Chapter 1: Prologue 1: The Golden Child
Notes:
This chapter contains graphic violence, cult behaviour and indoctrination, implied sexual coercion of adults, child abuse, and death.
Please take care while reading.
And a gentle reminder: depiction is not endorsement. Writers *explore* dark themes, not support them.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Year 836 BC, Macedonian Border
A blanket of mist folded around the Balkan Mountains’ jagged peaks. Above, the winter sun reached its climax, rusty-hued in the cold air, its apricity offering a fleeting warmth to the silent remains of a battlefield. Bronze corpses were littered across cracked earth, their bone marrow seeping into red rivers and mounds of flesh.
A travelling vendor might have called the scene a massacre; Solomon called it purification, the first flecks of snow in agreement as they cleansed the landscape of its affliction.
The dead should not be pitied, and he’d stared too long at their haunted expressions. Most were forever captured in shock, others had tear stained cheeks from short-lived mockery.
They’d never seen it coming, never expecting to be humbled by a mere child. He stifled the urge to laugh and trudged toward camp, passing charred apple trees, their black branches frosted white, standing as natural grave markers.
The Light within Solomon dulled at an unspoken command, his molten irises quenching to a silver and copper alloy. His head pounded like a hammer punching through an anvil.
A bead of sweat trickled under his black hair, perfectly concealed by an ivory hood. Father always said weakness was a sin.
Marching into camp, white robed acolytes unfurled off-white, sail sized banners, declaring their cause with a giant sigil he’d committed to memory. An inner ring of gold represented the world they purified, a crimson circle topped by a single white feather and gilded flame.
Followed by words beaten into him from birth.
Lux Per Obedientiam.
“Light through Obedience,” Elder Castor had kindly educated him after several pointed glances at the embroidery.
Soldiers skipped around temporary benches, throwing their arms and ale over a cowardly bard, whose strings were clearly out of tune. Solomon chuckled to himself at the high-spirits, knowing he was responsible. He watched Mara, a new recruit, scrunch her nose up at an offer of drinks while dismissing a blushing bearded man.
Her platinum curls coiled amongst the earthy concoction of frankincense and myrrh, kissing the fallen soldiers farewell. Her censer swung like a pendulum between planes, and Solomon found himself miming the prayer of passage alongside her.
Nestled between the creases of her linen wraps, the crest blindsided him and his stained, crestless cloak. Dangerous emotions bled to the surface coupled with equally dangerous inquiries.
Mara had been with the Order for five months, and this was her first outing. How had she earned recognition with the High Priest when he had been born into the Temple and still wore plain garments? Every chance he got to ask for a reward, his requests were denied.
They insisted that his robes were to remain pure, untouched by anything but the Light. The implication didn’t add up. Was blood an exception?
It seemed contradictory that Celesté, three years his junior, who’d never experienced a campaign or ventured outside the confines of the Order, also donned the crest.
Though he would never admit it out loud, sometimes the gift of the Light felt more like a burden.
A horse whinnied softly in agreement, they both flinched at the crack of a leather belt being reinforced, its rider preparing for the long return to Thracian Territory.
As a nameless Acolyte doused the firepit, there was an abrupt hiss of steam coinciding with the entire party drawing their weapons, iridescent crystalline polearms vaulted towards the source, and jewel hilted daggers were swiftly unsheathed.
Recounting his training, Solomon acted unarmed, fists clenched behind his back as though bound, mimicking a defenceless captive child as heavy footsteps approached.
Atticus, his personal guard, stood vigilant at his side, in case the enemy had no empathy or rations to spare. “Stand down!” His booming voice cut through the tension and weapons were sheathed with a harmonious clink.
“Revere for the Captain!” He added.
Solomon’s line of sight was all of a sudden blocked by a scarlet cape and a bronze cuirass.
Peering up, he bore witness to a mutual salute, the stranger lowered their helm, revealing hair like a lit brazier.
“Captain Pontius of the Thracian Empire, at your service,” a weather-worn face spoke of many victories in battle, though as his brown eyes glanced downward, Solomon perceived him as an uncharacteristically humane person, and promptly focused on the man's shoes.
“Lift your head up, son,” a gravelly voice whispered. Always obedient, Solomon did so, and was rewarded with a grimy grin. “And if anyone is to be revered, it shall be this miracle!”
A strong hand pinned his shoulder down, gently. He resisted the instinct to flinch, is this what a gentle hand was?
One of the nearby Acolytes grunted.
The sound of squeaking metal alerted him back in the direction of the Captain, who was now eye-level and kneeling. His thick brows creased in deep thought as he assessed Solomon. “You seem about the same height as my eldest, how old are you, boy?”
Solomon opened his mouth, immediately snapping it shut at the sound of a loaded cough. The cost of speaking out of turn was dire, a lashing for every word uttered. Atticus was glaring with a stony expression, before nodding slowly, a mote of sunlight bouncing off his scalp.
“This shall be my fifteenth winter, sir,” He spoke in a hesitant voice, hoping it drowned the drumming of his heart out.
“Light above!” Pontius leapt up, his helm briefly levitating. “Then I shall stay your enlistment invitation for a few seasons more,”
Armies had requested personal assistance many times in the past, according to his Father, his sole purpose in this world was to serve the Order and any childish dreams were extinguished on the spot. Dreams like leading his own men into battle, or being part of something smaller and mundane.
Mara interrupted boldly. “The divine-born bloom higher than man; they must be looked up to, never looked down upon.” It was improper behaviour for a new recruit, more so a woman.
“Is that so?” Captain Pontius scoffed, possibly embarrassed for the faux-pas, he brushed it off with a clap on Solomon’s shoulder, leaving him strangely hollow. “Then I shall pray you reach the heavens and crush all your enemies. May the Light watch over you, boy, you have my utmost gratitude.”
“The Order of Light receives your gratitude and I shall accept it on their behalf,” Solomon clasped his hands together, did not bow, and spoke monotonously. “May His Light shine eternal.”
Pink washcloths wrung out into a tinted clay basin, as servants scrubbed him from head to toe, compelling his skin to sing with crushed lavender paste.
An arduous three days on horseback and attending many failed initiations in passing hamlets was bound to break a child’s body, no matter how special. Across the room, his cot was a sight for sore eyes, though starting to feel small for a divine-born.
