Chapter 14 - Fallen's First

More years of harvest and travel passed. The spirit of Ruki came to Saer off and on throughout, but hadn’t reappeared for at least a decade, giving up after its pleas fell on deaf ears. What’s more, Saer insisted—both to Ruki and himself—he didn’t know what to do about the soul’s plight.

‘Why won’t you give me to them?’

Passing the spirit to his kin would ensure its delivery to Lucifer. Or, he could take it back himself.

Even as he struggled to admit it to himself, he couldn’t bear the thought of the boy’s soul suffering in Lucifer’s Hells until it was fit for consumption, and so he opted for a third option—allowing Ruki’s lonely, wandering, and infinite existence to continue while trying to scrub his mind of the discomfort that idea brought. Discomfort was, obviously, a human emotion.

Saer’s tongue sharpened and his temper somehow shortened over the years. Without Neyu, he embraced the cruelest and most efficient version of himself. It worked well for harvests—and kept his agitated and overworked mind distracted.

At Alus and Arek’s suggestion, Saer meandered southward to infiltrate desert colonies. The adaptability of humanity knew no bounds. At times, he even found himself admiring their ingenuity.

The oasis he targeted next stood home to a small settlement around an azure lake. The water shined, dotted with modest boats carrying early-morning fishermen. Saer chose a hut some distance away from the busiest sector—the communal stores—where fish were hung to dry along the edges of rooftops and gathered fruit sat in large baskets. From his front door, he could view the lake and a line of other homes.

The village drew him the moment he learned the reason for its origins. Humans found solace within its borders to escape persecution for not adhering to societal norms. Societal norms that, more often than not, fell back on religious practices. Dissension had broken out between those who believed in a singular god, versus humans who worshiped multiple.

This village leaned towards multiple.

Of course, Saer mused with some wryness, none of them knew for certain. A perfect target.

A month had nearly passed without the arrival of another Daemoenic, and the longer they took, the further Saer solidified his plan. He’d harvest the whole village.

Alone.

By the time one of his kin showed up, he’d pass the souls on and dismiss them to resume his Daemoenic duty in solitude. If he could accomplish such a monumental task by himself, had he ever really needed anyone else?

Over a handful of weeks, Saer manipulated himself to the head of the council with strategic pushes and pulls on his sin. The appointment afforded him the power to oversee a weekly meeting, hearing grievances from the settlers and offering judgment or solutions as befitted the situation.

A platform at the center of the village hosted the gathering with chairs lined the stage and a long table in front. Saer sat in the centermost seat while the other council members flanked him. Villagers took their turns standing and speaking from the ground level.

The audience began as sparse and disinterested.

On his first day as head councilman, a married couple was hurried forward by a sobbing friend, victims of heat sickness. Seizing the opportunity, Saer leapt from the platform and went to the ailing duo. He laid hands on their foreheads and absorbed their excess warmth, pulling them from the edge of delirium and death.

When they gazed upon him with wonder and gratitude, he’d offered a conspiratorial murmur, “Dedicate yourself to me, and I’ll teach you how to ascend beyond life and death, again and again. Follow me, and you’ll become as gods—like me.”

He spoke just loud enough for those nearest to hear. Where a spark of pride existed in each human heart, he tugged.

Of course they could become gods. Why should they disbelieve him when he’d just worked a miracle in front of their eyes?

Whispers spread, just as he planned.

The next council meeting doubled in size.

One elderly villager stood at the end of the hearings, wringing her feeble hands with eyes downcast. Saer allowed the display long enough for the audience to grow restless before raising his voice, “What is it you wish to say?”

The crone’s throat bobbed with her swallow. She lifted her focus to Saer. “Last meeting, you said…when you healed that couple, you…”

Holding back his smirk, Saer sought the tiniest thread of pride in the old woman’s body and plucked it.

Her eyes dilated and she lifted her chin. “You said they could become gods.”

Saer paused as though caught off guard. “I did.”

He stoked that burning coal of pride, allowed the first tongue of flame to catch in the old woman’s heart. She ceased fidgeting, balled hands set at her sides. “Is it true?”

It’s not. “It is.” Another draw on the crone’s pride, and Saer spread that tug to the audience at large. As a whole, they sat straighter.

All but one.

