The Red Glow

Golden sands beneath him. A man in a simple brown hooded robe directs his old red horse towards the red star to the north, deep in the night sky, sprinkled around it a sea of blue and purple stars. Gleel Doth Uhl shines brightly, painting the desert in a faint red glow.

I earned my place- worked harder than he ever did. 

He squeezes the reins and shakily brings them towards his chest, his fingernails digging into the leather. 

That filth. Disgusting filth. I'll kill him, I'll kill him-

The old horse rears, as the man squeezes his temple and groans; Thoughts racing like the tides of a river. He whips the reins, not comprehending what lay ahead. Gleel Doth Uhl shines on very few.

I can’t let him win. The Aššūr... Is this truly-

The man pulls out a red book, emblazoned with golden letters. 

Those Who Command Power

Pages flip uncontrollably in the wind, sand cakes every page. 

Glorthock

Klel

Gleeldothul…

His finger drags against the flipping pages, pointing at tiny letters scribbled on the pages. 

First one must walk under Gleeldothuhl's light. Roam for as long as-

A strong gust of wind wrenches the book from his hand and into his chest , he gasps for air but only coarse sand fills his lungs. Coughing and sputtering, he falls off his horse. His hood flies back, revealing a pale white face with oily jet-black hair. He has a handsome complexion, with a jagged scar across his neck. His body trembles and shake. The wind blows sand that stings his eyes.

"You killed her didn't you?" His voice echoes in his head.

"Yes, I did, brother."

“Your own sister?” He wretches in pain.

"Don't cry, Philemon…” I can still hear that disgusting smirk. “You’re not worth the effort.”

“You street vermin. Disgrace to the Aššūr!” A deeper voice intrudes on memories of his brother.

"I spent a fortune on that painting. A fortune!” Philemon curls into a ball “You're not my son! You're not an Aššūr!" 

“You're worse than worthless.” Philemon starts shaking “You're nothing.” 

"I’ll kill you," Philemon says aloud. "I’ll break every bone in your body, cut into every inch of your rotten skin-" He stands up and throws his arms in every direction. He screams vile insults at the sky until his throat goes numb. He spots the red cover of his book caked in sand. Falling to his knees, Philemon snatches it. “Yes. Yes! I can do this-” His words come out shakily, breathing unsteadily; He flips through the book.

First one must walk In Gleel Doth Uhls light. Roam for as long as he shone on the ancient world. Walk in anger, or be trapped in the red glow of Gleel Doth Uhl until the sky is bereft of stars. Until whispers of human civilization are drowned out by the gentle winds of time.

The corners of his mouth twitch, Philemon grimaces with regret. He grabbed the book in quite a hurry, after all. He had heard the backroom conversations amongst Elder Aššūr. Where the first Aššūr earned his family name, they said. He used to hold a different name, now lost to history. He wielded a shield with a lion's head. The first Aššūr wandered into this same desert where Gleel Doth Uhl would grant him a new name; one laced with power.

Is that right? That can't be right.

Philemon clenches the book tight.

112 years.

His fingers sink into the book's cover. It warms up as if cooking in an oven, then quickly melts into a thick moist red sludge that covers his hands and drips down his arms. It smells like rotted eggs and garlic.

“Please no- why?” He says, wiping his hands on his robe “Why?” It sizzles and cracks, searing his flesh. It climbs his arms, burning through his robes. Philemon writhes in agony. “Why? I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?” he says. 

Philemon doesn’t understand yet, but he will. Gleel Doth Uhl expects much from those who walk under his red glow. This is a test after all. 

“Where’s that damn horse?” Philemon says, his teeth chattering

He scans his surroundings. 

I don’t see him anywhere. 

Philemon lets out a large shaky breath. 

Not even a trace

He begins chanting to himself, with all the anger he can muster. “kill him. Make him suffer.”

Philemon walks once again towards the red glow.

For a week…

Every step he takes is labored. His legs shake. His stomach growls, his mouth so dry he can hardly utter a word. He rips off pieces of his robe with his teeth, chewing them like jerky. Careful to avoid the red sludge on his hands.

“Kill them, make them bleed. Take back my name” He continues chanting.

One year…

His robes are in a state of disrepair, tattered and held together by strands of cloth. Though his voice is worn thin, he continues chanting to himself.

“Ki-Kill them. Make them… suffer”

10 years… 

"I'll kill..." he drags his foot through the sand. "You..."

I can't die. The stars, they won't stop blinking at me. It won't let me. Why are they screaming at me? My stomach, with every step, it craves more. It's looking at me, it won't stop. It never stops.

His thoughts continue to ramble. With great effort, he wipes sand off his brow using the cloth on his upper arm. The smell coming from the sludge causes him to wretch and heave. 

25 years…

The pain, it's it's- The stars- the stars. I think I can bare it- stop looking at me, stop looking. Please. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. He smacks his hands against his forehead. The stars wink and blink at him, some unscrew and fall into the desert.

