Shadow of the Abyss

Chapter 136: Prince of Hell...

A/N: Warning: Things get incredibly dark at the end.

"Altair Blackwood," The Prince tried out outside the door to Edwin's office. "Reina Blackwood, Tenebrae Blackwood." he liked the sound of it but remained perplexed. It was a big decision, but he was not a Snow.

He knocked on the door and stepped in when Edwin welcomed him inside. His face was gaunt and pale, his finger gripping his quil trembling. His mind on his bastard, on his sick bed.

"I saw the sisters when I stepped in." The Prince said, finding a seat across his desk forged of oak. "I'm sure he's alright. Though I needn't tell you, he was poisoned. That much should have been obvious."

Edwin grimaced. "I know... yet the assassin eludes us all." He looked up at the young man who seemed as charming as he was dangerous. "What is it you wanted?"

"The Sword of the King rides to Forwin." Altair had said. "Did you know this?"

"I did."

"And you still insist on riding North after the Rites."

Edwin's expression darkened. " What if I am?" He asked, in a voice that seemed to seeth a burning hate. "I'll not raise my daughter in Forwin where the church influence is—

"You'll die on the battlefield," Altair told him without expression. "The Church will not allow it. And the King will side with the church."

"I am the Warden of the North!" Edwin snapped back. "They wouldn't—"

"It was the Sepith that crowned the King on his name day. It was the Sepith that backed him during the battle of the Nine Hills. The Sepith rode with him as he pillaged the realm against his Brothers tyranny." Altair shook his head. "What did the Silvermanes do? When he ran to you? Some hundred years ago?"

Edwin bit his lips. ' We could not join. We are not—"

"You chose to remain neutral," Altair recounted, feeling his thirst return. "When the King needed the North, you chose to do nothing. You made him your enemy." He said, drawing a drink for Edwin and himself. "The Sword of the King, Valquess, will gut you should you choose to leave. Why else would such a man leave the man he swore to protect?"

The will within Edwin's hand dropped following the realization.

"They mean to steal my daughter, " said Edwin, troubled. "They can't... They..."

"Then play the game," Altair said. "The Law is on your side. Neither the church nor the King can command you to give them your daughter. You are the ruler of the North. You command an army so great, even the King dare not openly oppose you."

"Bastards!" Edwin hissed, with a scorching heat frosting within his belly. "They—"

"Have you trapped," Altair cut in, standing. "So you either denounce the idea of leaving Farwin, or you die." He left unsure if his warning entered through Edwin's ears. He thought of Aria and sighed, unsure why all this was happening to some child.

Brazenly, he stepped out onto the veranda, watching the chaos of crying mothers clutching their bloodied children, brave men trying to find life through the rubble, and the sounds of lost children consuming the city.

BOOOM! Thunder roared, and lightning shrieked away like webs in the night skies, drowning those below. The Black Rain began to fall.

Altair stood untouched by the tainted rain, unsure when the dystopian hellscape of his madness became one with reality. Ripples of his Almighty Resistance danced through the great void around him, protecting him. He peered into the distance as if to glimpse her scarlet hair in the distance like he had done every night.

"If... I am to have a surname and a family of knights, maids, servants, and banners. I ought to have a manner... a castle so that I may rule." He grinned and closed his eyes, listening to the cry of rain. "The Serpents Outreach will be my stronghold... Yes... Yes."

***

"By his glorious name, we kneel before the Great Prince of Mythos! We bow, like worms, before the Lord of the Eternal, Pillar of Chaos, Duke of the NineThrones, Bane of all that is Good. Fallen of Skies and Hells! We give thanks and offer thee!"

Before the altar of amethyst, flames of black lay the skewed remains of newborns stolen from their mother's tit as an offering to their Prince. The flames reeled and spewed, dancing along the newborns remained, so clear and still they seemed asleep, if not for the pikes they had been placed upon.

Below the altar, on their knee, stood dozens of men and women and children of many ages before the great pyre of flames. Their bodies were marred black by tattoos carved into the flesh by the blood of the innocent of their one true Master.

At the helm laid the Herald, ordained with a pentagram carved into his skull, draped in robes of Red. "Hear our plea, oh Fallen Prince of Mythos, and bring forth the tide! Bring Forth the Storm of Ash and Brimstone!" tears had begun to swell through his cheek as he cried. "We offer you the blood! Of the Righteous! The Blood of the Good and the Blood of the Profane!"

Mournful cries swept the forest as the children of the old and young fell and began to cry out.

"Please! Oh, Lord of Suffering!"

"Please, Oh, Great One of Damnation!"

A screech bellowed as a woman tore at her robes until she was naked for all to see. Her breast flopped about with wild abandon. She howled like a banshee and stepped up into the flames. Blister ran across her milky skin and began to brown and blacken as she howled in the pits, spreading her legs.

"I offer you myself, my Lord! Take me!!!!" She cried, stabbing her finger inside herself as the flames burned and charred at her flesh. She came as she died, pleading his glorious name.

Soon, mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, took to the flame before all that was left was the Herald.

"Oh, Prince of Mythos, hear our plea." The Herald whispered, disrobing before the alter. "Hear our plea, oh lord! Hear us, Lord Astaroth!" He rose to his feet and stepped into the fire. Tongues of flames raged, swallowing him as the ghost of the dead clawed at his body. "We offer you our mind, bodies, and soul. So, please!

Give us back our lands! Give us back, Yarwin, from the Church of the Sepith!"

The pyre whirled like a great baptism of flames, peeling the flesh from off the Herald. Yet he did not scream, did not wail in pleasure like so many others. Poised and cold, he cupped his arms together.

"Bring Forth the Baptism of Madness, Oh, Fallen Prince, Astaroth."