Prometheus Rising- Chapter 1/? [Fic]
Chapter 1:
“Damn it!” The door to the chapel slammed open, and out stormed a furious young priest. His sandals clunked against the solid wood floor, echoing down the hallway. As he went, he viciously pulled off the golden chain wrapped around his neck, scowling down at the sun pendant dangling from the end.
“Brother Kirkland!” Hurried footsteps chased him down the hallway, but he did not look back. “Brother Kirkland, if you do not turn around this instant, you will be banned from the Order! Do you understand me? Brother Kirkland!”
The priest stopped abruptly and whirled around, green eyes burning with anger. “I understand you perfectly. Ban me if you want! What do I care? I would leave even if you were not punishing me. This- This place, this thing-” He gestured wildly at the decorated molding of the walls around them. “It all makes me sick. I’m not- I cannot-” He let out a frustrated huff, but his glare didn’t lessen in power. “I am leaving. Don’t try to stop me.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode down the rest of the hallway and up the short flight of stairs. No footsteps followed him.
He threw the door to his small room open and moved immediately over to his bed, throwing the sun pendant onto the bedcovering. He knelt to dig underneath the bed for the only satchel he owned, kicking off his wooden sandals in the process. As he sat there, the rough leather in his hands, he found himself frowning at the pendant in front of him. The golden sun- not true gold, but copper, painted- glittered in the early morning sunlight shining through his small window. Its gleam was taunting him, mocking him, daring him to walk away from everything he knew. His hands tightened their hold on the satchel.
“I’m leaving,” he snarled at the pendant. It didn’t reply, but the gleam did not fade. Cursing, the priest grabbed it and shoved it into his satchel. He could still feel it there, watching him, but he pushed the thoughts aside and reached back under the bed to find his old day clothes, the ones he used to wear before he joined the priesthood. He hoped they would still fit. Frowning down at the shirt and tunic in his hands, he decided that it didn’t really matter. He would rather walk out of the Church in clothes too small, than in the robes of an order he no longer believed in. With that in mind, he set about unlacing his belt and tugging his robe over his head.
As the thick fabric pooled on the ground by his feet, there was a quiet knock on the door. The priest looked up from where he’d been gathering up his old shirt. “Toris,” he greeted, pulling the shirt over his head.
The other priest nodded slightly. “Arthur.” He hesitated, glancing back out towards the stairs. “Is it true? Are you leaving us?”
The priest- Arthur- finished pulling down his shirt. “Yes, I am. I can’t stay here any longer.”
“I see.” Toris watched as he slid the tunic on overtop. Though he said nothing more, the unspoken questions hovered in the air between them.
Arthur sighed, crouching back down to slip his nightshirt and spare breeches into the satchel. He made certain that they were covering the pendant at the bottom before searching for his old leather boots. “You were there, Toris. Did you not see what they were doing? Or do you simply not care about it?”
“I was there, yes,” Toris said slowly. His gaze slid pointedly away from Arthur, focusing on some indistinct point at the other side of the room. “And I did see.”
“Then it’s true. You don’t care.”
Toris shook his head. “That’s not entirely correct, Arthur. I do care, but I do not think I care about the same thing as you.”
“What happened to you, Toris?” Arthur asked, rising to his now boot-clad feet again, satchel in hand. “When we first met, you were a brilliant young scribe, always curious and questioning anything told to you. And then you changed.” He kept his gaze away from the other priest as well as he gathered up what few belongings were his and not the Church’s. “Now you are just like the rest of them- cold, vain, and willing to destroy for the sake of some god.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” Toris countered. “This is what the Church does. We do what we have to in order to spread our message across the land. I thought you understood that.”
“Funny, I thought I did too. For these past five years, I thought I understood exactly what the Church was, exactly what it meant and what it stood for. It seems I was wrong.” Their eyes locked, sharp as blades. “I never realized how low they- how low you would stoop to spread your religion.”
Silence burned between them as Arthur hefted his satchel up onto his back. He stood there in the center of the room he had called his for years- the room he had thought he could spend the rest of his life in- and felt a cold tendril of regret spike through him. He could turn back. He could apologize, and swear never to question the Church or its teachings again, and he could once again be a member of this order. But he could not. Something in him refused to allow him to back down. Arthur took in a deep breath, staring fiercely at the man in his doorway. “Are you going to move aside, or will I have to force you?”