48 years…

For a moment he falters, his knees buckle. Something catches in his throat, tears spill down his face.

"I can't let you leave unharmed, it would be... a bad look for me." The voice of his brother assails his brain.

"Please, spare me. Spare me this pain." He says aloud.

"I didn't do it, please listen to me. I didn't do it, It's Marcus- it's all him! He planned this please-" His screams echo in his head. "You can't do this- I'm still an Aššūr. You can't just take that away" Philemon grasps his neck in pain, covering his scar. He bites his lip, tearing off dry skin. Blood drips down onto the sand.

I will get my name. I'll find it in these sands. I earned it once, I'll earn it again.

"Do you hear that?" He says, his voice comes out guttural and hoarse. "I said I'll do it again." He throws his hands into the sky, towards Gleel Doth Uhl. "The name Aššūr will not fall to snakes." He licks the blood on his lips. "I will command its power again, and this time I'll never let go." He screams into the sky "The Aššūr, my Aššūr, will rule forever"

73 years…

His skin clings to his skeleton. He moves like a ghost. Each step is soundless. He groans a trail of words unendingly. A trail of blood follows him, dripping from his mouth. A tall skinny silhouette hugging the distant horizon, bathed in the red glow.

92 years…

“So… Hungry…” The sludge covering his hand remains moist and painful. He stares at it. His brow furrows, and he looks up towards the sky. His eyes widen.

Are you truly devoted to your cause, Philemon?

He mutters to himself, moving his hand towards his face. He begins sucking down the red sludge. He wretches, pulling back and keeling over. He throws up red sludge on the sand. He gasps for air, then ravenously drinks the sludge. He coughs, as embers escape his throat. The red sludge is quite moist, and when it cools down in his mouth it presents the texture of cool silky water. He’s able to wet his lips and moisten his throat for the first time in decades. Philemon starts laughing, jumping with joy. A small victory, but still one to be celebrated. He looks back up at Gleel Doth Uhl. A weight drops in his stomach. Gleel Doth Uhl is further back in the sky. The words of Those Who Command Power echo in his head. 

You must devote yourself to walk with anger. His energy, his vigor. It's returned. His skin no longer clings to his bones, even his robes are restored. He is as he was when he first stepped foot in this desert.

Philemon begins chuckling to himself, he falls to the ground. He wails at the sky, tears well up in his eyes as he laughs so strands of drool hang from his mouth. He digs into the sand and desperately shovels scoops of it behind him. The sludge doesn’t go away, it can never go away. He tries to speak. To rationalize, to motivate himself, but he can't string any words together. Philemon begins to weep. Tears flow down his face. The desert falls quiet, not even a gust of wind whispers in his ears. Everything goes completely still.

"Philemon…" 

Could it be the wind…

"Philemon, are you listening to me?"

“Father?” he says aloud. Philemon jolts up off the sand, carefully scanning the empty desert. 

You're nothing. 

The voice whispers. It echoes across the vast desert.

"That's not true." Another voice chimes in. Philemon lays back on the sand and sneers. "it's not true is it?" He says aloud. "He didn't ask to accept you as his father. He didn't ask to be an Aššūr." Tears well up in Philemon's eyes.

"Even if not by blood" Marcus's voice proudly announces "He is my brother all the same."

Why did it have to come to this? 

Philemon sighs.

Aššūr. 

He shakily stands up.

That name, it used to mean something to me—more than the power it invokes.

He looks down, eyes still red. Tears stain his face. "I miss him. I miss who he used to be" Philemon says. The red glow fades. The desert appears cool and calm.

Philemon looks in every direction, every way stretches an eternal desert. No hint of life or anything to break up the landscape. No rocks, stones, or plants. Only sand. He looks up. Gleel Doth Uhl shines in the sky like a lighthouse. It's light shrinks as if viewed from a boat drifting further and further away from shore. Some of its light drips down onto the sand and forms into a shape.

It can't be, is that a man? 

A small silhouette appears on the horizon. It raises a shield.

A lion's head.

Philemon narrows his eyes, looking in the direction of the silhouette. But, nothing remains

What is it telling me? I recognize the lion's head. Where is that from? It's him, isn't it?

Philemon ponders for a moment.

The first Aššūr betrayed his family; Jealous that his father chose his brother as the next heir to their name. He pulled the ax binding his family to the thirty tribes pact. Later his sister confronted him, and in his anger, he did something he could never take back. She would never witness another sunset. His old family name in ruins, now under attack by the other 29 tribes, He journeys into the infinite sands. Towards the red glow.

I can't save my name. That's it, isn't it? You will grant me a new one. Just like him. I was chosen to lead a new dynasty.

“You're nothing.” A voice faintly whispers deep in the recesses of his mind, now drowned out by his new purpose.

