Codex Sohrakia: The Gifted Dark

by K.M. Taylor, RL Davis Hays

Genres: Dark Fantasy; Visionary & Metaphysical

Synopsis

Enter The Dark Realm!

Saham’a’iel, an Eternal Seraphon of The Realms of Light, is tasked with guarding the barrier that holds chaotic Dark Matter at bay. But, he grows curious about The Dark and betrays his Eternal Mission. The effects of his toying with Dark Matter bring changes to the Mortal Realm and all reality. Determined to find redemption for his transgression, Saham’a’iel sets off on a dangerous mission to destroy all beings touched by The Dark.

While the dangerous powers of Outer Darkness work ceaselessly to break through to the Mortal Realm in order to affect and manipulate humankind, their Lord of Darkness seeks as his conquest the beautiful and tragic Thestra, a Darkling woman fundamentally altered by Saham’a’iel’s Dark Meddling. Thestra is also being hunted by The Acolytes of Saham’a’iel, as all Darkling creatures are threatened by the Fallen Seraphon’s terrible and deadly mission of redemption.

Unique characters, wild dimensions, and curious creatures bring this fascinating story of personal struggle and eternal conflict to life.

 

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Release date: October 31, 2023

Print pages: 346

Sample

PROLOGUE

In the beginning, was The Dark, and The Dark was matter, and The Dark was chaos. Dark Matter existed alone upon the Face of the Deep until the moment of The First Thought—the first instant of self-realization, which was The Great I Am that brought The Light of awareness and of organized matter into being.

The Light was conscious. But The Light was not chaos. Unlike The Dark, The Light sought order and harmony and symmetry—Dark Matter’s true and everlasting opposites.

Both essences of Matter longed for their own form of creation. But, due to the fundamental differences between them, only Light Matter was chosen to bring forth ordered substance, harmonious form, and sentient life, all by the will of The First. Thus, as The Light progressed in its journey to take forms, The Dark presented a constant threat to influence anything organized of Light with muddle and discord.

And so, The Light resisted Dark Matter’s influence by shoving it away, into its own place, which became known as Outer Darkness.

In the scheme of things both infinite and eternal, Light Matter hastily brought forth organization, thought, and awareness—encompassing and comprised of all existence. This One First Consciousness called itself Ela’mah’dai, meaning The First Thought, and matter then multiplied exponentially. From The Initial Thought was born the Seraphon, the first and highest beings of light and the Creators and Governors of all that was, and they were many.

Matter is, and therefore cannot be created nor destroyed, but it can be molded and shaped only by the will of those born of The First Consciousness. The Seraphon were of one mind, of one goal, of one reason, and they set forth to do the will of The First Consciousness in all things.

Between Outer Darkness and The Eternal Realms of Light, the Seraphon erected a barrier to more efficiently separate both realms. The barrier was a void containing no form of either Light nor of Dark Matter. But a void cannot remain empty indefinitely—and being empty, The Void hungered, as a magnet hungers and draws its polar opposites unto its substance. A new form of Matter; comprised of tiny remnants of Light and tiny remnants of Dark—each being the opposite of The Void—was sucked in over eons of time, creating matter that was essentially “Gray”. Thus, The Void became a depository of the remnants of all creation, the collector of discarded, fringe matter—matter that continued on the course of self-organized, self-propagating structures set forth by the Seraphon, only to a far lesser degree.

As the universal laws of matter were created, so that ever-filling void obeyed those same principals, but in its own way and without the Seraphon’s influence. And even without their direct hands, Gray Matter brought into being all manner of things in the image of The Eternal’s higher creations, but all at lower vibrations, with fallibilities, flaws, pains, illnesses, finite lives, and ultimately, death. This new dimension became the vast ocean of temporal space; self-organized and perpetually created from laws, the remnants of which were infused into the Light Matter before it was influenced by those oh so minuscule vestiges of The Dark. Over eons, that endless Gray Space became filled with worlds and stars and all manner of life. These lower forms of creation were not a displeasure to The Great Creators, on the contrary, they found the new, lower worlds to be most curious and fascinating, and they called this new dimension The Mortal Realm.

Upon some of those mortal worlds were found endless forms of Terrestrial life and of sentient beings, such as mankind—unclean creatures, yet formed in the very image of the Great Seraphon themselves. These lower beings, living directly in between both Outer Darkness and The Realms of Light, were constantly pulled in both directions and thus evolved having both influences as the foundation for their hearts, minds, and souls, which was the reason for all of their struggles, their joys, and their pains.

