L'-Onilh~

...' '...

"Where didst thou find it?" I demanded, poring incessantly over the cube, tracing its unholy seams with trembling fingers.

^^^"Amidst the implements," replied the fair maiden, her cheeks blushing with a fevered rose. "Beside the caskets of trinkets, the gory gold, the earthen tins... and a faerie."^^^

"A faerie?" I echoed, struggling to veil the chill creeping beneath my ribs. "I have never kept a Faerie Tin."

^^^"Truly?" she insisted, her voice clear as chime. "But the woman— she who calleth herself Song— she placed the cube into my hands. She emerged from the Faerie Tin."^^^

"Song?" I whispered, the name falling like ash upon my tongue.

^^^"Yes. Radiant-though strange," the girl affirmed. "The woman bore fangs like needles beneath a face as pale as wax; her eyes, languid and sorrowful, seemed carved from the ruined marble of Grecian tombs. Her raiment-oh, her raiment-it hung about her like the relics of fallen empires. She was like a priestess of some extinct rite."^^^

...She gestured now toward the cube that lay inert in my grasp....

^^^"And after she gave me that," she said, "she spoke words... words that wounded the heart and made me ache with pity."^^^

"What did she say?" I pressed, already bracing my soul for the blow.

...The girl hesitated. Her gaze, heavy and disconsolate, fastened upon mine as though searching for sanctuary in my dread....

^^^"Uh-oh... She said, 'The day thou losest this object... is the day I shall slay the one I love.'"^^^

No....

No! No!!! Nooo!!! .....

Q: I feel his presence— here, in this place... His scent, lingers still. Mine? Mine ... Mine ...! Mine within his womb...

E: Shall we encircle the grounds, Empire?

Q: ... ... ...

A: Empire? ...

Q (shuddering with rage): He is near... Too near. Begone! I command thee— begone! Now!

Q : My infant returns to me! My hound ... The latrine of my desire has come home at last...

Thou°°°°°°°°°°°

"Swear it, if thou art to love me..." Ophelia smiled, raising her arm, gently caressing and exploring Geoffrey's cheek with a slow, tender stroke.

Geoffrey did not respond-he was silent-he was mute-there was naught but the sound of his labored breath that Ophelia perceived through her thumb: a warmth, a chill. It felt both soothing and comforting, warming her heart... Her thumb shifted slightly, deliberately touching the nostrils.

"Do you know?" Ophelia spoke, then sighed softly, ceasing when she felt the tremor in her left arm, which had been supporting her form. She lifted that arm, placing both hands upon his cheek, her thumbs positioned at his nostrils. Certainly, with this action, she would unintentionally compel the boy-Geoffrey's chest heaved, his eyes wide and flushed. Ophelia's smile deepened, though Geoffrey appeared still unready to gather his soul, so deeply startled was he...

"Thou art awake!" Ophelia cried, her voice bright, full of joyous elation!

She repeated the phrase again and again, whilst Geoffrey convulsed in prolonged spasms.

Ophelia cried out, her head swaying from side to side, her colossal form from the machine-like arachnid structure jerking in rhythm... Her tail flickered, emitting violet lights with an electrical hum, while the metal of her frame struck the floor, shattering it, sending dust and creating short-circuits.

Ophelia withdrew her thumb from Geoffrey's nostrils when the child's power left him... He nearly fainted, had a mere spark not struck his tiny feet. He was but ten, small in Ophelia's eyes, yet somehow-though operating on automatic through her intricate systems-she had abducted Geoffrey from his parents, though how she could not recall... Yet it was clear; in her mechanical being-a massive anthapodorus machine-that had performed such an act, she must have been commanded by someone, the owner... Yet, who that owner was remained a mystery to her. But what she knew without question was this: she loved the boy she had taken.