Saer would have missed him had the rest of the humans not fallen so willingly to his thrall. Yet, because of the absence of reaction, the man at the center of the seated attendees caught his attention.

He wore a light hood to cover the majority of his face—not unusual in the heat of the desert. A clean-shaven and dimpled chin with a strong jawline and lips pulled straight with distaste declared his quiet stoicism. Saer gleaned little else.

His attention snagged on the man long enough for a spark of irritation to light in his chest, then jutted back to the crone. “Do you wish to become a god yourself?”

He yanked on her pride.

The old woman drew her shoulders back. “I do.”

The hooded man’s head canted a fraction to the side.

Saer ignored him.

“I offer you the same as anyone in this village. Declare yourself to me, and I’ll see it come to fruition.” Embracing the opening, Saer lifted his voice and collectively wrenched on all their pride. “The more who dedicate, the greater the chances of success. Tell your loved ones before our next gathering.”

A clamoring of voices rose in agreement.

The hooded man stood amidst the commotion and left, dragging Saer’s sense of accomplishment at his dusty heels.

The interaction—or lack thereof—needled at him the rest of the week. Saer sought out the hooded man, but never located him. In fact, no one seemed to recall anyone else having been there on that day.

Perhaps Saer made him up.

The next council meeting came to order, this one attended by almost the entire settlement. All held at least a sliver of warm, delectable pride in their hearts.

This would be his day; Saer would collect dedications. He’d prepare this feast for Lucifer, larger than any previously retrieved by any Daemoenic. He’d prove himself as best, first, and favored.

A man came forward, bound at the wrists and flanked by soldiers. Sweltering pride poured from him in waves as the pair of guards presented him to Saer, listing his crimes.

“Theft of our fish and fruit stores. When confronted, he attacked with a knife. One of our own was stabbed in the leg and stomach before we subdued this one.”

Saer listened with steepled fingers, his gaze severe while he analyzed the man. “Do you regret what you’ve done?”

The criminal curled his lip, and Saer took that instant to sink his metaphysical hooks into the man’s pride. Fingers flexing, he jerked the sin into himself, devoured it, draining it from the criminal with such swiftness that his face paled, tears springing to his eyes, mouth trembling.

Worthlessness and shame.

Saer let the thief wallow in it. His voice dipped lower, a dangerous invitation. “Something to say?”

The quietest whimper left the criminal’s throat, and the guards exchanged perplexed glances.

“You won’t steal again, will you?”

The thief sniffled, his breath shuddering. He couldn’t form words, but shook his head in a movement so swift that his lower lip made a wet, flopping noise.

A quiet hum of satisfaction lifted from Saer’s throat, and he cast his gaze upon the guards, who exchanged shocked but impressed glances.

“Where is your colleague who was stabbed?”

One soldier cleared his throat. “The healer sees to him.”

Running his tongue over his teeth, Saer calculated the various outcomes before lifting his voice. “Take this thief to one of the cages. Bring the injured one here.”

No questions asked, the soldiers left to do as they were bade. The criminal dragged his feet, mewling apologies to no one in particular.

This was power. They’d all fall in line. Saer would—

From the center of the audience, the hooded man stood and stepped forward, jerking Saer out of his reverie. The same man who bore no reaction to Saer’s pull upon pride a week prior.

“You!” Saer shouted, just keeping his growl at bay. Other humans quailed under the focus of Lucifer’s First.

The man halted, but not as though the attention bothered or alarmed him. He came to a slow stop, calm and infuriatingly collected.

An edge of the man’s lip quirked—not exactly a smile. Yet, he didn’t lift his head to show Saer his eyes.

“Me?”

His voice carried the tranquility of an easy summer afternoon, the patter of rain outside a cozy cottage, a crackling fireplace in a peaceful den.

Even worse, members of the crowd responded to it like moths drawn to a flame. One by one, they turned their attention to the hooded man as though seeing him for the first time.

Saer stood. “Who are you? Name yourself.”

This time, that subtle curve of his mouth did turn into a smile, albeit a sad one. “I’m Ahraan, Cousin.”

“Cousin,” Saer repeated the word with all the derision the man’s presence evoked. “We aren’t family.”

Ahraan lifted and lowered his head in a soft nod, still not granting Saer a glimpse of the rest of his face beyond a straight nose and shaded but sun-kissed skin. “I’d like to see to the wounded when they arrive, please.”