Toris raised his eyebrows. “Force me? I never thought you would threaten me, Arthur. Are we not friends?” He paused. “Then again, I never expected you to turn your back on the Church, either. Perhaps I don’t know you as well as I thought.” With a slight incline of his head, he stepped aside and gestured towards the stairs. “Please, don’t let me stop you from leaving.”
Arthur strode past him. For barely an instant, their eyes met, and in that moment Arthur saw the Toris he had met five years ago, the sweet and shy young man who had been his closest friend and constant companion. Arthur’s steps faltered. “Things really have changed, haven’t they?”
“Yes, they have.” And Arthur knew he was not imagining the wistfulness in Toris’ voice. “If this is really what you want, Arthur, I cannot support you in it. But I can wish you luck in whatever path you choose.”
“Thank you.” Arthur meant it. He turned and moved forward, away from the man who had once been his friend, away from the robes left wrinkled and dirty on the floor, away from his life, and towards an uncertain future.
The priests had gathered to watch him go. They lined the hallway, nearly identical in their draping robes and cowls, sun pendants dangling against the stark fabric. Arthur passed through the aisle they had left him, only just wide enough for him to fit. He felt their eyes, even hidden beneath their cowls, accusing him wordlessly, and he ignored them all. He held his chin high, refusing to look at any of the shadowed faces. Up ahead of him was the grand iron door that led out into the village. Once he stepped through that door, there would be no turning back.
As he drew nearer to it, Arthur heard the sound of wooden sandals clicking in the crowd, and turned his head to see the head priest approaching him. His hands were folded into his long sleeves. He regarded Arthur with an unreadable expression. “So you are truly leaving us, my son?”
“I am not your son,” Arthur said, as respectfully as possible. “But yes, I’m leaving.” His hand tightened almost imperceptibly around the strap of his satchel.
The head priest did not seem to notice. “I see. This is very disappointing, you must understand. You were one of our most promising disciples.” He frowned. “You had such greatness to look forward to.”
Arthur could not help but snort slightly. “Greatness? I fail to see anything great about staying in this order.”
A murmur of protest rose up in the crowd around them, but the head priest raised one hand to silence it. “That is dangerous speech, my son,” he said sternly. “Words such as those can come back to haunt you. Be careful what you choose to say.”
Arthur scowled. “Words? Believe me, I know about the power of words.” He shook his head in disgust, gesturing towards the chapel door. “I saw all the proof I needed of the power of words this morning.”
The head priest’s face tightened, his eyes narrowing. “What happened this morning was a perfect example of how to deal with dangerous words. It is our responsibility as the Church, as the guide for hundreds of people, to dispose of anything harmful to them.”
“Harmful to who? The people?” Arthur snorted again. “The people would not be harmed by those words! No one would, save for the Church itself. Destroying those-”
“This is why you are leaving?” the high priest interrupted, voice rising in volume. “Because you do not believe in one of the most basic and sacred duties of this Church?”
“Yes!” Arthur yelled back at him. “Yes! I am leaving because you burned those books!” His hands clenched into fists. “Do you have any idea of the knowledge you destroyed? Some of those books were older than any of us present. You’ve thrown aside the teachings of years and years of men. Do you not think that the people could have benefited from those?”
“No, they would not have! Those books were written by heretics, by men not of the faith. They were worth nothing!”
Arthur’s mouth opened and closed, but no words escaped. “You ignorant fool,” he finally managed. “Those books can never be replaced. You have destroyed far more than you can realize.”
“They were worth nothing,” the head priest repeated, eyes daring Arthur to argue again. Around them, the other priests had begun to gather closer, forming a threatening circle.
Arthur glared around at them, before directing his gaze back to the head priest. “Someday,” he snarled, low and pointed, “someday you will regret what you have done. Mark my words.” He turned, shoving through the priests standing between him and the door, pressing his full weight against it in order to force it open. Sunlight shone onto the gathering of priests, making their robes appear almost pure white. Arthur spared them once last glance. Far in the back, towards the stairs, stood one man with his hood down, brown hair brushing against his shoulders. Toris met his eyes and raised his hand in farewell.