The boy lay motionless: poor Geoffrey-his face turned ashen, his eyes nearly disappearing from sight-when slowly, as he regained his senses, Ophelia waited patiently for the boy she deemed her lover... She did not ask, she did not wonder who had commanded her; now, her only question was: Does Geoffrey love her as she loves him? Her curiosity made her machine body warm and mist over. The iron chains gave way in segments, oozing ectoplasmic slime. Every joint expanded, swelled, puffed, and breathed, as her breath grew heavier. The sound of grinding metal grew louder as Geoffrey, the boy, fully awakened... His soul whole once more, his mouth now grinning, his cheeks flushed, his brows raised almost to his hairline... His face was tragic, his cheekbones trembling, his teeth and lips quivering... Oh, what form truly gazes back at him, which we cannot know?

It was a monster... Her tail lashed the air, threatening!

A monster.

A monster.

"Monster..." Geoffrey whispered, in a strangled cry. Ophelia waited a moment before the word entered her ears, creeping under her skin, sinking into her heart.

"Monster..." Ophelia echoed Geoffrey's word, her voice deep, "A monster, is it?" She ceased exhaling, "What manner of monster?"

Geoffrey offered no response, frozen in terror, Ophelia's fingers still upon his pallid face as he knew not what to do.

"Ophelia..." Ophelia spoke in the same tone, her tail flicking to the left with the hope Geoffrey would see it... A harsh screech, the sound of stiff chains, and the ectoplasmic slime bubbling across the floor, steaming. Geoffrey did not answer her, his heart shattered, blood pouring into his brain, beyond his capacity to hold, causing his nose to bleed once again... He backed away, but it was futile; his movements were constrained by the very confines he stood in, and the massive presence of Ophelia: great and heavy, her face a shadow of a beast... Ophelia appeared poised to strike, to make the child fall, never to rise until morning... But there was one question that haunted her, seemingly easy to resolve, but truly complex: "Does Geoffrey love her? Not as an anthapodrous machine, but as a common soul?"

Now, Ophelia felt the pressure of Geoffrey's silence. She stood straighter, lowering her gaze to ensure Geoffrey was still within her sight. Geoffrey looked up, eyes wide, trembling lips quivering, his gaze filled with hysteria... He spoke then, his voice faint, his words halting, as he began to bleed again.

"J-je-don't..." These were the first words Ophelia heard, followed by: "Don't hurt me. Don't harm me. I am in pain. I am in pain. Don't! Don't!" Then Geoffrey began to sob, his eyes wide with dread.

Ophelia gazed upon him with hidden pity, for all she longed to do was push the boy away if only her ectoplasm would let go... Setting aside this sorrow, she extended her arm, ripping at his summer garb, tearing the stitches, until Geoffrey lay bare-chested, curled in fear. Ophelia knelt and thrust Geoffrey's chest with all her might into the wall, causing a brief echo; the child screamed, Ophelia pressed harder, her tail holding his small right leg... His face flushed in an instant, and Geoffrey cried out, for the weight of her tail was too much for a mere child of ten... But what had passed through the mind of this mechanical beast, none could say, nor its motives...

Ophelia used her weight to hold the boy's half-formed body, drawing her face closer, their cheeks red and dimmed by the lack of light. Their breaths nearly touched. And they breathed one another's air, each in their own way; Geoffrey shuddered, struggling harder, while Ophelia savored the beauty of the vision below her: the small form writhing beneath her brought a chuckle from her. Her tail danced behind her, crushing fat from every inch of his thigh, breaking his tender bones. The boy may have felt a pain worse than that of any prisoner of war... The pain shot out from his mouth, his nose, and splattered across his eyes. Geoffrey heard his name called once more, "Geoffrey, Geoffrey, Geoffrey..." in tones as soft as cotton; but he felt no comfort, no joy-only pain and agony coursing through his body, so great that he could not suppress the tremors and convulsions under the monster's grip. Ophelia only smiled, and smiled. She lifted her tail once more and produced something sharp, as heavy as it was. It moved forward like a metal pusher, entering between Geoffrey's thighs. Now the boy was positioned so that Ophelia's hands could reach his shoulders, giving him a soft thrust, pushing him against the wall. To Geoffrey, it was the last gentle sensation he would ever know before his sense of touch vanished, accompanied by a pendulum entering the void.