He stifled a yawn, searching for a reason to stay awake. Veined marble walls pulsed in the fading light of dusk, complemented by gold framed panels, mirrored on opposite sides of the walls in a rectangular pattern, meeting the arched stone ceiling. To his surprise, the smudges in his prayer mat had been scoured thoroughly, yet on a second glance, the motif was entirely different.
They’d actually gone and replaced something, he wished they’d replace the chipped offering table that threatened to slice his hands every morning prayer.
He relaxed on the worn chair, causing it to rock. An elderly hag huffed, propping the chair upright once more and cursed him under her breath, while digging sharp nails into his scalp. “The devil should watch his manners.” Another woman threw freezing water over him, causing him to squeal.
Solomon refused to react to the word “devil” as it was not in his limited vocabulary, and it was nothing new. During visits to neighbouring towns with the Order, people pointed his way wherever he walked, covering their children’s eyes and ears, shutting market stands in anticipation of his arrival.
“He who bathes under the black sun.”
“Crops were said to wilt during the birth.”
It was all lies, though he didn’t dare ask Father Alexander to expand on the topic. Rather letting the words fester like rot beneath a wound.
Although he had to ask himself, why did they throw animal dung at his blessed feet? Why would they shudder as he passed, like a foul scent?
Why did people seem to fear him?
Most curious of all, why would crops wilt? On the contrary, his affinity for the Light provided powers of rejuvenation that, with time, could be a grand asset for harvests across the lands.
If they could just be patient, he’d show them his worth.
It was too quiet, his eyes popped open. If anyone had found out he’d fallen asleep in the company of servants, unguarded and vulnerable, that would be a day without supper.
The inevitable warning slap against the table never came. Despite their arrogance and insubordination, the servants were merciful today and hadn’t repented for his recklessness. Even leaving a bundle of crestless fresh robes, which only made him feel crestfallen.
No sooner had he blearily threaded an arm through one of the sleeves, a light tap came at the door.
Oh, they changed their mind.
Another tap. The rhythm caused a smile to break out, he knew who was behind the door. It was one of the only people he genuinely cared about.
“Enter,” His head got caught in the neckline, as he frantically finished getting dressed.
The door mourned its frame, creaking open with a pained groan. In skipped Celesté, announcing herself loudly as tradition. She was around the same height as him, though her chestnut hair cascaded towards the floor, like a ceremonial gown and her doe-eyed expression was always bright, as though exorcising lingering shadows in his soul. Stumbling in behind her, muttering under a winded breath, was Theodoric, her personal guard.
Theodoric was an ill-mannered man, with shaggy dark brown hair and piercing cobalt eyes. His stance forever asked the question, what am I doing here?
He was struggling with a large iron cage, inside was a petite green and grey bird with aggressively ruffled plumage, pecking at the bars. Recognising it as a greenfinch, like the ones he’d seen illustrated in a copied scroll from a scholar of the Eastern Sea, Solomon scratched his chin, pondering about a sudden kinship with the creature.
Theodoric shoved the cage on the worn altar table, let out an exhausted sigh and flopped face-down onto the bed.
Disrespectful, as usual.
High pitched laughter rang out like a sonnet. “That makes me the crowned victor again, Theodoric! You’re aging before your time, old man!”
Theodoric moaned into the pillow, as Solomon’s space was invaded by curious amber and jade eyes.
“Oh praise the Light! You look healthier this time, have you been eating more? Ah, and you’re taller, I think?” She sliced the air between them, though the little sinner was on her tiptoes.
“Mmhm, a valiant attempt,” Solomon tittered, pushing the girl back onto her heels without force, and correctly measured their heights. “Well then, no need to wait for the end of year feast. You may surrender your sweetbread to me at once.”
“Oh hush, I’ll bury you one day, Sol. Then we’ll see who gets the last crust.” She puffed her cheeks, straightening her green skirts. Daughters of the Mother were exempt from wearing white only, and Celesté often took advantage of that fact.
He wondered what it was like to have such freedom.
“Mother says I’m the tallest of all her children, even counting the ones who returned to the Source.”
“Ah, speaking of, is your Mother still with child? I heard the midwives talking about a ‘quickening’.”
“No! My baby brother was born in the quiet hours, at the break of dawn. He’s beautiful, Sol. Green eyes like the rest of us, and raven hair like yours,” Celesté bounced on her feet excitedly, as he gave her an approving nod. “That’s why I’ve brought Ophelia, she’s a gift.”
She gestured towards the caged bird and sighed. “Mother’s wings are shedding again, so I was hoping Ophelia here would be kind enough to spare some of her feathers. And perhaps if I ask nicely, Mother will sing for us, you know how she used to adore it.”
Celesté sighed dreamily, staring off into the drifting dust motes, as if they held secret answers. It was a wonder she’d never been scolded for such frivolity. Though, her Mother’s children naturally had a more positive demeanour.
“I’ve not heard her sing in…almost two winters.” Solomon said, slowly.
Her fixed joy cracked into worry, and before she could respond, Theodoric cleared his throat noisily, stressing about losing daylight.
“Oh, Sol! That reminds me,”
He was thrown into a stilted hug, smelling of the same lavender scent, and warmth he’d rarely known.
“We’re here to relay a message from High Priest Alexander. Tomorrow morning you’re to receive your first dose of the Kiss. I was wanting to wish you luck, and he promised to accompany you himself at dawn.”
If she hadn’t been holding him up, Solomon would’ve collapsed. The Kiss had first been teased a few seasons ago, the adults remaining tight-lipped about the process, except it was vowed to be the greatest honour and only God’s most gifted were to undergo the transition. There were no scrolls on the subject, the question fell out at Atticus’ once and he received a vague response about “being reborn into something new if it was successful.”
“Most boys are stationed elsewhere to serve the Order with their new abilities. But you didn’t hear that from me. Any more questions and you know what has to happen.” He’d said half-heartedly, Atticus rarely disciplined him when they were alone.
A ghost of a shiver crawled up his spine, it was exhilarating to think about.
The Kiss was not only a chance to better himself, it was a chance to see more of the world.
“It’s tomorrow?” His voice broke repeatedly. “I-I wasn’t told it would be so soon, there was no proclamation or lecture or-”
“You will be fine.” Celesté clutched him tighter, if he hadn’t been so discombobulated about a lack of preparation, he might’ve noticed the slight waver in her tone. “We are ALL so proud of you! Aren’t we, Theodoric?”