Saer sneered, but the quiet alerted him to the attention their exchange had brought.

The villagers watched them, riveted.

Huffing, Saer rapped his knuckles on the table before stepping around it. “So be it. You’ll see the wounded guard, and then what?”

Ahraan offered no answer, but veered to the side of the stage with an elegant angle. Vexed, Saer cast his awareness through the man, hunting for any sliver of pride to snag and jerk on.

None. Not even a thread. Was there no pride in this man? Or did he shield it from Pride himself, somehow?

Where in the Hells had he come from?

An anguished moan cut into Saer’s musings. Supported by two of the village guards, a third man limped between them, approaching the stage at an agonized pace. Bandages wrapped around his burly gut, already seeping through with wet scarlet. He kept all weight off one leg, the thigh bound with more crimson-stained dressings. What must normally have been deeply tanned skin carried a faint sheen of sweat, its hue tinged a sickly yellow-green.

Saer’s heat sense told him the bulk of this man’s blood rested in his belly. The fine wisps of his soul stood out sharper, clinging to a physical body that deteriorated and lost purchase with every passing second. He’d be dead by the following morning.

Ahraan closed in on the guards, and Saer beckoned with a sharp hand motion. “Bring him on stage.”

When Ahraan moved to accompany them, Saer pointed at the hooded man. “I’ll call when I’m ready for you.”

For the first time, Ahraan lifted his head enough for Saer to catch sight of a thick brow cocking in subdued irony. The desert sunlight caught his eye for a fragment of a second, glinting gold.

Skin, brow, and iris. They all glimmered with the auric sheen of gold, reflecting the same way as the silver locks on either side of Saer’s face.

He did a second take, but Ahraan lifted his hands in a feigned gesture of surrender, the hood already consuming his features in shadow once more.

A trick of the light. It must have been.

Grunting, Saer motioned for the guards to lower their wounded comrade to the stage, accessible to him and viewable by those gathered. Murmurs rose as the crowd shifted nearer.

Saer cast his gaze at the lot, then lowered to his knees and focused on the dying guard. Lifting a hand, he cast it back and forth over the man’s body in a dramatic and pointless display. He paused over the leg wound, palm hovering above the dressing.

Droplets of sweat slid down the wounded guard’s face, his breaths coming too fast.

“Your torso fills with blood.” Saer kept his voice level, but caught the man’s gaze with his own. “I will heal your thigh to stave off death. If you dedicate yourself to me, you’ll ascend to godhood. Your stomach will be restored.”

More whispers spread and Saer managed to keep his face neutral. The man would die. He’d use this death to convince the others, showing them that a lack of dedication led to true death.

A figure shifted at the corner of his vision. Ahraan, arms crossing with one elbow in a palm, his other hand cupping his chin and mouth.

The pained guard nodded. “I dedicate myself to you,” he whispered, breathless.

Saer narrowed his gaze. “Do you mean it?”

The first inkling of fear invaded his gaze. “I do!” Though he choked on the declaration, he meant it. His soul would belong to Saer.

Despite this, Saer gauged the man with unfounded scrutiny, and doubting susurrations lifted from their audience.

When he died—and the guard would die—Saer needed an explanation as to why an ascension into godhood hadn’t occurred. Showing the villagers he passed on without any elevation in status would only solidify their perceptions of him as their leader, and the guard’s soul would come to him anyway. A simple but ingenious ploy.

At the edge of the stage, a throat clearing cut through Saer’s inward plotting, and he jerked his attention to the source.

Ahraan leaned against the stage upon his forearms, fingers tapping against their opposite mates in quiet contemplation. Though Saer couldn’t see the man’s eyes, the hood pointed at the guard as though watching. Waiting.

Unbothered.

He was within punching distance. Saer resisted the urge to slam his fist into the stoic man’s nose.

Growl suppressed, he allowed only a hiss to escape as he bent over the guard’s leg and untied the dressing. The man stiffened under the sudden attention, but otherwise didn’t move.

Saer peeled the bandages back. A sharp cry erupted from between the guard’s clenched teeth when what blood had clotted, broke free. Saer didn’t indulge any instances to appreciate his quiet courage as he shoved two fingertips into the knife wound.

The guard’s cry turned into a howl, back bowing as Saer forced Hellsfire heat into the deep laceration.