The Seraphon grew concerned about the influence of Outer Darkness on their hapless mortal “children”, so they built a veil of greater protection between the realms. It was a barrier stronger than the naturally occurring separation between dimensions, not unlike the divide between The Realms of Light and Outer Darkness itself, which existed naturally as two opposing magnets repel one another. Only this new realm required a guard, for The Grey could not fully repel The Dark.

One of their brethren was chosen as sentinel and given a new name, Saham’a’iel, which means, Guardian of Darkness. He was to watch over the veil between realms, over Dark Matter itself, and he would prevent the lightless essence from further escaping into The Mortal Realm, thus protecting fragile man from even greater infernal influences. Saham’a’iel was loyal in his duties, ever-present at his post, and ever watchful of that all-important barrier, as well as the protection of The Mortal Realm and its hapless denizens.

But, after endless time in close proximity to the roiling, writhing, powerful Darkness, Saham’a’iel began to falter in his duties. He became entranced by The Dark, lured by its insistent cries for order, and its burning desire for its own form of life. Saham’a’iel wondered at the pain he could feel across the veil between pure Light and Outer Darkness, and found himself troubled by the sentience and the unbridled passions he felt there. The energy he sensed was as true and as real as that of The Mortal Plane. All Dark Matter desired was to have form and to find meaning, and Saham’a’iel began to wonder, to consider trains of thought wholly forbidden among his kind; why was it that Darkness could not have form and shape as the other dimensions had?

But to inquire after such things with his Brethren of Light would surely be a terrible thing in their eyes. Always had his kind shunned The Dark, which now confused Saham’a’iel, who having remained so very close to The Chaotic Realm for so long, had lost such feelings of revulsion and of…fear? No, not fear, for no Exalted Being should ever fear The Dark. Rather it was guarded respect that was fleeing his considerations—a respect that had morphed into compassion that grew over time until…

Finally, overwhelmed with endless curiosity, and feeling pity for Dark Matter’s neglect, Saham’a’iel tore a small hole in the veil and plucked matter out of The Darkest Realm. He held the stuff within his palm; that purest umbra, undulating, feeling essence… He touched and caressed it, felt its energy, its deepest needs, its own fierce and insistent curiosity…even its innocence—for it was a pure, unmade thing that simply desired to be made. From that day forward, he kept the tiny blob of matter close to himself, learning of its makeup, its yearnings, and its needs.

Eventually, he realized, as he became increasingly familiar with the properties of Dark Matter, that it was not so unlike Matter of Light, or of the Gray essence of The Mortal Realms, realms that had been influenced since time immemorial by its stygian energies. And Saham’a’iel could stand by without action no longer.

He knew that by using his own powers of Creation, he could form and mold The Dark into its own kind of order, and life could spring from it just as it had from The Light!

Unable to overcome the burning drive to test his powers with that Forbidden Matter, Saham’a’iel took the little blob of The Dark and fashioned it into a seed of life that rejoiced in its order, throbbing with the joy of its own possibilities as it begged for the chance to grow. The thrill of his achievement filled The Seraphon to overflowing, and he wanted so much to share what he had accomplished with the rest of the Seraphon, to show them that all matter, whether Light or Dark, could be organized and have structured life!

But what he had done was the greatest violation of his duties as Guardian of The Dark, and even more so of his powers of creation. It was a dereliction of his assigned calling and a rejection of his very kind, in every conceivable way. None of the other Seraphon would share in the joy of his discovery. Instead, they would destroy his tiny seed and he would face eternal punishment for his gross violation.

Saham’a’iel could not bear the thought of his beloved seed’s destruction!

Joy then turned to terror and Saham’a’iel panicked. In desperation to hide his crime, he did the only thing he knew to do—he took that dark, undulating seed into himself, burying it deep within the core of his being where no one could discover it.

After this new blasphemous act, Saham’a’iel stuck to his mission, diligently keeping Dark Matter at bay within The Outer Realm. But that seed was thriving and growing inside of him swiftly, and its influences were becoming increasingly impossible for him to ignore. His curiosity burning to uncontrollable levels, soon he crossed through the barrier and into the very heart Outer Darkness proper, where he chose to guard the veil from the dark side, rather than of from the Light.

