Vermillion Sun - 1. Chapter 1: The End is in the Beginning

Chapter 1: The End is The Beginning

The clanging of metal on metal roused him. He couldn't see anything at first, as he groggily awakened from a restless unconsciousness. The first sense to recover was his hearing. He heard the sound of soft footsteps, gradually getting louder, heading towards him in a slow, deliberate way. The person walking toward him was dragging something, perhaps a baton of sorts, across the metal bars of the cells. He heard his own slow, ragged breathing, caused by the battering that occurred last night. The pain that he suffered from the nocturnal torture shouldn't have weakened him so much; he was, after all, accustomed to the beatings the shopkeepers would inflict on him when they caught him stealing. Then he remembered the difference; he had never received as many punches, kicks, and lashes from leather whips as on the seven nights he had been held captive.

His sense of smell caught up next, and he was assaulted by myriad scents. The stench of blood was overwhelming. Probably because his own blood was still slowly dripping from his nostrils to the floor, forming a half-hardened, reddish brown puddle which oozed into the cracks of the cold earth. They probably won't mind it though, he thought. The floor was already badly stained. Other than the stench of blood, even more vile smells assailed his nostrils. He recognized the scents of sweat, urine, bile, and feces that surrounded him. He didn't know if they came from him, or if they were old. When he was first thrown into the cell, the place smelled of rotten carcasses. It was overwhelming. No wonder he threw up the minute his face landed on the floor.

Next, his sense of touch returned. He tried to move his arms, but the rattling of chains halted his movements. He realized that his arms were constricted in thick, heavy, iron chains that were connected to the ceiling. He was kneeling on the floor, slumped against the chains, his arms extended backward at an awkward angle. His shoulder joints burned from the strain. His neck was stiff, and he couldn't feel his legs. He knew that it would be almost impossible to stand up on his own, since he had been kneeling for almost the duration of his captivity. Almost, he thought, because there were times where his captors would lift him roughly by the neck to get a clearer aim for their abusive punches. His bare back felt like there were hundreds of scorpions injecting their venom non-stop. The sweat on his back flowed into the open wounds of his lashes, and stung painfully. Sweat and blood dripped from his forehead into his mouth, but he was born without the sense of taste and couldn't distinguish one from the other. In his 17 years of life, he hadn't known the taste of whatever food or drink he had managed to scrape up for the day. Food had no taste; it was only liquid or solid.

He opened his eyes slowly. A slight glow from underneath the door was barely enough to illuminate the barred, dark cell. He painfully lifted his head from its bowed position and slowly looked around the cell. It was at times like this that he was glad he had superior eyesight, much better than the average human. Somehow, he could see a lot better in the dark than most humans, even better than Alistair.

Alistair. The name evoked memories that instantly flooded his mind. The boy that changed his life - no, saved his life. The beautiful boy who looked so out of place on the streets they in which they lived. His straight, long golden hair flowed between his shoulder blades down to his waist, and was often tied into a ponytail. Although his eyes were the color of ice, their gaze was always warm and comforting. Always, he thought, pouring warmth into my lifeless pitch-black eyes when our gazes connected. His fair skin was flawless and contrasted to my own darker skin when we were in each other's arms in the cold nights. His full, pink lips always looked moist despite the harsh conditions on the streets. Alistair was not meant to be living the life of a petty thief on the streets of Iswald; he belongs in the heavens like an angel, he thought. Alistair - the angel of his life, his savior, his mentor, his lover. The person who taught him how to live in the streets, to steal food, to pick pockets so they would have money to buy clothing. Alistair, who had taught him the ways of the streets and the Code of Thieves, how to defend himself in emergencies, whom to avoid and whom to trust. Alistair, who taught him how to fight, and how to love. Alistair, who at 18 was older than him by only a year, had immense knowledge that belied his innocent and young, beautiful face. Alistair, the angel whom he had known all his life, and who suddenly disappeared one night, a few days before he had been caught. Where was he now? Why did he disappear? What happened that night? Questions without answers ran through his mind.

The creaking of the ancient wooden door snapped him away from his thoughts of the person most important to him. He looked up and slightly cringed at the sudden burst of light coming through the door. Illuminated in the doorway was a pudgy figure with thick, short legs. After his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a middle-aged man; the man who was in charge of the place, and who administered the beatings he had received. The other tormentors referred to him as the Warden. The Warden took one step into the cell, and then banged his baton on the metal bars. A look of disgust marked his oily, bearded face.

