The Priesthood

The steps were narrow, and a slip or a simple miss-step would be a step into nothingness—a great fall after which you would not wake up on the floor of a cathedral. Such thoughts sometimes bothered him.

The Ritual and how it worked—how it had worked with him. Because of a simple slip, he had been the first to awake; a mistake was the reason why he got so far ahead of everyone else. The answer the Ritual was looking for was suicide.

It looked for those who were ready to give their everything to reach the bottom and find out what there could be. It was no wonder that it was so rare for those who took part in the ritual to awaken on the first day. There wouldn’t be many that’d be ready to take such a leap of faith—or were clumsy enough to miss a step.

Such circumstances were absurd, and he had reaped the benefits of such an absurd event. Yet it was felt. Again, going down narrow stairs, a journey beneath to a destination unknown. He should be afraid. And he was, but not because of the possibility of death, but because of the possibility of not finding the entrance. He needed to find it and inspect it. To be someone who could truly understand the words of another priest, one who had clearly gone insane in his final moments. He had to observe that which made a priest have desire.

A desire to enter.

Desire, for a priest, was unheard of. That which he had was not desire; Kanrel had despair, surely just a different color of desire, yet they come from two different places. A desire is what you long for. For him, there was the absence of something that needed to be filled.

But in Boran’s words, he had had something that he desired, something that he needed so much that he reached toward it, only to find despair and insanity at the end of it.

It is cold, but barely. It is warm, but not warm enough. It is dark, but the dim lights spoil even that. And the darkness that is alluring you as you go by. After all, you could take a step and find out just how long a fall can last until you hit the ground. It might be that there is no fall and that the darkness around is but an illusion. But what if it wasn’t?

What if the fall never ends? What if everything that had happened happened again? Would he wake up? Was this just another part of the Ritual? All these things that happened surely happened for a reason, and not just because they could happen.

None of this was real. Everything that had happened so far had to be an illusion. So the darkness beckons you. It feeds you with thoughts—with ideas. And it calls for you to take a leap—just a step—and to find out if you would, at the end of the fall, wake up or keep falling, or if you would hit the ground and be veiled by the dark for all of time. To finally rest, as part of that which had saved you. Which took you from those who love you.

Kanrel gritted his teeth. A priest should not think of such things; a priest should not toy with the idea of such a call. A call of the void ought to never take over a priest; it should never be the answer to a world that has given nothing but different forms of torment and suffering.

Instead, he realigned his mind and thought only of one thing: the entrance. Where it might be, and if it were at the end of this staircase if there ever was an end to this staircase.

But as one walks the dimly lit steps, it is truly impossible to see for yourself if you are truly moving or if you are just taking the same step over and over again. And if there is an ending to this that might not have one, then that ending could be minutes, hours, days, or years away.

He could not see far enough to be certain. All he had was just the possibility that there might be something. Truly, a shot in the dark, and nothing else. Through a thousand mundane steps, all accompanied by the silent sound of his foot hitting step after step after step...

A thousand and a thousand more, and an hour and an hour more. Then, and only then, was there an ending to that, which seemed like it could never end. A platform was suspended in the middle of darkness against a wall, and on that wall, there was not a door but a framed black surface. One where he could see his own reflection.

But this reflection was not one he recognized. It was a young boy with a smile on his face, holding in his hands something that Kanrel did recognize. A black street cat he had adopted, his name was Deft, a more than fitting name for a cat that was swift and agile.

Deft had died during his time at the academy. All cats die; he had sadly passed away when he was not there to look after it. That was so long ago, that he could barely say how many years ago it was. That child, then, had to be him.

A vision of something that he once was; with him, something that he loved. Still loved. One does not easily forget a living thing that you loved, even if it was just a cat. But it was never just a cat. Deft was, after all, an orphan like he was. Someone who first lived on the streets before getting saved by a mere accident.

Neither the cat nor the boy moved. They just stared ahead. This was a reminder of what was lost. The smile that he might have once had but now could never fake in a manner that could be convincing to himself. Never had he since smiled in a way that held the truth. Everything after was another well-crafted lie.

He was no better than the three huntsmen, but he was not worse; he was no better than Yirn, and Yirn was not worse than he was. They both had lied; they both had killed. He was gone, and so was Kanrel. Just in a very different way.

When does one find it within himself to dream again? No. When does one find the ability to dream again? How do you reclaim something that is lost? A skill that we all had once, but some of us, for foolish reasons, decide to compromise this ability. To give it away, and for what? Power?

Who the hell does anything with power if you are unable to enjoy it? Who does anything with power if you aren’t allowed to enjoy anything? Anything at all. All that he has is nothing. All that he feels is nothing. Everything is nothing.