As a being of First Creation, Saham’a’iel was not barred from any dimension. He was only restricted due to his calling, his devotion to which was waning as that Dark Seed nestled more firmly into his soul.

His brief stints into Outer Darkness felt uncomfortable when first he tested those forbidden waters. The energy was repulsively strange to his exalted being, deeply frightening to his well-ordered mind, despite knowing that he should feel no fear. And yet still he continued to venture there—drawn by his fascinations and his burgeoning compassion for Darkness’ plight.

But soon, all of that initial unpleasantness had faded away, and Saham’a’iel found his comfort level increasing in the presence

of The Dark, while more and more, returning to The Light Realm seemed almost to burn him in his deepest self.

Saham’a’iel’s obsessions; the feel of The Forbidden matter as it cradled his body, its taboo entreats, the very tones and caresses that assailed and entreated him endlessly, and the desires and fierce emotions unlike any he had ever known, continued to grow within Saham’a’iel. His Seraphonic mind faltered as a new, impish mind expanded, and the wayward Seraphon sank into a sea of arcane passions and raging emotions. Saham’a’iel’s darkening soul seemed to swell within him. At times he was nearly overcome by paranoia, fear, joy, and even pain. The untainted Seraphon felt none of these things, existing in a reality far removed from The Dark’s influence and the jumbled thoughts and emotions of lower beings such as humans. But Saham’a’iel relished in his raging emotions. He thrilled in the changes happening within himself and vowed never to be returned to his original state.

Saham’a’iel also became adept at hiding his strange derangements from the other Seraphon. But, whenever he could not find the strength to pretend the serenity he should naturally feel, he would escape into Outer Darkness, or even flee to one of a plethora of mortal worlds to hide until he could gain some measure of control over himself. Ever more frequently he found he preferred to spend time on The Mortal Plane. Mortals and Terrestrial life fascinated him, and the diminished light there became more comfortable to his changing senses than the burning, searing glare of The Higher Realms.

One particular world soon became his favorite, a simple planet called Terrasan. Terrasan was a world late in its development and well established in its lands and populations. Not yet having reached any substantial technology outside of animal-drawn carts, small villages, farming, and the simplest forms of government, Terrasan held an endless fascination for Saham’a’iel and his burgeoning Dark Seed.

But Saham’a’iel kept his visits brief, for he knew that he could not remain indefinitely on Terrasan, nor anywhere else in The Mortal Plane. And he could not be away from his duty of guarding Outer Darkness for too long, or he would most certainly be discovered…

 

 

I
THESTRA

A small raspy breath brought Sylva awake yet again. She blinked exhausted eyes, crusty with dried tears, and looked down at the tiny, twisted infant lying beside her on the bed. A fresh wave of sadness tugged at her wrung-out emotions, threatening to burst forth into yet more helpless crying, but Sylva swallowed hard to keep it down as she gazed at the hideous creature that was her baby daughter. The infant twitched, looking more like a gnarled root than a baby, and it rasped again as it struggled to draw in life-sustaining air. Sylva stroked its soft, baby skin, the only appealing feature to anyone outside of its mother, and keeping her voice low so as not to wake her sleeping husband, she cooed and shushed and tried in vain to comfort the perpetually suffering child.

Sylva, and her partner Athos, had not given their daughter a name, because the moment she was born, they knew she would not live. But it had been nearly five days now, and still, the child breathed, took in her mother’s milk, and showed no further sign of declining. But regardless of the child’s tenacity, both parents knew that the tiny thing could never survive into adulthood, nor even into childhood, in such an unnaturally twisted state.

Despite all of this, Sylva loved her only child instantly, and even in her sad condition, as she struggled to hold back a fresh tide of tears, Sylva entreated The Great One, Creator of all Existence, to save her little one and heal her of her maladies so that she might live and thrive. Sylva could not let go of the child and had desired to give her daughter a name, but Athos insisted that she not do so for fear of increased pain when the baby finally did succumb.

Still, Sylva’s mind again ran through various names, despite the hopelessness and her husband’s wishes, and she could not help herself losing control of her emotions yet again, falling into harsh weeping that caused her entire body to convulse in its deep agony. A moment later, a large, warm hand on her shoulder told her Athos had woken.

“Oh Sylva, not again.” He breathed in her ear.

Sylva sank back into his warm embrace and clutched her husband to her, her pain so great she could utter no words in reply.