Geoffrey was kissed by Ophelia. Afterward, he felt naught but a strange numbness; he remained conscious for five minutes, submitting to the inevitable: ectoplasmic slime coating his paralyzed legs, his lips moving aimlessly, destroying what remained of his senses... And then, darkness, endless and oppressive, as he lay amidst the vast, murky waters of a heaven swathed in pale, clouded light, where the clouds above were the white feathers of Waimanu penguins.

When he awoke, it was perhaps midday-he lay in a bed of soft leather-ten lanterns hung above, their valves half-open. The light was dim, but the sun's rays pierced through, illuminating the opulent room with flamboyant walls, glass windows set and doors locked with bolts... Before he could fully rise, a familiar presence made his heart leap, but it was in vain. His sense of touch returned, and he felt the wetness of the blanket covering a soft mass of slime beneath him. He pulled at the blanket, groaning as his face flushed again, turning pale once more... He saw his belly swollen, as though he were with child, and when he shifted, he realized the bed was soaked, but not from any childlike accident...

"It is amniotic fluid-" Ophelia explained as she approached the bed. Her steps were graceful, slow, and deliberate, her tail dragging behind her with care. She ascended the bed, and in that moment, Geoffrey's focus returned to the searing pain that flooded his body, and he stayed still, still, as Ophelia's hand once more reached for him, crawling over his face like ants, smiling sweetly.

Then, in an almost joyful tone, Ophelia spoke, words difficult for Geoffrey to grasp. "Thou art with child, our child," she said, laughing with cheeks flushed, eyes closed in bliss. Geoffrey remained silent, as once more, he was pushed, the waters of birth flowing around them, drenching the bed, Ophelia's body, his own, his face... And once more, they make love again ...

"For Heaven`s Sake!"

...

'They say no prophet everything went to hell....

...But was not the devil once in Paradise?'...

The weather bore no fierce sun, only the faintest pallid blaze that waned beneath the zenith, as the hour crept toward noon. I recall it well, clad in my favored summer raiment, venturing forth to the open fields of Rosnouveo—parting brambles and treading softly upon the pale bronze grasses. Even from afar, the leaves—emerald, gold, and fiery orange—fluttered like scattered gems, torn loose by the wandering wind, strewn where mine eye could grasp them.

Crossing the ancient bridge, I beheld the river’s hurried course. The bridge, though worn and rotted, had never broken—fashioned from a long line of teak, it linked two flatlands clothed in verdant grass.

Had I not seen her then—by God, I should not have been there at all! I ought only to have passed carelessly, heedless of that summons; perhaps the curse would have spared me. But no sooner had my footfall touched the far shore than I discerned, at the distant edge, a small and delicate apparition within the temple I fancied.

Swiftly, I hastened, cleaving a narrow path through thickets, and stood before the shrine.

I dared not enter, nor summon her name; she was still bowed in devout prayer before Lord Gaullle, and I was no man to disturb worship. The woman seemed aware of my presence, for she hastened her devotions, then rose and turned with measured grace. Nearly bare was her form: tattered cloth hanging loose, revealing the contours of flesh beneath; skin pale as milk, cheeks flushed with a faint rose, her visage otherwise impassive. Upon her head rested a tangled crown of straw—no common circlet of thorns, but a shape perplexing, cruelly fashioned beyond mortal artifice.

I confess, words faltered at my tongue, uncertain to greet such an unexpected sight.

“Miss—” I ventured, bracing my courage, “If you—”

“You may go—” she cut me short.

“What? ‘Tis I who should speak so! See your garb, so reckless, so unseemly!” I reproached sharply.

She bowed, surveying her disarray, then lifted her gaze again. “You should be swift to leave,” she repeated, “’Tis you who must depart!”

I sighed, striving to temper my vexation.

“I shall leave, once you have gone!” I declared, voice pitched higher in reflex to the curve of her form, a daring audacity I could scarce contain.

Her eyes held me, stark and innocent, their black depths framed by that grim crown…

“Come, what dost thou wait for? Begone!” I bade once more.

Yet she did not comply; instead, she shook her head and turned back to Lord Gaullle’s statue, folding her arms in prayer. Then she bent low—revealing what I ought not have seen. Hastily I averted my gaze, but when I looked again, she faced me once more.