Smoke erupted immediately, pulling gasps of alarm and surprise from the gathered crowd. Blood sizzled and blackened, the acrid stench of cauterized tissue permeating the space.

Lucifer had healed one of Saer’s first injuries in almost the same fashion.

The brief and painful recollection brought a sharp tremble to Saer’s limb as he finished. With one final blast of Hellsfire heat, the skin charred around the guard’s wound, but otherwise closed. Healed. Or as healed as Saer could make it.

Quiet alarm and reverence hummed through the crowd.

A whine of residual pain left the guard, and Saer snapped his gaze not to him, but to the hooded man.

Ahraan’s tapping fingers had ceased their movements, and a worried crease pulled at his lips.

Long enough passed for Saer’s thin patience to crack. “Are you not satisfied?”

Once more, that faint and enraging tilt of his hood said so much and so little. “No,” Ahraan murmured.

“You think you can do better?” Saer sneered.

At last, without subterfuge or evasion, Ahraan lifted his gaze to meet Saer’s.

The hood cast his features in mild shadow, but the metallic glaze of the man’s features couldn’t be denied. Gold, gold, and gold: burnished bronze coating his brows, rose gold dusting his lips, and an orange-gold saffron reflecting from his irises.

All gold.

Saer’s nostrils flared, his frown hardening while Ahraan analyzed him with a stare that reminded him of a blaze’s core. Though he perched on a stage and above him, the hooded man didn’t shy from Saer’s fiery attention.

Ahraan’s eyes narrowed. “Stars, there’s not an inkling of humility in you, is there?”

Even though Saer’s teeth bared with his non-answer, Ahraan pressed his palms flat into the stage and flexed his forearms, pulling himself atop it.

The urge to shove him away flared, but Saer quelled it for the sake of their audience. Whatever Ahraan meant to do, surely he’d embarrass himself, and Saer’s station would be further solidified. He could only win from this point forward.

Positioning himself on the opposite side of the wounded guard—who now had too much white showing around his eyes—Ahraan lifted a palm and brushed it against the man’s cheek. “You’ll be healed this day. I’ll show you the one Grandfather’s power where you’ll experience eternal life in the Heavens after death. I’ll ask for nothing in return.”

Ahraan’s chosen words stuttered through Saer’s heart. He froze.

Inclining his head, that sad smile of before bled into Ahraan’s words as his other hand floated over the guard’s mortal, abdominal wound. “May I?”

The guard offered a stiff nod.

Ahraan bowed over the injury while Saer’s mind whirred.

From under the hood, a brilliant wash of white light bloomed. Ahraan’s fingertips lit with white ribbons of flame that snaked along the guard’s abdominal dressing. Nothing smoked or sparked, defying Saer’s expectations. How could this man create fire as a Daemoenic, yet not catch anything alight with it?

Saer squinted, angling his neck to see under Ahraan’s cowl—

The soldier gasped, a sharp and encompassing intake of breath, like he’d never used the entirety of his chest before. It startled the enraptured audience into further cries of surprise, unrest expanding through the villagers.

The luminosity from under Ahraan’s hood faded, his shoulders relaxing. Any remnant of magic flames dissipated from his fingers.

Blinking, the soldier flexed his stomach and pressed a hand to the front of the bandage. Cautious at first, he pressed harder with more incredulous blinks. “What…”

Ahraan rested back on his heels, casting his gaze upon the sea of villagers, and raised his voice. “One might ask themselves who is worth following.”

Saer rose to his feet while the guard unwrapped his bandage with hasty jerks.

Ahraan offered an indifferent gesture his way. “The arrogant tyrant who plays brilliant tricks and demands your loyalty in exchange for vague promises?”

A snarl erupted unbidden from Saer’s lips. Many of the villagers’ faces pinched, skeptical.

But too many nodded along with Ahraan’s words.

“Or the one who offers your lives as your own, without expectation beyond a stance against”—Ahraan offered a meaningful pause and skewed his glance towards Saer—“trickery?”

Saer’s lips parted to condemn the man who dared speak against him.

The wounded guard released a sudden whoop of joy, pulling everyone’s focus.

Bloodied bandage ripped free, the sunlight caught along the flesh of the soldier’s stomach, where no trace of injury—cauterized, scarred, or otherwise—shown.

Ahraan had healed him completely.