And that which he once had was in that mirror. Before him was an unmoving child holding a cat in his hands. A smile on his face; one who could dream, one that dared to dream. A child who thought that the world maybe wasn’t so bad.

A reflection of a past self that you could imagine with a smile on his face.

Not this, which is now left. The reflection behind the reflection. The outcome of dreams gone sour and choices that became mistakes from the moment of their actualization

As far as he saw it, there were three options: one, dedicate your life to priesthood and find solace in belief; two, give up and accept the call of the void.

Kanrel began forming a code. For him, there was just one option that he could make: one that did not break the vows that he had made, only where he would not abandon his mother, his friends, or the people that he had grown to love in his own way.

Hundreds of ice spikes formed around him, all of them pointed at one target. The little boy with a cat in his hands—the boy who could smile even when he had experienced things a child should not.

He released it. A thousand spikes of ice began in rapid succession, moving toward the dark surface, which showed a reflection of his past self. First, they were quite slow, and the next moment, you could only see their impact.

Each hit produced a sound that echoed through the darkness; it echoed all around, and it repeated over and over again, always returning here. The surface of the moving darkness was covered with dust and ice, and smoke would rise, covering the area that had been hit a thousand times.

At last, there was silence. And Kanrel stood there, on the dimly lit platform, where there was a frame of darkness and a reflection, now covered by smoke and rubble. He did not wait; instead, he went ahead and formed another code; this one pushed the smoke debris away into the darkness that accepted it all down below.

The surface was now shattered, and the reflection was imperfect. He could now see himself as he was. A man with no smile, yet in the imperfection of the reflection, there was still that cat, which he held. After all, he had never lost his ability to love.

Perhaps he should be cautious. Perhaps now was the time to return above ground and leave this place, which only brought him more torment. But it was right there. So why not touch it? Why not try to understand this thing that mocks him?

So he took a step closer and closer and touched that which should perhaps be left untouched. A wave of nausea hit him, and a scream exploded in his head: ENTER!

ENTER! ENTER! ENTER! ENTER! ENTER!

Over and over again, until he did all he could, he ran forward. He pushed toward the darkness on a frame, the shattered reflection of himself. He pushed, and he pushed. He wanted to enter. He needed to enter. Tears began running down his face. All he wanted was here. He needed this. This was all that he desired.

“LET ME ENTER!” He screamed as the voice kept repeating the same word in his head.

Until…

It was quiet.

And it was so dark as if one were submerged in the deepest part of the sea. It felt like it as well; there was pressure all around. Floating, it felt like that. Yet he could not move. He could not breathe; he could not scream; he could see. Hear. Speak. Dream. Move. Nothing; he could do nothing.

Slow suffocation, a pressure first in his mouth, then his throat, and soon in his lungs, and then all around. Silence, surely, was there a moment ago, only to return as a drum—the sound of your own blood flowing in your own body, the sound of your heart beating. Quickly, then soon quicker.

Enter.

A voice first whispered. It was even and lacked emotion, yet it was comforting; it was something he could anchor himself into. He was no longer lost in the deepest and darkest part of the sea.

Enter; do not be afraid.

The voice soothed him. He was not afraid.

Open your eyes.

And he opened his eyes. He was in a room that was in the shape of a globe. There were no doors, there were no windows, just the globe, and he was suspended in the middle of it, not touching the walls of the globe.

Breathe.

And he could breathe the air; so precious was that he was devoid of just a moment ago; he could feel his heart stop the race it had begun.

You are safe here with me.

The voice promised, and he believed it. Now he could relax; now he could breathe. He didn’t need to move or speak. Here he was safe, as the voice had promised.

There was silence as all he did for a while was breathe, relax, and stare straight ahead at the walls of the globe.

Now… I have allowed you in, perhaps against my better judgment, but not once have I had the experience of anyone trying to destroy me in these... Thousands? Hundreds? Either way, in many years...

Kanrel looked around in panic, trying to find the source of this voice, but there was no physical object that could make a sound in this small space; there was nothing. Only himself.

“Who are you?”

Me? I am… just a voice for now.

And it doesn’t matter who I am; it matters more who you are. So, tell me: Who are you?

“I… I am Kanrel Iduldian, a priest of the Priesthood.”

Wonderful; I have your name and your occupation. Perhaps a more important question would be: What are you?

“Me? What am I?”

Yes.

Kanrel thought for a while, “I am a human.”

A human? I see… One of those: I have met a few of your kind before; a few of them have entered recently; before that, there were none to enter; they had not found me quite yet.

I do believe that the Atheians called your people the "Darshi," those who came from the islands. I remember that you were a more advanced species of monkey and nothing more. The times have certainly changed.