Her hand stretched forth; near enough, I could discern the bruises, deep-purple and healing slowly, upon the knuckles and back of her palm. A torrent of confusion seized me. What foul wretch would harm so fair a creature? Such marks bespoke countless wounds upon her flesh; surely, the torments and despair had visited her oftener than any unbeliever’s lament.

“Take this!” she implored.

I stepped from shadow, fixating upon her countenance once more… Setting aside her tattered apparel and exposed flesh, I smiled softly and asked, “What is this?”

She held out a book, edges worn and curling, the cover aged and cracked. I reached out, took the tome, and met her gaze again.

“You must read it now,” her faint smile veiled by strands of hair whispered. “But open not the second chapter,” she warned, glancing at the unremarkable cover, “for that is forbidden—those who disobey often meet foul ends.”

“Then why entrust it to me? Wouldst thou curse me with misfortune?” I jested lightly.

She did not laugh. I sighed and honored her command, beginning with the opening verses: “No reason hath man been wrought save a chain of events;

Nor doth reason belong to any who worship save the Devil’s vile designs.

Thus were two worlds forged, to be one; yet one world barred the other’s way,

For a barrier stood—the intermediary and the King.

Should the intermediary perish, both fade and fall to oblivion,

And the King shall no longer defend that which is forgotten and lost.”

As I read, faint voices seemed to echo—thin and unearthly, far from human speech. My mind pieced them together as warnings:

“Best cease thy reading!”

“Thou hast gone too far!”

“She sends thee a warning!”

“Stop now!”

The whispers stilled me. I closed the book at the end of the first chapter, which ended grimly:

“For I dreamed of a sign.”

A portent of darker trials yet to come.

Then, as I neared the second chapter, its opening dialogue lain bare upon the page, suddenly the woman snatched the parchment and drew it away, lifting it skyward.

My gaze was fixed—between the crumpled pages, the fragile text, and her bone-forged crown of sharpened thorns, cruelly wrought and polished to terrible perfection. I made no move to reclaim the book; the story had faltered, its worth diminished… yet in my heart, tumultuous and defiant, curiosity burned still, I must see the second chapter.

“Enough. Begone now!” she commanded.

“Is that all? I know not what ‘Hell’s Emissary’ means…”

“Thou knowest more than thou dares admit,” she replied, brow furrowed. “No soul wishes to witness the second act!”

She closed the book, clutching it as one would a burden. Her face, still marred by gloom and half-anger, revealed no reason for such ire, though earlier I had seen a tender smile.

“If I go, shall I learn the meaning of Hell’s Emissary?” I pressed, turning from her face to stare at the book’s cover.

“See!” she said.

I looked up.

“What?”

“Thou art drawn to it,” she said, raising and lowering the tome once more.

“Thy head follows where this book goes,” she explained.

“Why then? The book is naught but rubbish!” I snapped, anger kindling, yet my eyes never left the cover.

“That is its danger,” she spoke softly, “and why I intend to burn it.”

“What!” I gasped.

“I linger here,” she began, “not as a fool at play. The town’s sorcerers held counsel but a week past—this book,” she glanced at it, “harbors a careless emissary.” Her gaze locked mine.

Descending a step, she stood before me. Her stature barely reached my shoulders—mine a full 175 centimeters. Close, her skin was porous, pale, flushed and slick with sweat. How long had she tarried in the temple? A night? A day? The sunlight haloed her like a prophetess. I said nothing, bracing to hear her sermon—soft as the piping of reed and wind.

“For thou, I see it plain, this book ensnares, enchains! To enslave, in truth… Though sin it be, I doubted the sorcerers’ claims until thy actions made it clear.

“This book is empty, the careless emissary within hath penned its contents in fervor, he casts seductive spells in the first act, a ritual guide to summon spirits in the second, and in the third and beyond, when the victim’s soul is fully bewitched, each reading causes the emissary to slowly graft his essence upon the victim’s frame. Unwittingly, spirit and soul exchange places, and the careless emissary walks anew among men!”

“So...”

“Thou art ensnared,” she cut me short. “Fear not! I have watched thee and held fast to my vigil… that is why I did not lose focus as thou neared the second act.”