Athos sighed, stroked his wife’s satiny silver hair, and frowned at his daughter and the source of all of his wife’s agony. There was no bond between Athos and the baby because he had not allowed there to be. He had switched off his emotions the moment the baby was born in order to avoid the pain his wife was feeling. He must be the strong one, he told himself, the one willing to make the hard decisions that his dear Sylva could not make.

Athos watched the twisted little thing with disdain, this creature that he refused to consider his offspring, but only viewed as a mistake. His love for Sylva was such that he could not stand seeing her hurt in any way, and he blamed the child, as innocent as it was, for causing her unnecessary suffering.

Beyond wondering why such an abomination of the human form was allowed to be born, much less why the Gods would curse him and his wife with such a thing—he could not understand why its life persisted. It lived on without decline, yet also with no noticeable improvement, for how could such a twisted form improve itself, without some kind of divine intervention?

No answer to his wife’s prayers had occurred, which did not surprise Athos, who, despite his belief and faith in The Gods, still realized that rarely did they interfere in the lives of men, and certainly not in the lives of those so simple and obscure as he and his wife. Still, he remained faithful to The Gods, if not in this instance, because he had also forbidden another course of action that his wife had begged him for—a course that he believed went against nature and against The Gods.

Sylva was a Majin, or had been before they were joined in matrimony, and he had forbidden her from using her Majics ever since. After their daughter’s birth, seeing her condition, Sylva begged Athos to allow her to try to correct the child’s condition using her Majics. But, the very idea had incensed him! “Absolutely not!” He had hollered, his anger surprising even him, but not stopping him from continuing his tirade. “You know my feelings about such things, Sylva, and who is to say that the child was not cursed because you were once a Majin!”

It had been a dreadfully cruel outburst, one that sent his wife to her knees in utter shock. A strong, willful woman, Sylva would typically have retaliated with her own defiance. But, her state being what it was, her heart so weighed down and broken over the condition of her child, instead she broke before him and crumbled—physically, emotionally, even spiritually. Athos immediately regretted his harsh words, regardless of still believing them deep inside. He had fallen onto his own knees at her side and pulled her into his arms. Apologized profusely and denied the words that had spilled so carelessly from his lips, blaming it on his own pain, which she had accepted.

Once Sylva had calmed, he had gently suggested putting the child out of its misery, but she had patently refused. If it had not been for his wife’s pleading, Athos would have done away with the hapless infant days ago, but Sylva insisted that she must be allowed to expire naturally, only if or when The Great Creator willed it so.

“I… I want to name her.” Sylva sighed brokenly into her husband’s chest, pulling him out of his troubled mental wandering. Her crying had eased up and she held him in stillness now.

“No,” Athos replied, rather gruffly. “You have allowed yourself to bond too much with the child already. Naming her would only make her death more excruciating for you.”

“Athos…” Sylva begged, her voice choking up again.

“I think,” Athos began, taking the suggestion he was about to propose very slowly, choosing his words with extreme care, for he knew how his wife resisted and he was ready to finally convince her otherwise. “I think that we should offer the child up to The Great One as a sacrifice.” He felt Sylva stiffen in his embrace, but she said nothing, so he continued with soft restraint, and yet firm conviction. “Obviously, she was sent to us for a reason, and she is suffering…every day suffering, and she does not improve. And you suffer, which worries me more than you know, for such pain can only break down your body, steal away your youth, bring illness to you, and eventually...” He refrained from speaking those words, cleared his throat, and continued. “The poor child’s sacrifice, as a tribute to The Eternal, would be the best way to show our devotion and relieve her of her suffering… and our suffering.”

Silence was all Athos got in return. For long moments Sylva lay in his arms, utterly still, breathing shallowly. It seemed an eternity of silence broken only by the tiny, ragged breaths of her baby.

“You are right.” Sylva finally replied, her voice a mere whisper. “But, I cannot participate.” Lifting her head to look Athos in the eyes, Sylva’s usually bright, silver orbs now seemed emotionless, blank, devoid of feeling as she said, “Regardless of what The Great One makes of my absence, I cannot be present when our daughter is sacrificed. I will remain here and you will take her far out into the woods to do the deed.”

Athos was speechless at first, surprised that Sylva had finally agreed to let go of the child and at the strength of her voice as she spoke. His pale, blue eyes were wide and determined as he stared into Sylva’s and nodded with slow resolve.