I, on the other hand, am a guardian in a prison. So, I suppose, I am the warden of a prison.

“Who are your prisoners?”

I don’t think it matters who my prisoners are, as you probably have never heard of them, but I’ll tell you either way.

The prisoners in this prison I guard are the Atheians; they were the people who populated this earth long before your arrival.

“I have heard of them, and I know that they are somehow related to the Angels, but I was not allowed more information about them since the Angels consider the topic to be taboo.”

There was a momentary silence after his words.

Interesting. The Angels you speak of... I suppose they are the ones who tasked me with this job. Maybe they have learned to regret the actions they have committed—that wouldn’t be the first time...

I’ve always seen their ways as unjust and reactionary. Their reasons for imprisoning a whole race of beings were simply out of a desire to do so. Well, there were some things about slavery and such, but is it for them to dictate how a different species of people mandate their own culture?

I digress… What are you doing here, then?

“Well… I heard a voice, and that voice beckoned me to enter. So I did.”

Most curious, because no one can communicate from here to the outside world. Everything is blocked; no one can leave, and only those whom I allow to enter can enter.

“Why did you let those people enter then?”

After thousands of years, I was curious about what was happening outside, so when a person came, performed the correct ritual, and touched the surface of the portal, I of course accepted them; I had supposed that they had contact with my masters, so I allowed them entrance.

But sadly, none of them survived.

“Why not? Why did they not survive when I did?”

They lacked magic, quite simply to put it. And you, even though you technically don’t have it, I can still feel it in you. After all, this prison was crafted with the same magic. Yours is just slightly different; it lacks something—a characteristic, perhaps originality. I am not quite sure; I’ve never run into someone with magic like yours.

“We, humanity, were blessed by the Angels, and they gave a select few magic as a gift.”

Interesting… And I suppose you had to give something for it; the Angels, as you call them, never give "gifts."

“We, who have the gift, gave away the ability to enjoy things so that the power would not corrupt us.”

What!? Who in their right mind would ever take such a trade? It is completely repulsive for an angel to make such an offer!

Well… At least it is not permanent, so there is no reason to cry over it, I suppose.

The words the voice said sparked his interest instantly: “What do you mean? It is not permanent?"

Well, you can just ask the Angels to take away their filthy trade, can’t you?

“Ah… Well…”

Oh yeah. I did forget that there is no going out from here.

Well, there is a way.

“Is there? If there is no going out, only in, then how does anyone ever leave this place?”

It is a bit complicated, but there is a way—just one way.

The magic that the Angels used for the creation of this prison holds a complicated lock: levels, which one has to pass to be able to reach the level where first the Atheians are kept, and then the last level, where the lock can be opened.

“If it is so, why have the Atheians not left this prison long ago?”

They don’t know about it. To them, there is no way out.

“Then how?”

First, you would have to go through the levels for me to even explain “the how” of it all.

“Then explain to me how to pass these ‘levels’ of yours."

The levels are visions, or perhaps a maze, or maybe a dimension of a city that once existed. It is the place where the Angels came from, their domain, their greatest achievement, and their greatest regret. Everything related to them began there. It is the beginning of everything.

“Sure, but how do I enter this city of yours?”

That is the easy part; I’ll just let you enter. But the true difficulty remains in the act of leaving the said city.

I can sustain you for only so long until you perish from visions or from a lack of food and water. You will certainly die, either here, in this globe, or within the city; it is your choice; I will be there for you either way. I am bored, after all.

Now, there were a lot of things to think about. This overwhelming amount of information, which he could hardly process, This new information about the Angels, and the Atheians. The possibility of being rid of the gift and gaining the ability to feel enjoyment once more.

The city from which the Angels came from. Everything. All of this was too much for one man to understand in such a short amount of time.

I wouldn’t want to rush you, but I honestly can’t say for how long I am able to sustain a human in these conditions. So no pressure.

May the Angels bless us with safety, good health, and patience.

“Yet you leave me no options." He muttered, which was not left unheard but instead unanswered.

He would not be able to dedicate his life to the priesthood, for he wanted to feel again, and he would fight for his ability to live until the very end; thus, the second option was never the correct one for him, nor was the first. The third one, on the other hand...

“Sent me to that city of yours... And I will try my best to show you just how alike humans and roaches are."

Very well, have it your way.

He would fight; he would not give up. If he gave up, the people who were far away from him would never see him again. His mother; Yviev; Roslyn; Uanna; Wen; and everyone that he had learned to love. Even the memory of Yirn and the little cat that was Deft... He would rather fight for one more chance than to give up.

As the voice said his words with not a care in the world, the world became dark and cold.

Why had it grown so cold?