Solomon risked a glance, his smile radiating towards an ever agitated man, who didn’t bother looking up as he thumbed random pages. “I, for one, look forward to seeing what they make of you,” then, barely above a whisper. “Can’t wait to finally get some peace.”
“I’ll be sure to keep the heavenly noise down for you, then,” he laughed.
Theodoric snorted in response. Celesté missed the joke and eventually released him. She always clung to people without a sense of shame or fear of punishment, no matter their rank within the Order.
Solomon admired that carefree quality, why couldn’t he be more like her? Well, he knew why, his Father would beat it out of him.
Theodoric rolled his eyes. “Celesté, do I need to repeat myself about the importance of curfews.” He spat.
“Yes, yes, I am coming!” Celesté stamped her feet and nothing happened, no threat about scrubbing the font for a week, no mention of missed meals, not even a firm hand to silence her. “I shall pray for you, until our next meeting. Oh, and Sol?”
“Yes?”
She hovered under the doorway, at war about something, before curtseying with dramatic flair. “May His Light shine eternal!”
“Goodnight, Celesté.” He chuckled through his words. “May His Light shine eternal.”
“May His Light shine eternal,” Theodoric yawned, accidentally batting him with Ophelia’s cage on the way out, earning a disapproving tweet in response.
As they turned the corner, Solomon’s eyes remained fixed on the bird. The cage bothered him, Ophelia fit in the palm of your hand, yet her living standards looked cramped at a glance. Nothing to entertain her beyond a thimble of water, and half a twig for a perch to stare out of the bars for the remainder of her days. Celesté’s mother being the only company, occasionally checking in to ensure isolation had not driven her mad.
Minutes later, the night guard arrived to seal the door. It had been a busy week of marching, rites, and ending a war with one concentrated bolt of Light. Three days spent grieving his bedroll had followed, and he collapsed into the straw mattress with a sigh that felt older than he was.
The faint flicker of a candle forced his eyes open again, and as he resigned to extinguish it, he surveyed the eerie calm of the room.
A narrow pallet, tucked into the corner of a room like an afterthought. Mismatched furniture that caused him to feel like a guest in his own living quarters. Half-filled goblets, replaced without question, day-old bread he didn’t want, served with a punnet of grapes he’d never asked for.
I don’t even like grapes, yet I eat them without question.
Shadows stretched all around, their origin a tiny, out-of-arms-reach window. Long black bars pooled at their ends, like ink around the giant Light sigil above his pillow. His silhouette trapped between them.
In a horrified jolt, remnants of his earlier amusement died.
It looked an awful lot like a cage.
Ten winters passed, and a life of discipline proved more fruitful to the Order than Solomon himself. His boyish features had long melted away, possessing a sharper jaw that replaced softer edges, bright pewter eyes tempered into steel and bronze ingots. Broad shoulders carved by the blade, able to bring down entire kingdoms with a single strike.
Celesté owed him a decade’s worth of sweetbread.
With age came inevitable wisdom, and experience had taught him that devotion was not equal to freedom, and the ability to freely roam didn’t amount to equality.
Freedom, he’d come to realise, didn’t exist within the Order, not for the guards, the Acolytes, Priests - nor the Daughters of the Divine with their lackadaisical indulgences. Everything had to be under the Lord’s command, or the Grand Shepherd’s exception.
Choosing safety and stability over the unknown, he opted for a vow of silence.
In the crevice of a dimly lit prayer chamber, a mouse skittered across the cold marble floor, its pitiful body twitching with every step. Solomon, who’d been in deep prayer, slowly opened one eye, stilled, and raised his foot.
The mouse's chest beat rapidly at the looming shadow, halting as if accepting fate. It would be a mercy killing, the rat catcher would find the nest at some point, or a stray cat may find an easy meal.
Life was cruel, and death never gave notice.
“No one would miss you.” Their eyes locked in a stalemate, only breaking when its ears flicked up, sensing several tiny squeaks calling out of a nearby fissure in the stone.
Correction, even vermin had a family waiting for them.
“Run,” he said, lowering his voice, addressing the parent mouse. “While you still can.”
Consider it a warning. That’s more than I was ever given.
Its maternal instinct snapped into place, and paying no mind to the heel of his boot, it darted into another crack.
A teaser of the outside world was amplified by crumbling marble. Children laughed, chasing each other with sticks, birds sang in faraway trees, presumably looking for mates, and a pair of rickety supply carts rattled over a nearby bridge. Someone swore loudly as a clay jar splashed into the stream.
The world continued to live, while inside these confines, daylight had been ironically cast out, and laughter was dealt with swiftly.
Fifteen lashings for so much as coughing during a vigil. The curve of his spine still stung when pressed.
It wasn’t like silence ever amounted to the dead being risen.
Speaking of the dead.
He took a deep breath and met the dismissive stare of the Priest, now immortalised in a painting. He couldn’t help but smirk at the kindness they’d granted the old man in death, the artist had gifted him an unearned jawline, altered his form to capture a more regal stance, and what was supposed to be a smile, resembled more of a snarl.
Other than the one thing they’d gotten right, who was this supposed to be? It didn’t resemble the man Solomon had been raised by, where was the spit dribbling from his mouth to symbolise his passionate sermons, the glazed look in those dark eyes in remembrance for every ritual wine he’d inhaled at each gathering?
They’d captured the man he pretended to be, was it only Solomon who knew what lay beneath all of those empty promises?
Alexander had tragically passed away due to a violent fever several days before, the Order declaring his final words as “I am thankful for my service to the Lord, and forever grateful he allowed me to look upon another divine newborn before my time came.”
Lies, all of it.
Marcus, Alexander's chosen successor, had been the one to deliver the news when he was sworn in later the same day. But Solomon’s silence proved to be more powerful than the Light at times, it offered nimble feet and little presence. Especially in crowded rooms, so long as his hood remained up.
The drunkard had spilled grape wine down his woven mantle, failing to notice it dripping on the floor, then tumbled down the stairs and was found stiff as a board, still clutching his prayer beads like God would save him from his own stupidity and greed.
“A terrible loss indeed.” Solomon had muttered during public grieving. Though if you were to ask him in the space of his own cell, he’d call it poetic justice for a monster, and only wished the stairs had dealt with the bigger monster as well.
