to your surprise, not long after you have the desperate mobs shove the ‘sacrifice’ into a pit that is conveniently deep enough to claim leads to the underworld, the rains begin to fall, the crops return and the plague dies down. Even the monsters disappear and everyone believes that your made-up story about angry gods and sacrifices is true. Even you start to believe it, and you think that you’ve gotten everything; your secrets are still safe, you’ve gotten rid of that annoying thorn in your side, the disasters are all gone, and you’ve even managed to convince everyone that you’re some sort of genius for solving them.
Then, the hauntings begin.
A loud crash wakes you from your already fitful sleep, the sound of a vase falling, even though you know it was placed away from the edge of the table it sits on. This is the third vase already, and you consider having them all thrown away, were it not for the fact that you know that whatever damned poltergeist is haunting you, will just go back to throwing dishes, picture frames, books and whatever else it could get its evil little hands on, instead. You automatically get up and pull a sleeping robe around you, even though you know that you won’t find anyone around the scene of the crime. After all, you're the only living being here. You don’t even have any servants left; they all started leaving once the ‘incidents’ started happening and the quick spread of rumours made it impossible to have them replaced. Objects falling though no one was nearby, or moved to locations that no one would ever put them. Windows and doors opening and closing on their own. Lamps and candles blowing out even when there wasn’t any wind. Murmured voices after everyone had fallen asleep for the night. Although no one says it to your face, you know they think you’re the target of a vengeful ghost. Or a terrible curse.
Your feet squelch as you try to put on your slippers and you curse. They feel – and smell – like someone had dropped them into a stagnant pond. The ghost’s work again, no doubt, and you decide it’s better to go barefoot. The stone floors are freezing and you curse again, wondering at the wisdom of going out like this, instead of waiting until morning. But experience has taught you that the poltergeist likes attention, and if you don’t investigate, it’s likely to keep throwing things until you do.
The broken pieces of the vase are scattered across the hallway, sparkling in the light of the candle you hold in your hand. As you expected, you’re the only one in the hallway. Task complete, you turn to head back to your bed, planning on trying to get at least a few hours of sleep before day breaks, when you notice something that has not been at any of the previous scenes. Wet footprints from the water scattered by the broken vase, leading only a short distance away before disappearing behind the nearest door.
You laugh, a mad, mad sound that only a month prior, would have had you calling for the lunatic making it, to be locked up immediately. The culprit may have been clever, skilled, but they were human and they had made a mistake! That’s right; there was no poltergeist, no demon, no curse, just some crazy bastard who had been annoyingly persistent and clever, but now, he’s made a mistake and you will catch him tonight because of it.
You push open the door, letting yourself into a drawing room, the place a bit dusty now that you’ve had no guests to entertain. You arm yourself with the poker by the fireplace, looking around for the culprit. The room is empty, the shadows cast by the furniture forming deep pools of darkness across the rug.
The door slams shut behind you, making you jump and curse. Did he somehow get behind you and escape? But even as you think this, the candle in your hand sputters and goes out, and you see the vague outline of a shadow moving along one wall, towards you. Panicking, you claw your way to the windows, tripping over a chair, but still managing to grab ahold of one of the heavy curtains and drag it away from the window. Moonlight streams in and you whirl around towards your attacker, but the shadow is gone, as if it was only a figment of your overly active imagination.
You scan the room, furtively, looking for where it could have gone. Your eyes fall upon the silver surface of the mirror hanging on the wall across from you, and scream. Because it’s not your face staring out accusingly at you, but one that shouldn’t be here in this world anymore.
Pale skin framed by black hair, dark eyes that look like two pits staring at you. Alive, he’d always been intimidating, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise, dead, he’s absolutely terrifying. Even as you watch, the image changes, blood dripping from beneath dark locks – was that how he died, head finally striking the invisible stones below? – forming trickles down his face and beading across the surface of the mirror. Crimson droplets cascade onto the side table below and the spectre raises a hand to point at you, as though accusing you of his death.
“N-n-n-oooo!” You swing the poker wildly, as if to ward away the angry ghost, but your strikes only hit empty air. Those piercing eyes bore into you and you back away, tripping over your own feet and landing on the floor, “Y-you can’t be here! You’re d-dead!”
And whose fault is that? The spectre’s lips don’t move, but the icy voice penetrates your mind. The air temperature drops and you can clearly see your breath before you as you pant in fear.
“D-don’t look at me like that! I wasn’t even the one who k-killed you!” It was the blacksmith who’d pushed him in, or was it one of the hunters who’d come into town to sell their game? You can’t remember, but it was definitely not you! You’d been-
-standing at the back of the crowd, watching to make sure it was carried out, but too afraid to do it yourself. Behaviour fitting the coward you are. A murderer too scared to stain his hands with the blood of your victim.
