Prisons in the Darkness
By Jason Morley
Most are merely of one mind, I am of two. My tale, which I hope shall not end here, is a strange one, to say the least. This tale is a strange one, and one I am thankful for, it game me freedom, it gave me the…NO! GET OUT! I WILL TELL THIS STORY MYSELF! I am Elizabeth Aria! I am in control.
I apologise for that, I have had some rather, shall I say traumatic, experiences which have left me mentally scarred. I can usually contain it, but when my mind wanders as it does now, the other one occasionally comes out.
Then again, someone such as you may not ever understand. Few mortals do. I suppose I should tell you what happened, but how far back should I begin? When I came of age? When I was born? No, much further back. This all began 1000 years ago.
~*~
I cannot tell you exactly what happened, few living beings can. However, I spent many years translating this diary, originally written in a lost language by what I believe to be a cultist, and hope it helps you understand.
“1st March
I swear, if that blasted devil gets out, I will kill it myself. We spent seven hours and too many good men, my best friend among them, hunting it across the forests, and by Dagon I want my revenge. Earlier today the lord told the priest he wanted the thing captured, and would contact us again several days after we do so. I hope he contacts soon.
2st March
Please can it stop screaming! Even now, on the other side of …[I suspect it is a name, but couldn‘t translate it into anything I recognise]…, I can hear the cries piercing my eardrums. Why does Dagon not merely order it‘s death? What is this, some deal with Madness? The priest says Dagon‘s knowledge is infinite, but I doubt that. Perhaps that is why I am not a priest myself, yet.
3st March
Another insult, I was sent to feed the creature. Why must the lord test me like this? How the thing screamed as I approached it, quite honestly it scared me. I know they say it’s a Golden Saint, a ridiculous name considering they are as violently insane as the worst demon, but I doubt that, as it is clearly male. I have never heard of a male Golden Saint before. And I’ll be damned if it isn’t tall. He must be at least seven foot. Still, I must not voice my opinion too much, or else I may be punished by the Priests. But the thought of throwing food at the creature, with nothing but chains and iron bars between us, scares me. And I haven’t forgotten my desire for revenge.
4st March
I spoke slightly with the Golden Saint while feeding it. It seems it can do things other than scream. In fact, the Saint appears to be quite intelligent. Despite feeling a slight respect for the thing, I still long to put it down. If only Dagon would send us the word.
5st March
A group of cultists arrived today, which is odd because the sects usually keep separate for safety. Still, at least the extra company is good and they make up for the ones we lost hunting the Golden Saint, whose name I learnt today to be Sarda. I still hate him, but I admit Sarda makes for interesting conversation.
6st March
Something is not right about the new arrivals, those that were relatively talkative have become a lot more closed, and those that were silent before are now damn right freaky. I have also had a tragic realisation, we were wrong to capture Sarda. I would not disobey Dagon, but I admit I have come to view the Saint as a friend, and believe he has come to view me as such.
7st March
I can hear them coming, the cultists. They killed everyone, the priests, the disciples, I am the only one left. Why they turned on us, I do not know, but they did. I managed to hide here, but I know they are coming for me. I heard Sarda screaming, and think him to have been captured and taken away by the traitorous bastards! I only hope he can escape, either in death or in fight. While I doubt this diary will ever see the light of day, I hope it does, as it is the only evidence of my existence. My name is [here the text trailed away as if the writer had been forcibly dragged away ].
~*~
This story never showed it’s head again until I was born. I don’t remember my mother or father, in fact until the point where I came of age, when it all began, I can remember nothing. However, the other presence filled me in on the rough details, and I am grateful for that.
Apparently, this presence, who identified himself as Sarda, though has never responded when I asked if he was the Sarda from the diary, explained how he had been captured and contained for countless years, and seen several generations of his captors come and go, as all mortals do. Locked in a pit, and not being able to talk to anyone, Sarda longed for his past imprisonment, where he had a friend. The only communication he had with these new captures was screaming insults and threats at them.
How exactly Sarda got captured in the first place, he never explained either, though it has something to do with the Mad God and being kicked out of the realm of the Madhouse. I assume he thought of it so much when in the darkness that he has long grown sick of it. Quite frankly I do not care, he will tell me when he is ready, if he ever is.
But I digress, I apologise for that. Back to the story of my life. After crying bloody murder at those above him, he eventually was drugged and moved out, still in shackles, away from the degrading architecture around him, and into what he assumed to be another prison. However, instead of tying him up, as Sarda expected, they removed the binds, and left him free in the soundless dungeon. When the drugs wore off, he wandered the room, exploring every stone, and banging on every wall, hoping he could break through to some magical escape. That proved fruitless, and he soon gave up.
Eventually, he heard a strange grinding sound of metal scratching stone, breaking the silence, as a small hatch in the wall opened. Sarda eyed it curiously, and his curiosity doubled when an unconscious teenage girl was pushed through. His first thought was he was being fed humans, until he advanced on her, and he became aware of a dart striking him. His body grew limp, before collapsing onto the ground with a terrific thud, mouthing the simple word “poison†as he did so. Frozen wide open, his eyes watched helplessly as cultists entered, and he was dragged next to the girl. All dressed in ropes of sanguine and black, they surrounded the pair, and began to chant in demonic, inhuman voices.
Sarda swore that as they chanted, the ground itself began to shake, and in the back of his mind he became aware of a slight pushing, as if he was being forcibly removed from his shell. He describes it as an indescribable experience, the closest he can come to representing it is that it was like being pushed, pulled and stretched at the same time. What happened after that he refuses to comment, except for the strange feeling of being out of place and in place, in the air and yet out of it.
~*~
It is at this point in history that my memory begins, and the images I can still see clearly even now are traumatic. I was confused, looking around I saw a strange, pale, golden skinned man lying next to me on a cold stone floor, and could smell death lingering in the air. I can remember a strange, demonic but elegant voice in the back of my mind, and yet everywhere around me, and even now I can recall what it said.
“I apologise for that, little miss. I was placed here, and had no choice. I need freedom, and I feel in your body I shall have it. You are still here, and whether it was intended or not I do not know, but it is so. I guess we will have to adjust. You can stay in control for now, but remember I am here, and always shall be, and I can come forth whenever either of us wish it.â€Â
I soon started to look around, searching for the source of this voice, not yet believing what I knew. Then I started to scream, for I saw clearly through the gloom of the room, and I could see the corpses clad in sanguine and black robes which surrounded me, soaked in blood, many seemingly torn apart by some immense force. But, what really caused me to scream was not this grisly sight, but the sight which reached into the forgotten passages of my mind and recollection. Because, in those dark corners of knowledge, I recognised one of the female corpses before me, the grim features and dark hair struck in me an instant realisation I wish I had not been granted.
It was the corpse of my own mother.
___________________
If you see any mistakes, tell me.
C+C would also be nice.
