Arms and legs tied down, stretched across the altar, I don’t scream or cry.
I get the feeling that these people consider the struggle to be part of the
ritual, and I can’t give them the satisfaction. There are dozens of them,
chanting and watching me. There is no escape, even if I were to have broken
free of the two people who were leading me down the stone path in the first
place. I don’t know where I am, so where could I even go? No, this is where
I die, and if I can’t go out on my own terms, I at least can’t give my
killers the satisfaction of knowing they were responsible for my last words.
The last time I spoke was to my daughter as I headed into the fields for the
day. They were loving and kind, and that is what the universe will remember
of me; not this. The guy who seems to be in charge of the cult, or maybe
just in charge of the ceremony, approaches from the steps on the other side.
He’s holding a goblet with both hands, a knife placed precariously over the
lips, threatening to slip off to the ground. No one would get hurt from
this, but it would probably be pretty embarrassing for him. Hoping to make
this happen, I jerk what little of my body I’m still able to move towards
him, and sort of chirp. He’s startled, and almost loses the knife, but he
manages to grab it in time. I return to my stoic nature, unfazed and quiet.
The leader clears his throat, and recovers. He speaks in tongues, or perhaps
just a language I don’t so much as recognize. He’s praying to his god, or
the demonhorn, or some nonsense like that. I just lie there and reflect on
my life until he seems ready to finalize the sacrifices. His minions lift up
my torso and place the goblet under my back. Okay, I thought it was
uncomfortable before, but this is insane. He’s obviously planning to stab
me, and let the blood fill the goblet, but he doesn’t get a chance. An arrow
suddenly pierces his neck, and he falls over.
I wiggle until the goblet tips over, but I can’t get it out from under my
back. Still, it’s enough for me to face the action. Everyone in the death
cult is fighting one solitary warrior. They manage to get in a few good
hits, but he’s powerful and relentless. I get the sense that he’s not here
to save me, but that he has some kind of personal vendetta against these
people, and I just happen to be in the right place at the right time. They
probably sacrificed his spouse or child exactly one year ago, just like
this, and he’s finally getting his revenge. He’s nearly gotten it. Only he
is left standing, but then the leader gets back up. He breaks the arrow
apart, and then stabs it right into the lone warrior’s eye, twisting it with
a fiery anger. Just for good measure, he pulls the arrowhead out—a little
bit of the eye comes with it—and stabs it in the other. The lone warrior
falls down, and begins to die. The leader takes a moment to catch his breath
before returning to me. Even without his followers, the ritual must
continue. He retrieves the goblet from under me, and restarts the chanting;
or as much as he can without a voice. He’s more just moving his lips around,
and wheezing. Blood from his own neck wound leaks out, and drips into the
cup. Able to stand the blood loss no longer, he falls on top of his enemy,
leaving the goblet at my side. Blood red smoke begins to rise from it, and
swirls around above me. The particles coalesce into a form, and then a
figure, and then a man. He’s straddling me and grimacing. He looks over at
the carnage, pleased to see so much pain and death. He looks back at me.
“You have freed me from the void. I am forever in your debt. What would you
have me do for you first, master?”
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