The Dark Sun of Mortis—Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Although he was from Celestial stock, the Son was still a creature of flesh and blood. Within seconds, the heat, emanating from the planet’s core, caused his skin to crisp and the fluids in his body to boil and steam.

Before he struck the red-hot, glowing magma, he’d already burst like a leather wineskin, held over an open flame.

Yet, although he suffered such things, he was not aware of them. It was as if his body and spirit were disconnected, the latter having been drawn into the Dark Side abyss.

In front of the Son’s eyes, there was only blackness, and the only sensation he experienced was that of plummeting, like a damned soul descending into Hades.

Suddenly, he struck something—a surface, like that of a lake or river.

On instinct, he tried kicking his legs and waving his arms, but he had no limbs with which to do so. Unable to resist, he sunk like a stone, drawn ever downwards by an irresistible force.

Around the corners of his vision, hazy streaks of grey light appeared, passing by so fast he couldn’t make out the details. Accompanying them were eerie whispers, spoken in a language he couldn’t understand.

However, as he sunk further downwards, those streaks seemed to grow more solid, condensing into pinpricks of light. They started growing in number and size until, all around him, were stars, solar systems and galaxies.

His mind and spirit, overwhelmed by what was happening, could only observe this dumbly. He was like a goldfish, having lived all its life inside its bowl, then suddenly being set free into a great river.

Abruptly, a light appeared before him, crimson, larger than the rest and in the shape of a pyramid. Possessing the mindless curiosity of a child, the Son drew closer, wanting to observe this strange anomaly.

Yet, as he neared it, the lazily-drifting light suddenly stilled before turning toward him! At once, he experienced a sensation of incomprehensible vastness, as well as that of being watched!

Like a rabbit caught in a lion’s gaze, he became frozen with fear.

Fortunately, the incomprehensible pyramid soon seemed to lose interest, releasing its supernatural grip on his spirit. At that moment, his descent resumed, him not having realized it had ceased at all.

As the distance between him and the crimson light increased, the Son’s relief soon turned to unease. Somehow, he knew he couldn’t keep falling forever—eventually, he would reach the bottom.

He floundered once more, but unable to affect his trajectory in any way, he could only watch helplessly as the dense constellation of lights gradually faded away.

Desperate for a way out, the Son thought to extend his perception below, having been like a tortoise stuck on its back until now.

‘…!’

Immediately, his spirit was beset by a feeling of utter confusion and shock by what it ‘saw’. There, not far away from where he was, he could see… himself!

There was simply no other way to describe what he perceived—below him, was something like an infinite, shining mirror, and on its surface, he was reflected.

Yet, it wasn’t ‘him’, not in the way he saw or knew himself.

However, before he could further process this absurdity, he’d already ‘arrived’—the distance between him and the mirror having disappeared in the blink of an eye.

There was a tremendous collision, like two speeding vehicles slamming into each other. The mirror broke like an eggshell, sending shards of glass flying in all directions.

The Son felt himself breaking open, his sight filling with a cacophony of colors, little twinkling lights inside pieces of broken glass. Then, they were cutting into him, cutting him open like flying shrapnel.

He bled, and ‘he’ bled, the two of them mixing their blood, their spirits flowing into one another, becoming one another, becoming one.

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On a backward planet, somewhere in the Wild Sector, a primitive-looking woman, clothed in sweat-soaked animal furs, was in the process of giving birth.

Her visage was truly terrible—naked and covered in red tattoos, as well as her own blood.

The bleeding was so profuse that her survival was surely impossible. Yet, her expression wasn’t one of despair, but concentration.

Around her, five other women stood in a circle, connected by strange lines drawn on the floor. Their arms were raised into the air, engaged into some kind of occult dance or prayer.

Not showing any intention of helping the woman in the center, the five continued, their strange chants and garbled songs, building toward a crescendo.

Time passed, and the woman in the center continued to grow paler, clearly weakening from pain and blood-loss.

Just when it seemed she wouldn’t be able to hold on any longer, the cultists’ song reached its peak, climaxing in a choir of hair-raising, spine-chilling screams.

A sixth figure, its gender unknown, suddenly appeared from outside the circle of candle-light, clad in some kind of traditional garb. Clutching a long, twisted knife, it surged forward, its burning gaze fixed on the pregnant woman.

What happened next was better left unsaid.

Needless to say, the mother didn’t survive the ordeal, but neither did the five female cultists. Their corpses were strewn haphazardly around her, their throats slit and their chest-cavities horrifyingly gaping and open.

The only survivors were the masked cultist, as well as the newborn clutched in their arms. Unlike before, the cultist’s eyes, fixed on the baby, weren’t filled with insanity, but tenderness.

“Please forgive me, my Prince. Though this servant is unworthy of laying her hands on your body, there is no other recourse.”

Her gaze lingered on the baby’s face for a moment longer before swaddling him in a bundle of cloth. Then, holding him carefully, she hurried out of the cavern, expertly making her way through a maze-like network of subterranean tunnels.