“No, no, no!” You shriek, scrambling away on all fours. You want to turn, to run, but you can’t take your eyes off the bleeding ghost, “I only d-did what needed to be done!”
Lies.
“Your death was for the greater good! We needed the rain or more people would have died!”
Lies. You invented that story to silence me, to keep your secrets hidden. The ghost presses his hand against the surface of the mirror and where his fingers meet, the mirror ripples, as if under pressure. Then the tips of pale, transparent digits begin to pierce the surface, slowly, as if moving through treacle, but clearly escaping the mirror’s confines, nonetheless.
The terror that kept you trapped here, now spurs you to your feet, running straight for the door, banging it open with your shoulder and running down the hall. Your feet slip on the spilled water and you fall, cutting your hands and knees on broken pieces of ceramic. You barely feel it, already clawing your way to your feet and running to the far end, towards the front door, slamming that open as well, before tearing across the front lawn. There are no thoughts about the sharp stones cutting the bottoms of your bare feet, nor of the chill wind cutting through your soaking garments. You care not about the fact that if anyone sees you, they would be certain of your insanity. Your only concern is to get as far away as possible, from the ghost haunting you.
The red-eyed figure watches the fleeing man with fascination, silently impressed at the speed which the normally lazy noble can move, when given enough motivation. His latest tactic had been even more effective than he had initially expected and a small chuckle escapes from his lips as he recalls the sheer terror that had twisted the man’s face. The action dissipates another small sliver of the wrath burning inside of him, allowing him to breathe a little easier. His work done for the night, he speeds back home, leaving the empty manor behind.
God. Demon. Spirit. Different names given to him, depending on the reason one had for crossing his path. And depending on that reason, he could easily embody the definition of all three.
He enters the tunnel leading to his realm, the ‘underworld’ as the humans so quaintly called it. An accurate name in the sense that it was a world found below their own, but unlike they believed, it was not a home for the dead.
The palace looms before him, its crimson spires reaching towards a sky that extends far higher than logic would predict, given how close they lay to the human realm. The golden veins they held, sparkle in the early morning light of the otherworldly sun, a sight that inspires awe, but it is not their beauty that causes him to quicken his pace. The guards snap to attention as they catch sight of him and he passes through the front gate with a nod of acknowledgement.
By the time he makes it to his bedroom, the first rays of pale light have begun to leak beneath the curtain’s edge. As he approaches the bed, his attire changes, shimmering between the dark coat and trousers he’d donned for his mission into more appropriate sleepwear. Silently, he crawls beneath the covers, but despite his best efforts, the previously slumbering figure beside him, has begun to stir. Bicoloured eyes blink sleepily at him, one nearly black, the other golden like the Flames Kishiar had planted inside of him, when they first met.
“Did you just get back?” Yuder murmurs, shifting closer so that his head is resting on Kishiar’s chest. Automatically, Kishiar’s hand reaches up to stroke his dark hair.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I had… an important task to attend to.”
Yuder nods, not bothering to ask what that task was. “You work too hard,” he murmurs, his eyes blinking shut again, Kishiar’s soothing touch lulling him back to sleep. Though his once fragile mortal body now houses the same immortal Flames that all the residents down here bear, his still mostly human state requires far more sleep than any of the other denizens. In fact, just watching his love’s peaceful slumber was enough to make Kishiar feel as though his energy had been replenished. His adjutant might have considered him mad for taking the risk he had, but Kishiar had never been more thankful for the strange instinct that had driven him to split his Flames in half to revive the bleeding stranger he’d found at the entrance to their realm. Among other things, Nathan had been worried about what an unknown human would do with such massive power, that he would use it for personal greed or malice. But his Yuder would never consider committing such a sin; how could he, when the first thing he did upon learning his newfound power, was save the very people whose fault it was that he had been dying in the first place?
Do not blame them too much. They were scared and desperate. They only wanted to live and save their loved ones… Kishiar had reluctantly accepted that after he’d learned the truth of how the young man had come to be in his realm, but there was one man who was an exception to that. Someone who had been blinded, not by fear and desperation, but greed and hatred. When he’d first learned about what that man had done, he’d wanted to tear him from limb to limb. But his love hadn’t wanted that, had made him promise not to kill any of the humans who had tried to sacrifice him, even the very man who instigated the whole thing – his love was far too kind, too forgiving. So, he had to make do with these petty acts of revenge, small acts that had been oddly satisfying as they accumulated. Now that he thought about it, tormenting that arrogant noble was a far better revenge than simply killing him outright – his love was a genius, even if Kishiar knew that wasn’t what he had meant when he made him promise not to kill the man.
With that thought in mind, he found new motivation to invent new ways of terrorizing the bastard, but that could wait for another night. For now, he was content watching the slowly creeping sunlight, resting quietly beside the one who possessed both his Flames and his heart.