If only lightning struck in the same place twice.
Clutching prayer beads seemed to be a contagious habit for men of the Order, as Solomon began circling self-sanded beads, memories of an innocent child, and a crazed lunatic pouring in.
Weakness wasn’t a sin like Alexander had taught him, the true sin had been naivety. Thankfully, on that fateful first dosage, Edo had cured it by hooking him to the ceiling like a slab of meat, force-feeding him a combination of belladonna, foxglove, fruit scraps that tasted wrong, with monkshood, again, and again, and again, all the while relishing the agonising screams of a fourteen year old and calling it “trials of strength and endurance.”
The Angel’s Kiss was divine in a sense, it was the highest grade of suffering a child would ever have to experience.
After each moon’s torment, Solomon spent the nights praying for a death that never came. Whether it be his own while he sweated through copious amounts of straw bedding and vomited most meals, Edo’s, or whoever cursed him as a “devil” when the real foul stench of the Order wore a fox cap, and had curly hair. Sometimes he even prayed for Alexander's, and given the current circumstances, perhaps God had listened in spite of everything.
He spent the next thirty sunsets steeped in resentment, only to relive the agony again in a cycle that taught him why he hated in the first place. By the sixth dose, he’d stopped crying, only screaming to remind himself he was still alive. The torture had reached its crescendo when it remade him entirely.
The Kiss had undulated through his veins in white-hot light, and his hair being the only remnant of his “whore” mother, bled of all colour. He became the standard, the golden child for all divine-born boys and bestowed with a title of his own, the Silver Divine.
Yet nothing compared to the day he was finally bestowed the crest. Sixteen-year-old Solomon had been overjoyed, grateful toward the man, and willing to look past the order of his rewriting.
But the Order had overestimated their reach. They could scar the body; they could scar the mind. Solitude became his ultimate weapon — honed, crafted into an unbreakable shell. And with new perception came truth.
Lux per Obedientiam. It had never made sense to him until that day.
The ritual cloak he’d yearned for since childhood was nothing more than another bribe, because the day he was deemed worthy, was the same day they forbade him from ever seeing Celesté again.
And then the bells tolled, a reminder that even memories were borrowed time. He was thankful for it, when the third chime reverberated through his bones.
Another death.
After fighting through swarms of people to enter the Inner Sanctum, two guards had assisted the "Silver Divine" guiding him to the side passage that led to the usually reserved upper ledge. In these uncertain times Solomon found himself missing Atticus, condemning him for getting married and living a life of domestic exile.
There was a sickening foreboding lurching forth within. Although he couldn’t describe why, it was present in shaky breaths of awe and confusion below, in the mural overhead displaying thousands of opalescent halos, shimmering under low torchlight. To his left, a hastily thrown together chanting circle practising different tenors, to his right, servants rushing to scrub the fixtures.
It was a ridiculous bastion of grandiosity, life-altering news was coming.
When servants began pouring a viscous golden liquid and scattered orange and white flower petals into the round stone font, he’d sat a little straighter.
And the moment Grand Shepherd Aurelius swept through the scripture-carved doors like a bird of prey in a dyed black tunic, Solomon knew things were about to change. In all twenty-four of his years in this godforsaken world, he had only spoken with the man once — and even then, briefly.
Aurelius was a round man with stunted limbs, waddling to the dais with all the grace of a shrivelled plum, cane scraping painfully across the terracotta floor with each slow step.
Hurry up, before my hair turns grey.
Oh, too late.
Solomon felt like prey, and realised his dry laugh hadn’t gone unheard. It was a wonder the Grand Shepherd hadn’t rolled straight down the centre, given the Ritual Hall’s steep incline.
With a commandeering nod, ivory drapes gave way to a beautiful stained glass window behind the dais, lights spilling in green, yellow and blue hues. The glass depicted a winged woman kneeling before a descending hand.
A portion of the congregation shielded their eyes, having already acclimated to life in the dark.
“Brothers and Sisters of the Order,” Aurelius spoke in a velvet baritone, a wolfish smile curling up his lips. “The Sacred Mother has fulfilled her duty to the Light. This very morning, after blessing us recently with another divine lamb, she has returned to the Source to rest with our Lord in his heavenly Kingdom.”
Shock convulsed through the wooden rows, and Solomon found himself grieving a woman he’d only met through a little girl's story.
Upon reflection, The Daughters of the Divine were nowhere to be found.
“Do not despair, children,” Aurelius went on. “The Light has taken, yes. But the Light also giveth. With her passing, we are granted the chance to seek a new Mother and usher in a new age. The river of Grace flows eternal, and the lambs born of the Mother shall likewise fulfil their own sacred purpose within our flock.”
The congregation nodded in agreement, like the good sheep they were. Then, there was a metallic screech as double doors yawned open again and two rows of benches hummed in a previously orchestrated choir.
He didn’t like this.
Six sentient flames of different heights and shapes strode towards the font. It took him a second to recognise them as girls. Their reflections blended in the golden oil, creating an illusion of layered stardust from the glitter of gold embroidered accents and orange silk. One of the flames was barely old enough to walk unaided.
“Behold, the Mother’s blessed daughters!” Aurelius hobbled down to greet them like treasured possessions. “Birthed by the winged prophet, purified by sanctification. With their wombs and the Silver Divine’s seed, the sacred burden shall pass and be born anew.”
Solomon’s blood ran cold, he was to - no, surely not.
A voice in the dark corners of his mind sneered.
This is what they've been planning, the Angel’s Kiss, your torment, it was all preparation for this day.
He beat it down before panic could set in.
But it was too late, the words “Silver Divine’s seed” and “wombs” swam around his head, like piranha infested waters. As far as he was concerned, the only service he wanted to provide was spilling blood of the enemy. They had already taken his spirit, broken his body and rebuilt it in their design, he would not let them take his purity.
I want no part in whatever this is.
The entire Order’s heads snapped towards him, as he continued to reel under his hood, gripping both the chair and his prayer beads as an anchor. The font below was about to receive the contents of his stomach as an offering.
The chamber was silent, save for the churning of oil, and his gut.
“Ah, the Silver Divine grows bashful at the title of Father, how precious,” Aurelius crooned in his direction. “Do not be afraid, child. Elder Alexander is smiling down on you.”
Everyone laughed.