The realization struck me dumb, undone and sullied. A flicker of magic coiled unseen within my form, binding me unknowingly. Perceiving my unrest, her left arm lifted, fingers caressed my cheek. Blood rushed to my face, and when I found breath again, I bade her lower her hand. She opened the book once more, turning page after page, heedless of poetry or prose, until the final leaf. She raised it high, draping fabric gently falling, shielding her head from the sunlight.

“Dost thou hear it? The voice of Hell’s Emissary?”

I looked up to the lower cover.

“No. I hear nothing!” I answered honestly.

----------------

But ere my words were done, a muffled, anguished groan rose from nowhere, an agony entwined with supplication. As I sought the sound’s source, it issued from the book itself—its pages and cover burning and blistering with eldritch fire! In that maddening moment, I understood

... The girl had conjured the flames. Her lips trembled, weaving incantations; I saw tongues of flame licking before bursting forth, scorching her fingers and palm until blisters swelled and bruises bloomed. What spectacle was this? None of mortal realm, but a madman’s vision! When the flames died, the fire vanished, yet my mind reeled, whispering: “How many attempts hath been made to destroy that small Hell?”

"I was once roused from slumber to the lamentation and shrill outcry of the universe before me. Thereafter, sleep embraced me anew; and in that twilight reverie, I beheld a thing- a being imbued with breath... a thing beyond my reason, beyond articulation!"

Truth is, no one had ever wanted to set foot in the yard of that old church. And really, who in their right mind would? That Gothic pile had grown decrepit with age, ready to crumble any day now-I'd heard word it was to be torn down before winter. Ninety-one years stood behind that stone, and the trees around it had long since shed their pride-just brittle black branches now, no green, no life. The bark turned grey, stripped of all color, tangled and worn like the faces of those long since buried. Not even the birds gave it their courtesy. They kept away-no chirp, no rustle. Just silence, and something old.

So I think it fair, sir, if I say my fear of even looking toward that chapel-yes, even a glance-was reasonable.

But someone kept coming back. Someone always did.

As I said: the trees remained, dry-boned and crooked. Around them, and wrapping some eighty percent of that cursed structure, the grass had grown wild-untended, untouched. Tall weeds and windblown flowers stretched out like the broken hair of a sleeping giant. It gave the yard a look of neglect that bordered on the deliberate.

No one wanted to care for the place.

But me? I kept seeing this someone-sometimes daily, sometimes not-standing there, still as a statue for hours, and then... gone. Every day, damn near. Every day.

It's not that I disliked it, no. At first I thought nothing of it. But always, always, when he came, this weight would press down on my heart like a name forgotten. A whisper would stir in my blood. And just before it vanished, I'd see a shimmer-like gold-like something in a fever dream bubbling up through my nerves.

And I swear to you, the thing-this person-was cursed.

Stare too long, and you'd see him rot. Slowly. Not quite alive. Not quite dying. Just stuck in some unholy pause, where even decay loses its patience.

The sight made me ill. I went through bottles of laudanum and peppermint oil just to keep from retching. I had to stop looking.

But then-one noonday-I saw him again.

It was just after I threw open the window on the third floor of my studio. I hadn't even struck my pipe yet. And there he was-moving along the sidewalk. Passing the row of wagons, crossing the street, weaving between the souls of the living like some corpse escaped from a hospital window. His eyes-oh, God-those sunken things, as hollow as hell's gate...

That day, I fetched Miss Coatta. Needed her to see him too. Needed someone to share the terror or I'd go mad with it.

"Cossy," I said, "Come here a moment."

She did. And as soon as she saw what I saw, she went pale.

"That's the one?" she whispered. "He's worse than I imagined..."

"You think so?"

"But-"

"But what?"

She looked again, breath caught in her chest. "Doesn't he usually... stare at the church?"

"He does."

"...Then why is he looking at us, Mr. Masson?"

I paused. I looked. And there he was-half a face gone, one eye hollow, the other bleeding golden tears. His skin, all pale and ruptured. His hands-ruined-fingers missing save one thumb. I couldn't breathe. I shut the window hard.

And yet, just once more, I peeked through the glass.

He was still there. Watching us.