It was final. Arthur turned away from the assembled priests, away from the great hall, and stepped out into the world.
**
Word traveled fast, and by the time evening fell, Arthur could find no lodgings for the night. Every inn he tried turned him away, some with harsh looks, others with harsher words. Arthur did not bother trying to fight with them. He had made his choice, and they had made theirs.
Darkness settled around him as he made his way down the streets of Lamglen. The sky was cloudy that night, and the only light shone from various torches set here and there along the walls of buildings. A few men hurried past him, back towards their homes and families. The wooden wall surrounding the village loomed up before him. He was approaching the edge of Lamglen, and the beginning of the forest.
Arthur drew to a halt just before the gate. He ignored the gatekeeper’s accusing stare, and instead focused up at the flimsy wooden structure- the only thing standing between him and the unknown. He shifted the weight of his satchel slightly. Lamglen was no longer a friendly home to him, but he could not help the feelings of trepidation that bloomed within him at the thought of what waited beyond the gate. The forest was a vast, dark, mysterious place, full of the demons of yore. He had heard hundreds of tales of men venturing into the forest and straying just slightly off the path. Those men were never seen again. And now that he was no longer a member of the Church, and he no longer had the divine protection of the Great One, he was just as prone to those misfortunes as any other man. His thoughts flickered back to the pendant in his bag, but he forced them away.
“Well?” the gatekeeper snapped, forcing him from his musings. “Are you going to leave or what?”
Arthur scowled at him. “Open the gate.”
“Of course, sir.” With a mocking bow, the gatekeeper shuffled forward and unlatched the gate’s heavy iron bolt. It slid aside with a muffled thud. The gatekeeper pressed both hands against the old wood and shoved it open.
There it was. Barely thirty feet from the walls of Lamglen, the forest rose up like some wild beast into the dark sky. Arthur could make out the faint silhouettes of twisted trees, of thorny underbrush. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he almost believed he could see the moving shapes of beasts, the creatures of the night. The fear rose up once again in his stomach.
“Well, be off with you, then!” the gatekeeper demanded after a moment. Arthur was pleased to hear the same fear in the man’s voice. “I can’t keep this gate open all night.”
“Of course not.” Arthur hefted his satchel more securely over his shoulder and, after only a mere second of hesitation, moved forward. In two steps, he was level with the gatekeeper. Their gazes connected, sharing their fear, and the gatekeeper nodded. Another two steps, and Arthur was level with the gate, standing on the very edge of Lamglen, at the brink of the wild. And he stepped forward again, and again, until he heard the gate begin to creak closed behind him. He did not turn around, for he knew that if he did, he would run back inside like a dog with its tail between its legs and beg for forgiveness. The heavy thud of the iron bolt locking into place rang through his ears.
He was alone.
Arthur stood there for several long minutes, allowing the night winds to tug and curl around his clothes and hair. The dark silhouette of the forest- only the forest, for giving it a name would only make it more frightening- beckoned to him. Some unknown beast howled in the distance. Arthur took in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he exhaled, and began to walk. He made certain to keep his feet within the boundaries of the dirt path even before he passed beneath the first boughs. The men who kept to the track were those who survived the journey.
He slowly entered into the darkness of the woods. The forest’s long branches almost seemed to reach out in a twisted welcome, enveloping him in a black embrace. A violent shudder rolled down his spine, and for the first time, he turned to look back over his shoulder. Lamglen stood peacefully behind him, lit by the small pockets of warmth given off by its torches. Arthur swallowed heavily and faced forward once again. There was no going back.
As he moved forward, the forest grew ever more thick around him. Not even the tiny gleam of light from the cloud-covered moon managed to pierce the heavy boughs. Leaves rustled in the darkness, and the soft footsteps of invisible creatures seemed to echo through the tree trunks. Arthur’s grip tightened around the strap of his satchel. Every few steps, he peered downwards to make sure he was still on the path. The further he walked into the woods, the harder it became to tell. He did not know how long he had been walking, or how far he had gone. He could no longer see Lamglen behind him. In the crushing dark of the forest, everything looked the same. His heart beat wildly in his chest, his eyes scanning for something that he could not see.