“Do it now,” Sylva said flatly as she dropped her gaze from his and rose from their bed, not sparing a glance at her helpless baby daughter.

Feeling a lump in his throat that nearly made him choke, Athos came to his feet and gathered the ceremonial implements into a sack. Just as his wife could not look upon their tiny daughter, he could not look at Sylva as he went through the motions of preparation, wrapped the infant in a cloth, and then silently left their small home.

Not since the child was born—Not since both Athos and Sylva felt that initial and horrible sinking at the first sight of her, had Athos experienced such a conflict of jumbled emotions about the child. As he walked in the night to find the ideal spot, far away from their humble abode, to perform the sacrifice that he knew was necessary, Athos fought with himself, struggling with his doubts and fears over what he was about to do.

Alone before his imminent action, Athos admitted to himself that the idea of carrying out this ceremony did not come from any

reverence for The Eternal. He could continue to lie to himself that it did, but the true purpose was to finally do away with the very source of his and Sylva’s pain. There was no chance for either of them to move forward in their lives, nor for their hearts to heal, with the child present as a constant reminder of their most profound sadness, and Athos’ own emotions were threadbare as he witnessed the never-ending breakdowns his wife had suffered.

No, Athos was doing this for reasons entirely selfish, or perhaps not entirely, there was the care and concern for his wife, of course. But he worried as he admitted to himself the truth of what he was about to do, that The Great Ones might actually frown upon him for this act, or if not the act itself, the motivations behind it.

A tall hill came into view not far ahead and Athos trudged toward it. There was a U-shaped circle of trees around a clearing before the mouth of a small cave. Many feet above, there was another opening in the rock and Athos decided to climb up to the higher cave, further from the ground and closer to the heavens, to carry out the ritual.

The baby and all of the sacred tools were already strapped to his back, so Athos proceeded to climb the precipice, which was not a difficult trip. The slant of the hill had ample footholds, which were apparently carved out by others, and was just such that the ascent was quite easy and quick.

Upon reaching his destination he discovered why the footholds had been carved into the tall rock. Apparently, the little cave had been chosen for rituals before. The floor was covered in burnt remnants from other sacrifices and there was a knee-high rock; smooth and flat, singed and stained, that had been placed centrally within the cave for just such use.

The cave was surprisingly spacious—close to the size of the main living area of Athos and Sylva’s home—it was wide toward the opening and tapering to its rear. Athos set about preparing the rock altar for the ritual. He had placed the infant off to the side, out of his line of sight as he worked, but hearing the little thing’s ragged breathing and small, strangled crying, unnerved Athos and threatened to wrench tears from him for the first time since the baby was born.

Why now, at the last minute, was he feeling this sudden compassion for the child? Why now, when he could not allow himself to abandon his plan was he worried about the little thing’s pain at the time of death? Of course, he would make it quick to avoid as much discomfort as possible. But still, his hands shook and his heart vibrated uncomfortably in his tight chest as he completed the preparations and the dreadful moment was at hand.

Athos lifted his daughter into his arms, removed the cloth from around her, and placed her on the makeshift altar. Closing his eyes, and wishing he could close his ears to the increased sounds of agitation from the squirming child, Athos began to utter the words of sacrifice. He knew that he was expected to feel the power of the words he was speaking, feel them to the very core of his soul, but as they stumbled out of his mouth, instead those words felt empty, meaningless, and dead upon his trembling lips.

Hands shaking as much as his heart, he lifted the short, curved knife. His trembling was so bad that he found it nearly impossible to position the knife’s tip over the baby’s wee heart. And as he stared down at the tiny, morbid being before him, its soft baby skin glistening with perspiration, its uneven, cloudy eyes watching, with what to him seemed accusation or even…disappointment? Certainly with fear, which amazed Athos as his voice caught in his throat and he closed his mouth, unable to utter another sound as his mind went blank.

The child was silent now but for its telltale breathing. Its eyes were unblinking, wide, and to Athos the look coming out of those terribly imperfect eyes seemed suddenly as wise as he was, or wiser. He was sure that the child knew exactly what he was about to do, and despite all that Athos and his wife had suffered, all of the frustration, the doubts, and his own determination to end it in the only way that Sylva would approve of, Athos knew at that moment that he was incapable of killing his daughter.