I never cared about him. I never did- never loved him, that disgusting trash. If he wants to cling to that dying legacy,

He walks with certainty towards the red glow.

Then I'll rip it from his cold dead hands and eradicate it myself.

Gleel Doth Uhl lights up a violent red. Light drips down the star like a seeping wound.

That's what you want from me, isn't it? That's why I went through all this pain. 

Oh, Philemon. Poor Philemon.

I have to punish my brother for what he did, what he did to my sister, what he did to the name you gifted him.

Philemon has 117 years to put it all together. every piece of his brother's betrayal. He goes over every last detail, cold and calculated. Detached from reality.

He set me up. Sold the painting for a pittance, turned my already hateful father completely against me. My sister was tough, they couldn't get through to her.

Thoughts flow like a steady stream cutting rock. The red sludge sinks into his skin. It spreads over his robes, turning them deep crimson.

His stomach cries out in pain. He doesn't wince, nor does he shudder. He moves like a phantom. Straight ahead. Until once again, his aged skin clings to his bones. His eyes so assailed by sand he can hardly see. Decades of eating red sludge leaves a black ring of charred skin and open wounds around his mouth, blood continuously seeps down his robes from his lips. His gray scattered hair flows from his head down to his feet, as does scattered facial hair under his chin. His nails are long and sharp.

I wonder what my new name shall be.

In front of him, an obelisk that reaches so high it pierces the veil of stars. The sky hangs from it like canvas hangs from the center pole of a tent. Stars hold the sky up like nails. The stars unscrew and fall onto the sand one by one. As soon as the last stars pops out, the sky floats gently downward. Blanketing the desert in darkness, passing right through Philemon. Standing on the cloth of the universe below him is like standing on a hammock. He takes a moment to find his balance and looks up.

"Gleel Doth Uhl" Philemon says.

"You dare address me by name?" My voice, harsh yet gentle, echoes from a red glow that dominates the universe.

"I do" Philemon looks confident. The blanket is pulled out from under him. He falls, first through darkness, then into a tent. It looks like an impromptu war room. A stump sits in the middle of the room, 29 axes engraved with archaic symbols are stuck in the wood. A muscular man with long natural brown hair, auburn skin, and simple leather strappings of stands holding an axe. A shield with a lion's head on his back.

"This room, I've seen it before" Philemon calmly says.

That damned medium was right. I thought it a waste of father's wealth, but he insisted that she could see this. She painted its likeness perfectly.

"Demon!" The man shouts through Philemon’s racing thoughts. 

"No, not at all. My father worshiped you. I endeavored to learn everything about you” Philemon laughs “To impress my father. But now I..." He sputters blood that paints the grass in front of him, pointing one shaky crooked finger at the first Aššūr. "I shall be the one to end your legacy." The first Aššūr looks at him with disgust.

"This is the result." My voice bellows throughout the room. "The result of your rashness. The result of your hatred."

"What do you mean?" Philemon says. 

The ground trembles with my every word. "This man who holds your future legacy, yet is not of your blood, will bring ruin to a name already marred with violence and hatred."

The first Aššūr looks down at his ax, then he looks at Philemon. "You're a-"

"I was once an Aššūr" Philemon groans like a ghoul.

"You're a man?"

The first Aššūr looks up at the tent. "It's all pointless then, isn't it? My legacy is doomed from the start? Usurped by- by someone who is not even my blood. A snake!" He walks over to a simple wooden table and kicks it over, spilling weapons across the grass. "My brother will be the heir to the Krihan” He drives his ax into the table. “I will be forgotten by history.” Again and again. “Is that what you wanted to show me? Is that it?" The table now chunks of wood. He falls to his knees.

My voice echoes softly. "You must join forces with your brother, the Krihan tribe could one day leave a grand legacy. You will not be a ruler, you will not command history as you might have. Your name may be forgotten to history. But, you will not lead a life consumed by hatred" The canvas on the tent quivers with fury. "Do not let hatred guide your actions, or this cycle shall repeat forever."

The tent falls quiet.

"You love your brother. You love your family." My voice whispers to him.

Philemon stands motionless. The first Aššūr looks down at his ax. A gentle breeze blows through the flaps of the tent entrance.

"Never in my life have I admitted defeat." The first Aššūr says. "But I-" He chokes up. "I do not have the will to fight for a doomed future" The man walks over and slams the ax back into the stump. 30 axes. "The Krihan and the thirty tribes pact shall live on forever”

Philemon stammers "What of me? What of the Aššūr?"

The room tent shakes violently. Harsh red light flashes from outside, pouring in through the tent flap. Smoke coils on the ground. I address him. 

"You are nothing" The tent canvas peels away "But an example" 

Philemon stands on golden sands, the sea of stars no longer shines. Where Gleel Doth Uhl once shone, only an empty sky remains. A lifeless world. No emotion filled Philemon, no emotion could.

You are nothing.