A twig snapped beneath his foot, and Arthur jumped, bringing his fists up protectively in front of him. He panted heavily, swinging around in the darkness, looking for anything to defend himself from. He could see nothing. Around him, the forest had not ceased its rustlings. Letting out a nervous laugh, Arthur dropped his hands back to his sides. “Arthur, you fool, there is nothing there,” he murmured to himself. At the sound of his voice, the forest seemed to still. The slow padding of paws vanished. The rustling of the trees dimmed in volume. The darkness pressed in even closer to him. Arthur’s whole body trembled in the sudden quiet. “Nothing there,” he whispered again. “There’s nothing there.” The mantra rolled off his tongue again and again, so low he could barely hear it himself, and the forest grew silent to listen.
Focusing on the sound of his own voice and breath, Arthur peered down at the forest floor again. It was too dark to tell if the path remained beneath his feet. His breath hitched in his throat, and casting a long, wary look at the silent woods around him, he crouched slightly for a closer look.
Far up above him in the night sky, the clouds parted around the moon, and silvery light pierced through the forest. Dark leaves glowed, tree trunks were veined with grey bark, hundreds of eyes glittered in the black shadows. Arthur saw none of that, for his gaze was locked onto the ground before him. There was no path to be seen. His shaking hands reached out to brush aside the covering of leaves and underbrush, but all he found were mushrooms and worms. He had stepped off the path.
Time seemed to still. Arthur could feel the gaze of creatures he could not see, could hear nothing but his own heartbeat. He stumbled back to his feet, eyes wild, and ran through the trees, desperately searching for the dirt road. He could not have stepped so far off of it. It was impossible. But no matter how hard he looked, turning over every fallen branch, sweeping aside every bush, kicking at every pile of leaves, he could find nothing. He had stepped off the path, and he was destined to become another one of those horror stories told to children who ventured too close to the forest’s edge.
As he stood there staring at the ground, chest tight and heart pounding, he heard a very slight rustle in the trees behind him. He barely noticed it at first, and then it came again. It was only the slightest sound, a crunch of leaves beneath a foot. It came again. He slowly raised his head, eyes wide with fear. “There’s nothing there,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the last word. The rest of the forest remained silent, and the rustle came again. Cold breath rattled against the back of his neck.
Even as his mind screamed not to, his body turned. The moonlight, though fading quickly, still cast enough of a glow to illuminate the creature before him. It stood far taller than Arthur, perhaps twice his height. It was humanoid, and nothing at all like a human. The creature’s arms remained bathed in shadow, yet they appeared long and spindly, holding up an equally slender body and shorter legs. But Arthur could not look away from its face. It was empty, blank of anything but a smooth expanse of white flesh stretched tightly over a skull.
Arthur’s mouth fell open. Somewhere in the darkness, he could hear a human voice screaming. It might have been his, but he could not tell. His body would not move, and all he could see was that pale face.
Tendrils of shadow writhed in the creature’s arms, breaking through its skin and coiling through the air. They wound themselves around Arthur’s unmoving arms and legs, lifting him up off the ground, letting him dangle as the pale head drew closer to his own face. Arthur knew he was screaming now, over and over again, as his throat burned and his breath stuttered. And as the moon slid once again behind the cover of clouds, and he was left alone in the pure darkness with a monster he could not see, he felt a warm tear roll down his cheek. The monster’s breath rattled in his face. He shut his eyes.
Something flew past his ear, and suddenly Arthur was falling back to the ground. He landed heavily on his back, eyes flying open as he gasped for breath.
The monster was burning. An arrow, long-shafted and fletched in simple brown feathers, protruded from both ends of its skull, the tip still dripping with flames. The tendrils that had been holding Arthur aloft were sliding along the pale face, running over the arrow, seemingly not affected by the fire. Arthur scrambled back along the ground, not daring to remove his gaze from the creature. His back came into contact with something hard, and he glanced briefly over his shoulder, expecting to see a tree.
Instead, his eyes found a leg, and then another, and traveled upwards to see hips and chest and shoulders and face. It was a man, wreathed in the flickering light of the burning monster. He glanced down at Arthur for only a moment as he fitted another arrow to his string. “Stay down.”
In that brief second, Arthur found himself staring at eyes as black as the night itself.