Except one of the Daughters, whose fists were white-knuckling her sleeves.
Aurelius droned on, using words like vessel and fruit and garden. Solomon was beginning to get the whole picture he didn’t order. Words continued to blur into each other, everything dripping in second meanings, cryptic hymns singing about consent and surrendering it to the Lord.
One of the faceless flames was shaking.
Everything drifted into background noise. The world highlighting every possible exit, now shining like Heaven’s Gate.
He just needed a distraction.
His gaze dropped to the glow strobing beneath his skin. The Light could giveth him a way out.
Curved daggers rested in velvet-lined chests. One by one, the girls were pushed under the oils and lilies to be cleansed. They surfaced in a thick coating of olive oil, petals latching onto their masked head.
He blinked once as their robes were torn at the centre, revealing their naked bellies.
Twice, when the blade sliced deliberate spirals into their flesh.
Thrice, when none of them made a sound.
One of the girls swayed, dropping into waiting arms. Another had to be dragged out unconscious.
Solomon was on his last prayer.
“Step forward, child.” Aurelius said to the sixth, a brunette. “Do you consent to the Light’s next dawn within you? Your flesh as a vessel for His purpose?”
She pressed her lips into a thin line.
“Ahem. Do you consent?”
No response.
“Daughter of the Divine!” The Grand Shepherd raised his voice, bringing Solomon back to lucidity. His eyes fixed on the rebellious woman. She was taller than the others, carrying herself in a dignified stance.
Gone was the girl who chased butterflies in the rose garden every summer, who tormented tired adults with song and dance. In her place, a woman with eyes like polished emeralds, capable of cleaving through the lands.
Celesté grit her teeth and spoke in an imperceptible volume.
“What? Speak up, child.”
She smacked a waiting Acolyte’s hand away, causing them to drop their dagger in the font.
"I SAID, I DO NOT CONSENT!"
An understanding passed between the Daughters of the Divine, words without form. The smallest reached for Celesté, who shook her head in warning not to follow.
The remaining three held on to each other, and made a break for it before the Hall descended into chaos.
“SEIZE THEM!” Aurelius yelled in a vain attempt to be heard over the uproar. People booed, threw their sandals, anything that wasn’t nailed down went over the benches and towards the blasphemer. Some called for her removal, exile, and her death.
There was a crash, the sisters were climbing out of the window.
The Grand Shepherd had been a fool and summoned the entire Order of Light to this gathering, the girls were free.
Celesté gulped a massive sigh of relief as her sisters disappeared over the horizon, visibly shaken as tears slid down her face. “Before my Mother’s death, she told me what you did to her,” She faced the seats. “She never chose to serve the light, she was nothing more than a prisoner, defiled time and time again, and you dared to call it a chosen union. You used her.”
“This is sacrilege!" Someone called out. “Silence the whore!”
“Listen to me. The Order of Light is a lie! They are nothing more than taskmasters clad in silk. Their words are poison, and you have all been deceived.” Celesté pleaded, but no-one was taking her seriously.
“Restrain her,” a calm voice called out, one with more authority than the Grand Shepherd.“The Mother's madness has spread.”
Nearby guards abandoned their scuffle and moved to seize her, she fought like wildfire, yet was quickly subdued.
“Good,” came the voice Solomon never wanted to hear again. “Now, Celesté, let’s talk.”
Doctor Edo prowled from the side chamber with the confidence of a man born to be waited on. He was wearing the same grey robes, stained with blue liquid.
“Your mother was very sick, the loss of each child weighed too heavily on her. By the end there was nothing left in that useless husk. Her vessel was spent.” He said clinically and held out a gloved hand. “Come, child. We can help.”
“Liar!” Celesté spat, a glob landed on his cap. The guards tightened their hold.
“I’ve fixed many things in my time in the Order, and you shall not be the exception.” He removed the pelt hat, wiping it casually while men mobbed her.
Celesté started laughing. “You cannot fix what is not broken.”
There was a shredding noise, and her garments split at the back. Sprouting from her spine were two majestic white eagle wings, spanning the width of the Hall.
Solomon’s mouth was agape, as were many.
“Abomination!” Edo snarled. “You lied to me, you had wings all along.”
“Oh, I simply learned from the best. I concealed the truth. And I suppose, you’re right. I am an abomination, a bastard child born of men's hunger for power,” She said, hovering in mid air, out of reach of the guards who hopped helplessly.
Solomon had seen miracles before, been one, but never one this magnificent.
“Mother loved me regardless, till her last breath. She heard everything that went on in these walls, the children you murdered, the women you sullied, the lies you fed us. Her legacy was not birthing half-breeds, it was to bear justice. She was singing of your crimes in the language of angels, calling out for her brothers and any who listened. And I hear her now.”
People stopped scrabbling for the doors and side exits, some recognised her as the new Mother and bent the knee, praying for redemption and forgiveness.
Light poured out of Celestés eyes and mouth as her entire body burned white, mirroring Solomon’s veins. “You have not served the Lord, you are parasites and deceivers. And I shall rid the lands of your evil blight,”
“BE GONE!” She cried out, and several shockwaves of yellow rings rippled around her, obliterating flesh and stone. Anyone in the near vicinity turned to ash.
One of the rings hit a supporting beam, and with a low groan the Sanctuary Hall came undone. People screamed as they were crushed by brick and timber. Glass shards rained down like lances, slitting bone and marrow in execution.
In the commotion, he didn’t hear the balcony give way under him.
Solomon was thrown from the ledge.
Fragments of marble pummelled his torso.
He hit the ground with a sickening crack.
His vision was blurry, yet he forced himself to stand. Trembling with each laboured breath, a rib punctured his lung on every inhale.
Blood rose in his throat, and his hearing was garbled.
The air tasted of burning flesh, oil and metal. When his vision returned, the world was blinding. White and gold tongues of flame licked the banners and the crest, swallowing the Temple whole in ruin.
Splitting the flames, a decanter hurled itself in Celestés direction, shrouding her in a purple haze. Her wings faltered as she touched down by the bath, slightly disoriented.
“Thirty four, You. Will. Come. Quietly.” Edo was manic, speaking in quakes, his flesh peeling like week-old wax. “You and Subject Thirty Six are destined to serve us!”