The knife tumbled from his weak fingers and Athos dropped to the hard floor as gut-wrenching sobs escaped his thin but sturdy frame. And suddenly he was afraid as words poured helplessly out of him to The Great Ones. Words of pleading, of desperation, and of apology. Athos could not return home with the baby, nor could he kill the child, so he begged The Eternal to take the child without pain or suffering. He reminded The Eternal Powers of the suffering he and his wife had already endured, that the couple could take no more of it, and to please forgive him for his weakness and his lack of faith.

“Please, oh Great Creators, should you find it necessary to punish me for my failings, please punish only me and not my dear wife. I will suffer for us both… I will take all of the blame, for despite my thoughts to the contrary, I know that my dear Sylva is blameless. She has loved this child unconditionally. Something that I could not do. She has wept and anguished nonstop from the moment this child was brought into our world. I know…I know it is wrong of me to tell you what is deserved and what is not—who is deserving of what and who is not. But I am…I…I am guilty of the darkest of emotions. The desire to destroy my own flesh and blood for my own…comfort. Please…”

Athos groveled on his stomach on the cold, dirt-covered floor of the cave. His fists grasped the grime and filth as if it would somehow save him from his pain, save him from the judgment of his cold heart. And as he wept and all other words failed him, he fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.

With a start Athos woke from his slumber and glanced around the cave, remembering where he was and why he was there. The child had fallen asleep on the stone altar, its faint, tenuous breaths the only sound outside of his own breathing. Athos hurriedly, and quietly, gathered what he would normally return with and left the cave and his infant daughter to whatever fate The Great Ones chose for her… and for him.

On his way home he fought with himself. What would he tell his wife? Would he tell her that he had sacrificed the child as was originally planned? Or would he tell her what he had actually done? No, he could not tell her that he had left the baby there, alive and alone. For if he did that, surely Sylva would force him to return and bring the baby home again.

Another terrible thought struck him then. To his wife, he would have killed their daughter. Despite being approved to do so by Sylva—despite doing so in an action of sacrifice to Ela—would she hold this over him for the rest of their days? Would she hate him for what he had done? Perhaps not immediately, but over time? Would what he had done, in her eyes, fester and mold inside of his love’s heart until it destroyed any and all love she had for him?

There was no predicting such things, so he pushed those thoughts away and buried them deep. He would not entertain that kind of thinking. He must do everything possible to make this up to Sylva now! And perhaps the Gods would take mercy on him, on them, and help save their love. It would be the essence of all of his prayers from that day forward.

Darkness washed over the land in a wave of cool, calm relief. Saham’a’iel could no longer abide the daylight. Even the sun, as diminished a reflection of the Eternal Light of The Higher Realms as it was, sent waves of agony through him, so that he must escape its intrusions by hiding deep in the recesses of caves and other shaded places.

He had spent many of Terrasan’s weeks hiding in the day and roaming its varied lands by night. His agitation seemed inconsolable. His mind was a frenzy of scattered thoughts, and his body, hot, restless, and raging, itched constantly with unfulfilled desires that he did not fully understand.

Saham’a’iel avoided humanity out of fear that making himself known would alert the other Seraphon of his whereabouts. It had been ages since he had interacted with another being, and on this night, his loneliness was more overwhelming than ever before as he wandered aimlessly through the darkened woods. His divided soul, now nearly halved between Light and Dark due to that seed he had hidden within himself, refused to rest, and this created in him an insatiable wanderlust and a growing tendency to mentally and sometimes even verbally, argue with himself over every little thought or feeling that assailed him in his raging duality.

The moon shone huge and full in the night blue sky. Thin gray clouds streaked across its spectral surface before shifting away to reveal the gray orb’s pale face to the sleepy world below. The woods were silent but for Saham’a’iel’s low, mumbling voice, and the crunch of leaves beneath his gentle footfalls. The mounting frustration within him was coming to a head now. That Dark Seed had grown inside him to such a degree that it felt as if he were entirely losing himself to its ebony influence, and sheer

panic was fast setting in. It had spread throughout his being so completely that there was no way for him to remove it now, and even if he could tear it away, that seed’s fierce self-preservation prevented him from even thinking seriously about doing so, much less acting on it.

The struggling Seraphon fell silent from his senseless self-altercations, and hot, hopeless tears emerged to sting his amber eyes when out of the silence a faint sound drifted to his ears. He froze and listened more closely. It was a human whimper, raspy, and weak. His keen, immortal ears had picked up on it easily, where mortal ears could not have hoped to hear, and he closed his eyes to concentrate and pinpoint its direction.