At last, she came to an opening, leading to the surface. Emerging into the wilderness, the priestess was immediately sheltered by strange vegetation.

However, despite the area’s seclusion, a coweled figure was already waiting for her.

“My lady.”

Speaking in a masculine voice, the mysterious man dropped to one knee, thumping a clenched fist against his chest.

“Dagon.”

Clutching the bundled child carefully against her bosom, the priestess addressed her servant.

“There is little time, we must…”

However, before she could finish her sentence, the priestess’ sensitive hearing detected undergrowth being crushed in the distance.

Wasting no time, she closed the distance between herself and Dagon before depositing the swaddled babe into his arms.

“The false Savior’s hunters are drawing closer by the moment! Take the Prince and leave immediately!”

In the dim light of the planets triple-moons, Dagon’s face was revealed, completely covered in bandages. Yet, his demeanor and posture made his shock abundantly clear.

“My Lady…!”

He was evidently torn, glancing from the child to her.

Seeing his indecisiveness, the priestess grew enraged.

“Begone, fool! With your pitiful strength, you would be of no aid even if you stayed!”

The angry whisper, slipping from between her clenched teeth, was positively venomous.

Dagon’s body trembled as he visibly struggled with her order, his divided loyalties on full display.

Seeing this, the priestess clenched her teeth and looked away, unable to bear the sight of him.

“…would you have me beg, Dagon? We have been butchered nearly to the last. The Matriarch, the High Shaman, the Champion—they have turned traitor one and all. Of the Sisters that remained loyal, none survive, giving their lives to herald the Prince’s coming.”

Clenching her fists at her sides, her sharp nails dug into her palms, drawing blood.

“If it all goes to waste, then you and I both have lived for nothing.”

For a moment, there was silence between them, but then the priestess suddenly disappeared like a flashing shadow. The search-party had drawn even nearer, cutting their farewell painfully short.

After gazing longingly in the direction of her departure, Dagon no longer tarried. Carefully cradling the child in the crook of his elbow, the servant dashed into the alien forest, his footfalls practiced and silent.

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Dagon, despite being brought up as a slave-boy in service to the Old Ways, had little faith in them. The so called ‘revelations’, given by the gods to their chosen, were all false, for they held no power—that much he’d seen with his own eyes.

Yet, when he’d expressed his doubts, citing what he’d witnessed, his sight was taken from him.

‘Do not trust that which leads you astray.’

Such was the Cult’s reasoning.

One would’ve thought that, after receiving such punishment, Dagon would’ve learned to keep his doubts to himself. And to an extent, that did indeed happen.

However, now and then, when the feeling of suffocation in his chest became too much to bear, blasphemous remarks would slip from between his lips.

By all rights, he should have received the Brand of Exile, and sent into the Endless Swamp as an outcast. Yet, the Priestess interceded on his behalf.

Dagon, who’d never known anything aside from suffering through slavery, came to know something else. The emotion that came over him in that moment was greater than any supernatural revelation could ever be.

It was the feeling of being cared for—kindness.

Without thought or regret, he cast aside his old beliefs, dogmatism and doubts, choosing to whole-heartedly serve the priestess—she, who had power over his life, and the only revelation he’d ever received.

Yet, despite his oaths, he’d abandoned the Priestess to her death. It was like an abandonment of himself, blaspheming the tread of truth he’d found after long fumbling in the darkness.

But to disobey her was an even greater blasphemy, leaving him without choice.

Weary, fearful and despairing, he stumbled through the doorway of a hut, still clutching the Prince in his arms. Contrary to expectations, it was not a shelter in some remote corner of the wilderness, but in the middle of a populated town.

Outside, peoples of a hundred different races and species busied themselves despite the late hour. A cargo freighter had just landed, carrying Sansanna spice from a far-off region, and the locals were greedy for a portion.

In such a messy, diverse mob, a cowled and bandaged man wasn’t worth paying attention to.

Lowering the shutters and latching the door, Dagon sought to provide some security for himself and the Prince.

‘…perhaps I should take a look at the child, check if he’s well.’

Acting more out of a sense of duty than anything else, he slowly untangled the cloths, meant to hide the Prince from sight. Their journey had been hurried and rough, and the terrain treacherous. It was all too easy for a frail newborn to suffer injuries along the way.

Dagon had no expectations of what he might find there. After all, he’d long since seen the Old Ways for what they were—mere superstitions. Although the Priestess revered the Prince, recognizing him as the prophesized ‘Demon Savior’, he did not.

However, the moment he parted the blankets and laid a hand on the child’s body, the atmosphere in the hut darkened. Although Dagon could not see, he possessed a kind of supernatural ‘vision’, gained from the torturous trials and rituals he’d endured.

In the hazy, indistinct fog within his mind, two small eyes stared back at him, pitch-black, but with crimson-red centers.

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