Despite being half deaf, Solomon let out a breath tasting of iron. Edo had been experimenting on all of them, they were nothing but playthings. Even the Daughters. He cursed his younger self for envying them, thinking they had it better off. When behind closed doors, every member of the Order had been complicit in their never-ending torment.
She glared in disdain, and perhaps pity. “We are not destined for anything! And that’s something you’ll never understand. There is no design, but to breathe, and live, and love as we choose,” She was furious and devastating. “Life outside these walls would’ve been worth living, but it is too late for me.”
She ripped a polearm from the debris. “You shall never use me again.”
“Thirty Four, what are you doing…” Edo wheezed, his composure lost. “Celesté, cease this nonsense!”
Straggling survivors watched in horror, as she plunged it deep into her chest.
Celesté fell into the coagulated font, a paste of rose gold.
Another pillar came toppling down above the deranged physician. When the dust had cleared, he had vanished.
Solomon forced himself towards her, passing many of the dead. From under a fallen plinth, a feeble hand covered in red jewels beckoned.
“Silver Divine, my child…” It was Aurelius, or what little was left of the man, two sunken in eyes staring at him like he’d grown wings too. “Heal me with your Light, we…can…rebuild together.”
He considered crushing his skull. But after everything the Order had done, letting them suffer slowly was a fairer punishment.
“Ask your God to save you,” Solomon said flatly. “I’m not him.”
“To leave someone in need,” Aurelius choked out. “You are heartless! A monster with no soul!”
A monster you created.
Solomon didn’t look back as the flames spread, devouring a tainted legacy in screams.
Adrenaline dragged him through rubble, and he found Celesté gliding in the pink water.
Wading through the rose gold tar, he lifted her dainty body up to him.
“You won the bet.” She said, eyes half-lidded and far away.
“And you grew wings,” he smiled sadly. “I think we need to renegotiate the terms.”
“No, it doesn’t count. I always had them,” Celesté leant her head back, gazing at the remains of the ceiling, straight into the sun. “Mother, my siblings, they’re singing for me. Isn’t it beautiful?”
The only sound he identified was his own heart stuttering and her shuddering breaths.
“Yes,” he lied, forcing a smile, throat filling with more blood. “Yes. I hear them.”
“I want to see her again, Sol,” she confessed. “One last visit…”
His voice was wet and thick. “C-can’t you stay a while? We can share the sweetbread together. Wouldn’t you prefer that?”
Celesté chuckled weakly, raising a tired arm, and plucked out one of her own feathers, pushing it into his hands. “Here, it’s something more precious than sweetbread. It’ll help you grow wings too.”
The feather was weightless in his palm, luminous in comparison to the rest, the tips of Celestés wings slowly disintegrating into ash.
“Sol?” Her breathing grew shallow.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll be back by curfew.”
Please, don’t go.
Don’t leave me.
He had never healed anyone before, never been asked to. The instinct rising in his hands wasn’t combat training; it was desperation, the frantic fear of losing the closest thing he’d ever had to family.
Surely a wound like this wouldn’t take much, and then they could explore the world together. Like they’d promised each other as children.
Light surged, ready to obey. His hand wavered at the silent plea in her expression. Don’t.
She had chosen this, she wanted to rest. He unclenched his fingers, letting the Light gutter out. He wouldn’t steal her one act of free will.
“It’s okay, Celesté. Enjoy your time together, I won’t tell Elder Marcus.” Unsteady from an invading cold, he drew a shaky breath. “And I’ll hold onto your feather until you return.”
A tear trickled down her face, the sparkle of her eyes fading. “Thank you.”
Her body went limp.
She was gone.
He cradled her, gripping the feather until it singed his palm. Praying for a curfew that would never end.
Then, a chill like no other took root through his body. He wanted to curse everyone and everything, burn the earth with his Light and take vengeance for the Mother, all the fallen children, for his dearest friend.
And he would, when the ringing in his ears faded and the world stopped spinning.
He felt the exact moment his lungs ceased, again the instinct to heal himself clawed up from within, he ignored it.
He was tired.
When his heart gave up, he dropped at Celeste's side with newfound peace. They’d be together again, ready to explore freedom in death.
It wasn’t poetic. There was no whisper, no final prayer, no chorus, no God to greet him. His chest seized in on itself, breath mangling into nothing, vision tunnelling between fire and the ruins to a single blinding point.
And then nothing.
No Light.
No Judgement.
No Celesté, or winged Mother’s embrace, no warm hand reaching for him.
Not even his Mother.
Only the absence of everything.
He knew he'd died, with clarity he knew he existed outside of time, reality, somehow able to comprehend thought.
Finally.
It’s over.
And then it wasn’t.
Like kindling catching at his core, his senses sparked back to life. First came weight, limbs heavy with soaked cloth. Then the odour of crushed herbs and smoke. Somewhere nearby, the steady scrape of a whetstone on metal.
Pain returned last.
Not as a dull memory, but a fresh re-enactment, his lungs burning in a breath he was unable to take, his chest spasmed with phantom quakes. Every instinct screamed that he was dying, even as his body stubbornly refused to obey.
The cuts stippling his skin had knitted over, his ribs sitting cleanly in his chest. His hair, seared to ash and fire, was silver and unscorched once more, as if it had never burned at all.
The world was wrong.
Gone were the white and gold walls, it was dark, and skinned fish hooked from the ceiling of a wooden hut.
Nearby, the shadow of a man, lolling on a makeshift chair of leather scraps, his hand guarding a half-eaten bowl of poultice. His hands were raw, fingers stained where he’d tried, and failed, to bind wounds that were no longer there.
Solomon hadn’t asked to return, he’d embraced death with acceptance, and found only emptiness. To be pulled back from that quiet nothingness felt less like salvation, it was theft of something he knew he'd never reclaim.
He sucked in a breath that wasn’t supposed to exist. It tore out of him like a reverse death rattle as he lurched upright, hand flying to a chest that should’ve been concave.
The old man dropped his bowl, and in a frail pause, Solomon saw hope of a healer whose patient had recovered. It was possible the gods had taken pity on him, granting a second chance at life without serving anyone.
For one sanguine moment, he let himself believe he was safe in an unknown peasant’s hut, far beyond the Order’s reach and the smoking ruins it had become.
Then, the man’s hope curled into a scowl. “Devil!” he cried, letting out a choked scream. “You were dead, your heart beat no more!”