Turning slowly as his eyes opened again, Saham’a’iel’s gaze landed on a hill only a short distance from where he stood. The sounds were coming from a cave midway up its face. So the Seraphon went there, spreading his wings and rising in that direction, guided by the pitiful sounds that grew clearer as he drew closer. Inside the small space, he discovered an infant. Saham’a’iel bent to lift the tiny thing into his arms, and his heart sank at the sight of its grossly unnatural state.

Man’s gift of procreation had gone terribly wrong here. The poor tiny child was severely deformed. Its face was so misshaped that it was difficult to recognize humanity there at all. Its limbs were as twisted as knotted rope and as crooked as the bends in a tree’s branches, all curled up close to its strangely angled torso. The baby was severely emaciated and Saham’a’iel could tell by its pallor and labored breathing that the child would not live much longer. Laying a gentle hand upon its small head, Saham’a’iel joined his mind with the infant’s, revealing the most intimate details of the child’s short

existence as if he had lived those experiences himself.

Anguished tears returned to Saham’a’iel’s golden eyes, but this time they were tears for someone outside of himself and his sorrows—and the pain and pity he felt emerged from both sides of his split personality, uniting them in compassion for this tiny, helpless child. Before he withdrew his mind, Saham’a’iel caused the baby’s troubled mind to drift away into a peaceful sleep.

The wayward Seraphon then sank to the cave floor on crossed legs and laid the dying child on his lap. With the strong, deft hands of an artist, The Seraphon began his work. To anyone who might have witnessed the healing process, it was the molding of the misshapen flesh and bones much as a sculptor molds clay. Using his gifts of creation, The Seraphon righted the twisted child, imbuing them with both a perfection that exceeded mere mortality, and a form of immortality not so unlike his own.

A radiant glow began to emanate from the child's glistening skin, burning away her wan pallor. Her brackish gray hair, so odd to see on a child, began to glisten brightly with a shimmering, violet hue. Her small eyes, so milky and pained, grew bright, wide, and clear. Their jaunty sockets, imbalanced by her terribly misshapen skull, were leveled out and righted into perfect symmetry.

Those tiny limbs, so curled and twisted in that hideous, unnatural way, were unbent and uncoiled until their form achieved a full state of ideal health.

No longer a gnarled and twisted thing, the baby girl was now a beautiful, even ethereal, child.

But it was not only Saham’s Seraphonic blessings that the child received. Dark gifts were hers as well—gifts from his duel core—gifts of light as well as of chaos, that would make of this girl child a creature unlike any other.

As the healing spread through the child’s being, Saham’a’iel watched as the little infant blossomed into a beautiful baby girl. Within only a few moments she had transformed into the perfect form of a healthy infant. But a healthy infant enhanced by The Light and by The Dark Matter that now coursed through her immortal body. Her unusual, striking, unearthly beauty stunned her healer as he lifted her gently in his strong hands and held her up before him.

The Seraphon could not tear his eyes away from the radiant little creature. Her Porcelain, translucent skin contrasted by her dark, lavender-highlighted hair, and her faint unearthly glow, tore at his mesmerized soul in a completely new way. His large, warm hand caressed her tiny cheek and he could not resist pressing his lips to her velvety soft forehead, waking her from her quiet slumber.

Blinking up at him, the girl’s shining lavender eyes were filled with a mixture of confusion and astonishment. She knew instantly, instinctively, who it was that held her. The mental connection that had revealed to Saham’a’iel her short, terrible life, had also revealed to her his essence, and some basic knowledge of his gift to her—a knowledge that she would have lacked naturally, having lived such a short time.

Saham’a’iel’s shadowy inner voice was silent longer than it had been since he had implanted that seed inside himself. It seemed the love he bore for the child was so powerful that it quieted his nagging agitations. He considered keeping the child, raising it himself, but he simply could not do so. The great secret he was hiding and his constant movements and travels into atramentous places was no life for a girl of such immense potential.

Still, leaving her with parents who had abandoned her was not the most comfortable of prospects either. He knew, via the connection he had with the child, that her mother had loved her deeply and was greatly pained by her condition, and by what her father had ultimately done with her. So, Saham’a’iel determined that with all adversity out of the way, and with a beautiful, perfectly healthy little girl to raise, returning her to her parents would be the very best thing for her.