"Awake, you filthy rat?" he spat, his eyes narrowing. His captive remained silent except for a slight, defiant growl.

"You ungodly beast! I'll show you...", the Warden started, before he was stopped by a clear command coming from behind him.

"Cease! That will be enough, Warden. We do not need to deal with the demon any longer. He will be exorcized and executed today." The speaker stepped into view. He wore white robes, with a red sash that signaled his rank within the Holy temple. He had a haughty look; his nose was held high, and he looked down it toward the chained boy.

"I am not a demon, but I do have a name." The boy looked at the robed figure with an unflinching glare, despite his battered condition.

"Oh? This is new! A demon who does not acknowledge himself! Pray tell, boy, what are these marks beneath your eyes? What do the tattoos on your neck make you, hmm? These were not made by mortal inks, and they do not look as if they were drawn by hand. You were born with these, yes?" The priest asked arrogantly. The boy did not respond, and his glare did not falter.

"See? You do not deny your unholy birthmarks! By Isfa's name, you are a demon! We have scriptures and books that detail your kind's appearances, and although I wonder why you do not disguise them like other demons do when they are in our midst, they are obviously demonic markings! Maybe you are too young to learn the spells your ungodly brethren use? Or are you an outcast? Where are your horns, young demon? You don't know, do you?" The priest's tone was condescending, yet his voice became louder and more heated.

"Bastard!" the boy yelled. "I don't know where these markings came from, but I am not a demon! I am Human, and my name is Valdur, and I don't know why you have captured and tortured me as you have! I have been living on the streets of Iswald for as long I remember, but I have not done harm to anyone! I bleed like a mortal!" Valdur heatedly shouted, even though his voice croaked painfully from dehydration. His throat grew more sore as he defended himself. He was glad to be stopped before he burst his lungs from shouting; however, a heavy backhand from the Warden wasn't really a nice way to be interrupted.

"Silence you rat! Don't speak like that to the bishop! You, a mere demonchild, claiming to be Human? Is this a pathetic attempt to convince us to spare your life? Isfa's scriptures are absolute! They have described you and your kind. You will be banished to the Underworld today, and I will take great pleasure in seeing you squirm in pain as you make your way back to the place from whence you came!" The warden laughed mockingly before he shouted for his guards.

"It is true, demon, that you do bleed like a mortal. I would say I am confounded by this, but demons will always be marked like you, and those markings tell me that you are one. I believe that you are trying to trick us, using an illusion to make us believe that you can be physically hurt and bleed like us. Isfa cannot be wrong", the priest said.

"Maybe He is! I believe that you, yourself have encountered a few demons within your lifetime, but has one ever reacted to your torture this way? I have heard that demons can only be harmed by Holy magic and weapons that are imbued with its power. Then why, oh good bishop, can my lip be cut by a simple punch by a normal Human? Maybe Isfa can be wrong, or maybe your scriptures hold misinformation?" replied Valdur with a sarcastic tone, referring to the obvious cut he had just acquired on his bottom lip where the Warden had struck him.

"You spew blasphemy! Isfa is infallible! By insulting the Holy God, you have clearly proved yourself to be a demon! You shall be exorcized immediately! Take him outside to the Stage of Shame!" Horror, anger, and sadistic pleasure competed for a place on the bishop's contorted face.

"Hmph!" Valdur snorted and rolled his eyes. Stage of Shame, right. Just another fancy name for an execution stand. "Whatever," he said calmly, despite the impending doom. "You are just either foolish or ignorant, following words that were written by mortals who claimed they were writing words from Isfa. You cannot see the obvious; you're so engulfed by your beliefs that you refuse to accept -"

Valdur was interrupted yet again by furious blows from the Warden and his guards, who beat his already worn body and spit their disgust upon him. They unchained him, and brutally dragged his weak, beaten body towards the door. On the way out, he saw a bit of his surroundings. There were about twenty cells on his floor, occupied by prisoners of all ages. He realized that this was the level were they imprisoned heretics, since each of the captives was muttering prayers to different gods. Some appeared to be in a trance, trapped in their minds. Most of them looked away when they saw him, and some cringed in fear after noticing the tattoos on his bare neck. A few looked at him in religious awe, whispering the name of the Dark Prince, Azrael. Valdur, himself, cursed that Demon King, blaming him for his current condition.

He knew that Iswald was a town that worshipped Isfa, the Holy Guardian. Most of the time, the worshippers were overly religious; their disdain toward other religions was so great that it had led to war. Five Great Wars in fact, all in the name of Isfa. Crazy nuts, Valdur grumbled.