Before Solomon could reply, the man toppled over the scraps without looking back, bolting out of the door and into the night. Panicked screams rang out through the hilltops as his silhouette disappeared into the pasture.
Solomon reached out with one hand, fingers catching nothing but air.
In the Order, he’d been a miracle.
Out here, he was the devil, never allowed the dignity of being a man.
Two months later, a pair of village guards drowned him in a river for stealing clothes. Hands held him under, paying no mind to his struggle, as he clawed uselessly against the current. Every second of it registered; the pain, the creeping fear, the awful finality.
The next day, he was found floating under a bridge with stones dragging his pockets low, tunic sodden, and rasping for air after death had spat him out.
Every modicum of pain had disappeared, his lungs drained of water. It was like his body forgot, but his mind would always remember.
For the rest of his existence, every death felt identical. The crushing of his lungs, breath shredding in that terrible moment of surrender. No visions, no one singing to him, only the certainty of oblivion.
And the cruel surprise of being dragged back into consciousness.
Notes:
Me: Happy Birthday, Solomon, here's your backstory, enjoy it babe! <3
Solomon: Side eyes me, then hexes my shampoo to sting my eyes while taking a shower after proofreading this chapter.Nah, I refuse to accept his canon lore being "lol idk shrug" about his hair and immortality. The taste bud thing will explored too.
Everything will be worth all the pain and suffering...eventually.
Special thanks to my bestie, RookRaven for beta-reading, and wordhippo I guess.
But mostly my bestie.Up next: Emilia’s prologue, "The Lost Girl". I’ll meet you there.
Chapter 2: Prologue 2: The Lost Girl
Notes:
Chapter Warnings:
Still dark, just less mythic than Sol’s prologue.
Attempted abduction. Death of a loved one.A single mention of Harry Potter appropriate to the character’s age/era. I do not endorse JKR (trans rights are human rights).
Spoilers for the finale of Attack on Titan.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Over the next few millennia, humanity cycled through the same pattern. Civilisations would crumble, only for one to be built in its place, promising to be wiser than the last, to learn from past mistakes and lead its people to greatness. Then war would come, usually over land, political beliefs, or greed. Armies would fall, famine would purge, and man would dust itself off, starting over.
Eventually, humans did abandon regular crusades and kingmakers, trading deity worship and the promise of holy intervention for celebrities, and mundane entertainments, comprising games, films, television, theatre, and arts. All serving as a distraction from the horrors of the world they lived in.
In the year 2009, escapism remained at the forefront of the United Kingdom’s mind. Scary words like financial crisis and recession were being floated around by the Bank of England. Living costs were to rise, rendering many jobs at stake.
One of the affected, a Welshman named Martin Cartwright, was a portly gentleman with wavy black hair, deep blue eyes, and a comb of a mustache. His life had been simple, growing up on his parents’ farm in Aberystwyth, earning a job in construction upon leaving high school. During an abysmal Monday morning dealing with finicky clients and a late lunch, Martin decided to stop by the café for a breakfast bin lid. What he found was a breakfast beauty, a fiery blonde with amber eyes called Elaine.
Their love story was a tale as old as time. Elaine would serve him with a smile when he ordered, that smile being nurtured over months and blossoming into endearment. Although he’d gained a stone from the visits, he eventually, nervously, asked her out. Within three years they were wed and had a baby on the way, Elaine expressing the desire for a change of scenery to bring up their daughter — the spitting image of her father.
They tucked themselves in a quiet part of the countryside further north, in a humble village called Uppington, a fair drive from Shrewsbury. Everyone knew each other on a first name basis, the village bursting with flora for the annual flower competition, it was predictable storybook-adjacent bliss.
Having been born into working class families, they were frugal at heart, and when the recession was about to hit, there was talk of getting second jobs. More than anything, they wanted little Emilia to have a memory to look back on before turning eight, so one evening in summer, they drove into the nearest town to watch a film together as a family.
Papers had raved about a new Pixar film called Up. Reviews were praising the animation in particular, and with the studio having a spotless record, Elaine had approached her husband under the pretence that it was purely for Emilia.
Having seen right through it, Martin told his boss he’d be finishing an hour early that day.
The breeze felt like salvation after nearly four suffocating hours packed into a sweat box with two hundred other people. Martin wafted his face with an empty Haribo packet, still rambling to the tear-ridden girls as they drifted toward the multi-storey car park.
Halfway through an impression of the bird from the film, Martin skidded to a halt, then began the universal patting ritual, with commentary. “Wallet, phone, pockets, oooh— 10p. Don’t spend it all at once, Em, love,”
Emilia pocketed the ten pence piece with a frown. “Mummy, is Daddy okay? He’s making internet noises again…”
Elaine reassured her, “He’s fine, love, the heat’s gotten to his head.” She patted her back in a plea to continue walking.
Martin stopped buffering and squawked. “KEYS! Forgot my ruddy coat!”
The girls laughed at him while he hoofed it back down the stairs, to hopefully retrieve his belongings before the cinema staff listed it for sale on eBay.
Elaine’s laughter was cut off when the doppelgänger of her first pet cat, Bowie, materialised out of nowhere. It was eerie, down to the mismatched orange and blue eyes, and the smudge of black across his nape.
Her joints clicked an ode of the mid thirties as she knelt down to pet it. "Aren't you just gorgeous?"
Normally her excitable daughter would've chipped in, asked for permission to stroke an animal like this.
"Em, darling?"
In the 0.02 seconds her back was turned, little Emilia vanished.
And when she swung her head back around, so had the cat.
After a frantic reunion with her husband, they heard a scream coming from near the ticket machine, and Martin ran full pelt for the second time that night.
Later that evening, two police officers who’d been on patrol questioned them all, but Emilia kept repeating that a strange man teleported in front of her, wearing robes and speaking like Harry Potter. The officers, Constable Cloverman and Sergeant Nick Angle, exchanged a look as Emilia descended into babble.
Daniel, who spoke in a strong West Country accent, nursed his beer belly and looked to the adults for clarification. “A ghostly rope pulled you into a car, and after the man grabbed you, there was a burning sensation on your arm,”
“Average night in Shrewsbury, then.” Nick, his stoic-faced colleague, murmured to no-one in particular.
“We’ve checked for marks, bruises, anything really,” Elaine had aged several years after the ordeal and gripped a hanky for strength, as nosey pedestrians craned over the car’s sirens. “But she’s fine, physically speaking. Martin found her just in time.”
