Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 14 – Wedded to the dark

Note: I think I could do a whole project with the lyrics from this song. It became hard to figure out where to go because there were several avenues I wanted to go down. I thought this turned into a nice change of pace from the last section.

Disc 1
Track 14: Bukowski by Modest Mouse

“I can’t make it to your wedding, but I’m sure I’ll be at your wake”

Long ago, Salama had leveled Noce with one mighty swing from his black sword. Every building, every palace, even the silly little gardens that the royalty loved to brag about growing despite the lack of the rain, fell in his wake. Everything fell but the Golden Dome of Ithmus. That stood rearing it’s rounded head that reflected the light of the sun as if to gloat. The old tales don’t say, because they don’t know, but one of the last things he saw before Tarek Grandar entombed him in the Sorna was the glowing dome off in the distance. He took that image with him to the underworld where it tormented him for an age.

The dome was the only real remnant from the old city. Everything else came after he was gone, even the Coliseum where he had feasted upon women until full. It was his payback to the ancient wonder to have the Dinar turn into his Temple. He had his son’s and daughter’s take rotting corpses of the city’s children and paint the gold exterior in their blood then leave the corpses above for the buzzards to collect the remains and defecate on the dome as they did.

Hatala did not know how she knew about all that while standing inside the hallowed room under the dome where seven gold pillars stood around seven ancient gold thrones with a gold crown waiting beside each on a gold pillar. Barely visible behind each throne, a man stood robed and hooded in black. The only light came from thousands of candles placed on the ivory floor forming hundreds of small six-pointed stars. Before her was a table, waist eye with intricate carvings of demons along the side. On the table were placed seven gold goblets.

Her head was floating atop weary shoulders and a body battered, torn and defiled. The Dinar had rushed her across the city, naked, bleeding, allowing every sharp stone upon the street to tear into her feet. When they arrived at the dome, she was handed a purple, silk garment cut low on the chest and high on the legs before being led into the huge room.

She was changed inside. The internal blocks between her and the magic she always suspected she possessed were gone. It flowed within her veins. It pounded out in every heartbeat wanting to explode. The power resonated through out her bones wanting to be released. Even more peculiar was the sudden flashes of memory and knowledge that floated through her brain.

She had never been to Noce before much less inside the dome, but she knew that the man responsible for it – a king named Ithmus, who feared water so much that he never bathed, built it to trap the kings of the six other kingdoms. This had been long before Salama or Tarek Grandar in an age when the kingdoms were at war, even Arna. It had been a silly plot by Ithmus, one ended with his head mounted atop the mast of an Arnaian ship. Hatala could not deny that she was exhilarated by the thought of Ithmus’ head sailing through the breeze. The dome, however, was a triumph of architecture that had lasted in a world where little else had.

She stood alone for what seemed like an eternity in the middle of the room, the ivory cold on her feet. She couldn’t see the men behind the thrones, but she could feel their eyes. There were more eyes above as well.

Finally, one of the dark figures moved in front of his throne, removed the crown and then circled around to stand behind the table. The man was nearly two-heads taller than her and despite being right before her, she could not make out his face. She watched the crown as the man placed it upon the table. It had a rose engraved upon it with a sharp torn jutting from its stem. There appeared to be something dripping from the stem, her mind assumed it to be blood.

“Who comes before the Lords of the Dinar?” The voice was hollow, but cracked from little use.

“Hatala Del Aram,” she answered.

“For what purpose?”

“To worship my Lord Salama.”

Before she could react, he slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. Blood gushed from her nose that she was sure was broken.

“The Great Lord of the Underworld is master of all.” He said with no emotion.

She tried to steady her legs and meet the shadowed face.

“What is your purpose?” He started again.

“To worship the Great Lord of the Underworld.”

He slapped her again, this time across the jaw. She felt it pop, likely fractured in more than one place.

“Do not waste our time.” He still did not indicate any sort of anger or rage in his voice.

“What is your purpose?”

She was dizzy from the two blows and not entirely sure her mouth would work.

“To serve the Great Lord,” her words came out jumbled. She felt teeth in the back of her mouth jiggle too much in her gums.

“In what manner?”

“In any why that pleases the Great Lord.” Somehow now she knew the words they wanted to hear.

“For how long?”

“Till the end of days and beyond.”

At that, the man pulled back his hood and it took all her willpower not to scream. The man had two black orbs for eyes surrounded by thin, rotten green skin that was blistered and scarred in too many places to count. There were solitary strands of long gray hairs protruding out in all directions from his head. His lips and ears were long gone leaving gaps where yellow, infested bone and flesh were clear. His teeth, the few he had, were black. He gave her a good look before placing the crown upon his head.

“What is the price of eternity?” She wasn’t sure if he was smiling or if he beyond being able to control the muscles of his face.

“My soul.”

“Do you give it to him?”

“I do.” She answered without hesitation. She had already healed both her jaw and nose with the power now coursing through her. She longed for more.

The Dinar pulled a knife that was long and curved from his robe. Lifting one of the goblets, he slit his right wrist letting his thick blood ooze into the goblet. When he was satisfied, he set the goblet down before her and she saw the wound at his wrist slowly heal.

“This is the blood of Underworld, drink it and bond thyself to the Great Lord.”

She grabbed the goblet greedily with both hands, the smell from it made her stomach want to wretch. Without giving it another thought, she put it to her lips and let the warm, sour substance stream into her. She gagged and convulsed dropping the goblet.

From the entrance of the dome, Salama watched. He had stood in her shoes long ago. Although it had not been the Dinar’s blood he had been forced to drink. That ritual was different then, but the outcome very much the same. She was married to the Lord of the Dark now, but he believed she was strong enough to still be used for his plot to usurp that monarchy. If she proved not strong enough, he’d just have to get rid of her then.

They repeated the act of drinking the Dinar’s blood with the six others. They were an old bunch, men that had served him the first time. It was amazing their bodies had not spoiled completely yet. When they were finished, she was left lying on her back, and the candles had nearly all burnt out. Above, ungodly creatures watched from the deep shadows. She bared her bloodstained teeth looking up at the thousands of eyes shining down on her.