There was already a crowd in the street when he emerged from the subterranean dungeon. It was just after dawn, and the cold wind of winter hit his naked torso harshly, sending chills down his spine. Good thing I have pants, or my balls would've shrunk to nothing, he grumbled to himself. The townspeople, ranging from mere beggars to town nobles, gathered around him while throwing both verbal obscenities and rotten fruit. Some people drew signs in the air to ward off evil. A young girl came forward and spat on his face, earning a glare from him. She hurriedly cowered in fear behind her mother's apron.

Valdur sighed. He was disappointed by the fact that even young children had been taught to believe the scriptures and exposed to this kind of hatred so early in their lives. He was saddened by the thought that the children would grow up with the same hatred their parents were showing so openly. Humans are so easily swayed by what they consider right, he mused to himself. They rarely show capacity to think for themselves, and agree too easily, and without understanding, to what others say. They are so afraid of something that is different from them and refuse to accept anything other than what the scriptures say. Except ...Alistair. He is the only one I've met who is different. Valdur remembered one of the many random discussions that they had had on top of the hills outside the North Gate of Iswald. He once told me - "Humans are like the tall grass on the plains; only following the direction in which the wind blows." Sometimes, I think his intelligence is way beyond the Humans of this town... it makes me wonder...

His thoughts stopped as he neared the Stage of Shame. It was a simple, wooden platform in the middle of the town, in front of the temple. There were two vertical, metal poles a few feet apart. Chains and manacles were attached to each one. Great, more chains, he remarked to himself, dryly.

The guards pushed Valdur unceremoniously unto the stage. He fell on his side. Suddenly, something caught his eye; it was a bright, red spark in the midst of the crowd. It was strange, because from his viewpoint he could see only the black, brown, and blonde hair of the Humans, and the white shawls worn by some of the women. In seconds, before he was sure that he had really seen it, the spark vanished from his sight. I'm probably imagining things, he thought. It's probably some before-death thing. I'm supposed to be delusional, if the stories told by the medicine men about near-death experiences are true. Not that it's going to matter, I'm gonna die soon anyway.

He wasn't afraid of death. Living on the streets all his life had taught him that death could happen at any time. He had seen children killed for stealing an apple. The first time it happened in front of his eyes, he didn't even flinch when the merchant's bodyguard drove a sword through the ten-year-old girl who tried to steal a fowl. A turkey would last a week for her group of five if they rationed it carefully. Valdur knew the girl by name; however, he had forgotten it by now. He sometimes wondered if he had ever felt any emotions besides annoyance and anger, before he had met Alistair who had taught him love and compassion. Alistair had also taught him of sorrow and grief. Alistair was always high on the empathy thing, he remembered fondly. Valdur understood the concept, but he couldn't express it outwardly. Alistair explained that even though Valdur couldn't show it, it would be enough if he felt it.

As the guards clamped him in chains, the bishop started chanting, a chant that Valdur had heard before when he and Alistair had wandered close to the temple. Alistair explained that the chant told the story of how the angels had banished the demons to the Underworld. Alistair had said, though, that the Humans had changed it so much that the current version of the chant wasn't like the original, at all. Valdur didn't question how Alistair knew this. Listen to it! It's obviously depressing, I'm sure the angels wouldn't be this ...bad. He almost laughed to himself.

After finishing the chant, the bishop started preaching to the crowd about demons and their unholy mission to lure everyone into the Realm of the Damned. Valdur tuned him out. He didn't need to hear this before he died. He thought about his missing companion, his lover, his mentor. How he wished he knew what happened to Alistair! He longed for his touch, his warmth, his loving embrace; these were the only things that made him happy to be alive. Now that Alistair was gone, Valdur didn't feel like living. He almost welcomed death. His only regret was that he didn't know what had happened to Alistair, or if he would meet him in the Underworld.

Then, he saw it again. The red flame in the wind. There was a glittering reflection of morning sunlight shining strongly at him. It caused him to squint. It was as if someone were holding a small, round, mirror and reflecting light toward him. Suddenly he heard a low, bestial growl from amidst the din of the crowd. Whatever it was, it was coming closer to him.

Ah, damn it, Valdur sighed resignedly. Not only am I going to be drenched with the priest's spit and Holy Water and beheaded, I'm also going to be fed to the dogs. Brilliant way to go. Isfa would be proud.

Without warning, a great black shape leapt from the crowd with a roar.

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