A tender sigh escaped The Seraphon’s full lips as he stroked the baby’s hair. Gazing into her shining eyes he felt both a soaring in his soul and a sinking in his heart. “I shall call you Thes’tra, which means Unique One.” Saham’a’iel smiled, and Thestra returned his smile with her own, making his heart soar and his eyes grow moist. He held Thestra close to him as her tiny, pale hand touched his golden cheek and he smiled.



 

 

 

 

Athos and Sylva’s home sat amongst a cluster of other similar structures; small hand-built dwellings with low, thatched roofs, an oval, central door, and round windows flanking each side. It was only a couple of hours before morning light, and most of the village inhabitants were still abed as Saham’a’iel’s unclad feet touched the ground mere steps away from their small, humble abode.

The tainted Seraphon sensed the couple asleep inside as he approached the front entrance. Not hindered by inferior Terrestrial matter, he slipped right through the meager barrier as if it were nothing but smoke. Now inside, The Seraphon stood in the center of the single-room space, bathed in preternatural light as he lifted his gaze from the infant resting in his arms, to rest on the now stirring mortals.

Athos slowly lifted himself up onto his arms from where he had been sleeping on his stomach and turned warily toward the source of the strange luminescence that now lit up the small space. Sylva was waking beside him, her eyes watching her husband with concern and bafflement before turning to follow his gaze.

“What is…?” Athos was saying, but his question died on his lips at the sight of the radiant Seraphon looming there, an incredible anomaly within those most humble surroundings.

The voice that replied washed over Athos and Sylva with the power of an ocean wave that crashed upon their tender psyches. “I am Saham’a’iel and I have come to return your daughter to you.”

Sylva had tumbled out of bed in her shock, crawling forward, she knelt before The Great One as Athos fumblingly fell out of their bed and moved to do the same. Numb from head to foot, his mouth falling agape, Athos began to tremble violently. Was this the end of him? Had he doomed himself and his wife by his actions? But then it hit him. The being had said he was bringing their daughter back to them! Athos felt his heart seize in his chest. The baby would be returned, but in what condition? And his wife would surely learn what he had done, that he had lied to her, that he had left their child alive and helpless. Sweat broke out on Athos’ body and he felt the heat of the blood reddening his face, his neck, as his heart raced frantically in his chest.

“Come,” Saham’a’iel cut into Athos’ whirling thoughts and held Thestra out to him, beckoning the trembling man to take his own child into his shaking hands. “She is healed now, Athos. No more shall you loathe the sight of your daughter, nor

desire to destroy her to ease your own suffering.” The Great One’s voice was flat with intolerance, and Athos crumbled before The Seraphon’s scrutiny, laying utterly still and prostrate on the hard dirt floor, his throat so tight with fear that no words could escape him.

But Sylva rose like a ghost and gently took the baby from Saham’a’iel’s arms.

“Woman,” Saham’a’iel spoke low and softly to Thestra’s mother as he placed a large, warm hand on her delicate shoulder. “You have suffered greatly over your grossly imperfect child and the loss of her by your husband’s hand. You need grieve no longer, for I have gifted her above all others.” He stroked Sylva’s hair and smiled down into her bewildered upturned eyes. “I have named her Thestra, which means Unique One.” As he spoke, Saham’a’iel turned his gaze adoringly upon baby Thestra. “You will raise her in joy and happiness. You will protect her from harm and always do for her what your heart tells you would be most pleasing in my eyes. For she is a treasure, and she is special.” He sighed as he touched the tips of his fingers to the child’s soft, smooth cheek.

Sylva gaped at her child, the very presence of the baby was such that to doubt her specialness was impossible. “Yes, oh Great, oh most benevolent, Eternal One! We shall! It will be as you say in all things. Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Sylva wept tears of joy and as Saham’a’iel took a step back from her, she dropped carefully to her knees and clutching her beautiful child to her, pressed her lips to the golden skin of The Seraphon’s feet.

The shining eyes of The Seraphon shone molten at their cores as he lifted his gaze from the woman and looked upon her cowering husband. “No, Athos, I am not pleased with your cold, unfeeling, compassionless heart. You presumed too much, and still do.”

Athos had glimpsed Thestra as his wife took hold of the child, and he felt doubt about the strangeness of the baby’s appearance, despite how beautiful and perfect little Thestra was now. ...