Tests of Sojourn

TW: gore, ritual sacrifice

Sojourn held the dagger lightly in hand, his palm wet, slick and damp from the knowing, the understanding of what he had to do.

And with this course do I set the wheels of fate in motion.

Below him, on the stone slab, the boy writhed at his bonds, tied to the platform by four thick iron loops: right arm, left arm, right leg, left. Clad only in a loincloth, his pale skin, like Sojourn’s was slick with sweat, but for the opposite reason.

Bound together, the two of them, this action would end the boy’s life and inexorably alter Sojourn’s.

Still, it had to be done.

He looked at the knife. Black iron and steel, the handle dark, twined with leather, muted greens and reds weaved, the blade bright, double-edged and polished to a mirrored shine, he could see himself distorted in its reflection.

That reflection was ugly, and hateful, a cruel face, a hard face full of conflict. His skin was normally quite pale, but today it was ashen. Only his blue eyes showed life.

And with this course do I set the wheels of fate in motion, he whispered again.

Did he get that right, the phrasing, the intonation, the timbre?

All aspects equally important, a single error on the course would spell disaster for the both of them.

The child would be banished to hell. He would be removed from his position, thrown to the dungeon slaves, where they would consume his flesh in the wet dark.

He twisted the blade in his hands, right hand rotating the pommel, left lightly - deftly - curled around the wickedly sharp silver length, the fine double edge scraping softly against his rough flesh. He stared at his hands and the knife, but he wasn’t really there, he was far away.

A distant time.

A child. A precocious boy, dark hair arrow straight, witch’s peak. Eyes of blue, and piercing, his dark hair makes those eyes stand out in the contrast. Those eyes would guide him; through life people, followers and converts would flock to him, drawn by the power in those eyes and he would lead, but then, back then, he was an innocent, an orphan, destined for a short life, abandoned months before on the stoop of the monastery.

He'd had a nightmare and, finding his stout oak door unlocked (a shocking development in its own right), he’d wandered the limestone-cut corridors of Montclan Abbey in search of a priest to banish the fear. In truth, he was more likely to have gotten a good whipping, but he’d only been in the Abbey a few months then.

So that boy - bright eyes, dark hair - heard noises down a corridor and when he’d gotten to the end of it, the methodic, droning intonation in which the speaker spoke woke something in him, he’d slowed his pace, and cautiously tiptoed the final ten feet and carefully peered around the corner.

He gasped, but caught the noise, strangled the sound halfway out his throat before it could draw unwanted attention. 

Two men, dressed in dark robes, hoods pulled over their heads, standing on either side of a large stone table, a massive slab, and on it, a boy.

Around them, torches guttered on the walls, though no wind could be felt. A presence lingered in the stifled air.

The man closest to him had his back turned, and seemed to be an assistant, standing at the ready.

The other man - the pontifex Abbot - was facing him, and held a knife, and stared at the sacrificial lamb below him. Grimfaced, he wore a black, bristly beard, and two coal-dark eyes stared out from beneath a prominent forehead and dense eyebrows. The shadow of his cowl threw a descending terminator line across his face.

The child on the slab whimpered, and writhed at his bonds, his toes curled.

The Abbot opened his mouth to speak.

And boy-Sojourn heard the words for the first time, felt the power that came with them, spoken in a triad, the energy growing with each telling, until tears came to his eyes and a ringing battered his ears.

The blade flashed and came down, swift as rain, and Sojourn intuitively turned away, but the wet, gurgling sounds coming from the throat of the dying boy caused him to cry out, and the men had found him, and taken him back to his room, but oddly, didn’t punish him.

And here he was now, some forty-eight years later, a square-jawed, grizzled bear of a man, the boy-Sojourn long left behind, the fears and trepidations long vanished, all of that boy was gone except for the bright blue eyes.

Even the dark hair more salt than seasoning now.

That once-smooth, cherubic face was deeply lined with the cares of the world, inverted half-moons beneath those twinkling eyes, crowsfeet at the corners of his eyes and his mouth. An ugly, raised scar at his left temple.

He twirled the blade in his hand, hesitant and uncertain.

But why?

All he had to do was say the course one last time and it was done. His body would work of its own volition, his strong right arm - his killing arm - would swing up and with only half a beat’s hesitation, come back down again, a violent, brutal action, a murderous action, a well-rehearsed and familiar move, done hundreds of times already, every year for the last five, the slaughter well-rehearsed.

It should have been easy, effortless almost.

Still, he hesitated.

The knife twirled.

He stared.

The boy on the slab had had his head shorn, as was custom, but like Sojourn, his hair was dark, and - he looked more closely, and for a moment made eye contact with boy - yes, he had a slight witch’s peak as well. And those eyes, not bright blue like his, they were green, but they stared at him with familiar intelligence and perception, he’d only locked eyes with the recipient for a moment, but it was enough to see something of himself in this child.

He could have said the exact same thing about every single one of them, though. Of course he could. That is what made his job so difficult, and so important for the cause.

This was different, no matter what he told himself.

His humanity, his Esotera, would always try and shine through, but the gods demanded darkness, and blood, and he had to be as granite. It wasn’t an easy thing, to be iron and obsidian when one’s heart wanted to be a warm blanket, but as the pontifex Abbot Montclan, he had no choice.

He had to do this.

It didn't matter who the boy was.

He took a shallow breath, held it.

The knife stopped twirling.

He made eye contact with the child again, but by design. His distant look evaporated, replaced by grey flint. He wanted to look into his eyes now.

Sojourn's body tensed. His heart stopped. His lungs froze, and his brain went sideways.

He raised his hand, the hand with the knife, his killing hand. He gripped it tightly.

The boy looked at him and smiled, a little sadly, as if he knew, as if he understood what had to happen.

“Father,” he said, and those eyes, so familiar, so known, every fleck and line lovingly memorized, filled with tears. It was a face Sojourn knew, and loved.

A sob tried to rise in his chest, but he drowned it.

And with this course do I set the wheels of fate in motion.

And the knife came down, swift and sudden.