“Riiiight. That’s a first,” Daniel said, slowly. “And where did this wizard run off to, then? Cast an Invisibility spell, did he?” He laughed at his own joke, nudging Nick’s unimpressed ribs.
Emilia’s face lit up, taking the jab entirely as face value. “No, because that's a temporary spell. Oh! I couldn't see his face..." She scratched her chin with deeper thought than a child ought to. "We shouldn't rule out shapeshifting, like Mystique. So make sure to write that down!”
“My daughter could’ve been abducted, could you show a little more professionalism, please?” Elaine’s face hardened.
Daniel fumbled, cheeks reddening. “Yes, ma’am, of course. Sorry ma'am...”
Sergeant Angle cut in smoothly, tone flat but eyes sharp. “I’d like to apologise on behalf of my colleague. He stayed up all night binge-watching films, gets a bit confused about reality.” He popped the lid on his red biro with unnecessary force, locking eyes with Martin. “Not to worry, I haven’t missed a thing.”
“We’ll be in touch,” he added curtly, shoving Daniel towards the police car.
Martin muttered a haunted apology, as their oblivious daughter waved the lovely duo off, thanking them for their help.
The drive home was silent.
Much to their relief, the next few years were uneventful and Martin and Elaine had to ground themselves on boundaries, though they’d love to lock her up and throw away the key, if it meant her safety.
Nearing the second anniversary of their own personal hell, life threw another random event their way. Thankfully God had taken pity on the Cartwrights, and this one was much more pleasant.
It came in the form of the Millers, a Minnesotan family staying on a work visa, their youngest son one day thwarting the scary wizard man of Emilia's nightmares, and growing into the man of her dreams.
Over a decade later, the couple’s front door slammed, and in slumped her favourite person in the world, Nathan Miller, boyfriend of five years, keeper of her heart and soul. He had short brown hair, light green eyes and was boy-next-door incarnate.
He held a leaflet between two fingers, ink running down his arm. Nate's go-to London Zoo umbrella abandoned its usual post on the coat rack, perfectly content soaking the wooden floor.
“Jeez,” he groaned, wringing his hair into the clean sink. “Thought it was bad on my side of the pond. Freakin' Mormons swarmed me with pamphlets, telling me to ‘repent to the light.’”
“Maybe that’s karma for leaving the lid loose on the pop again,” Em said, leaning against the counter in her lazy day cream jumper with a smirk. “Welcome home, love. But seriously, repent to the light? We would if we had any.” She gestured to the rain mottling the window panes.
He snorted. “Look,” then flashed her that grin, the one that always worked. “I’ll buy a mini-fridge for the new place, with a combi lock and everythin’, just for you. I promise.”
She laughed, propping the umbrella where it belonged, and shook her head.
“Nah, but seriously,” he went on, tossing the leaflet in the bin with a celebratory slamdunk. “They were creepy. For people who love the sun so much, they might wanna practice what they preach, and try touchin’ it every now and then. One of them looked like an actual vampire.”
They slipped back into their routine conversation, Em half listened to his ramble about work while fussing over a patch of succulents on the windowsill, adding in snippets about her own day and how she’d finally fixed the coffee machine at work. Nate flitted in and out of the bedroom looking for a dry hoodie, his voice dipping and swelling like someone messing with a volume knob. Forgetting, as usual, that he’d packed everything.
Without looking up from brushing soil off the leaves, Em called. “Hanging up on the door, love.”
There was a pause, and for a moment she thought he'd given up and started knitting one. Loud footsteps crashed through the hallway, warm hands appearing at her waist. “Awh, babe, you even used the good detergent. I’m not worthy.” The air smelled of pine needles and sandalwood.
“I’ll repent to the light for using a whole hour's wage on it later,” she chuckled, leaning back into him. “But if you'd like to make it up to me, I’d love a cuppa right now.”
“Wow, is that how it is? I survive a day at the office and come home to you two timin’ me with Mr Gold?” He whispered in her ear, causing a light shiver. Releasing her in his hunt for the teabags.
He dropped the teabags into two anime mugs — Em’s bore the Wings of Freedom emblem, Nate’s the Military Police. “Can’t say I’d play hard to get either. Mr Gold is a hell of a catch.”
“Well, you’re not taking him from me and I refuse to let him steal you away. Let’s be a throuple instead,” she yawned, clicking the kettle on. “Right, boss, I’m clocking out of adulting for the night.”
Kissing him on the cheek in passing, she strode into what had been a lively living room full of bookcases, display cases, and nerdy splendour a few days ago. Now reduced to bare cream coloured walls and ghosts of picture frames, a large smart TV parked on top of random board games, and a last minute British Heart Foundation win — a collapsible garden chair and table set.
It was dwarfed by a panorama of cardboard towers, covered with scrawled messages in black sharpie.
TOILET PAPER — underlined three times.
Nate’s waifus (love you more, bbe x)
Em’s husbandos (love you more too, yes, more than Captain Levi! x)
More merchandise, more memories, and near the bottom:
green med box from Mum, half-buried among bathroom supplies.
Sitting in the chairs was a small gamble, and Em breathed a sigh when she didn’t go arse over tit. “Home sweet shithole.”
“Not for long,” Nate said, padding in with their mugs. “Your mom rang, they’re coming first thing to take us to B&Q, giving us a crash course IKEA style, and dropping us off with groceries. Then, we can actually sit on a sofa like normal people and not like two New Yorkers who had their furniture stolen.”
He took an asbestos-level sip and mumbled. “And hopefully christen the bed before the weekend’s up.”
Nudging his ankle playfully on her way to the remote waiting on the floor, she teased. “If you play your cards right and let us relive our trauma first.”
“Oh, alright. I guess the mood matches the weather,” he pondered with the tea, shakespearean and mellow. “What’s your poison? Your Lie in April, Wolf's Rain, Violet Evergarden?”
“Mmm, I was thinking of something more chiselled and tragic anti-hero.” On pure instinct, she landed on the Attack on Titan finale.
“You just wanted to simp over Captain Levi again…” He narrowed his eyes.
She grinned, nodding toward a box labelled Mikasa Figures — Property of Nathan Miller. “Pot, kettle, darling.”
“'Kay, you got me there,“ he laughed, also holding his breath when the wicker snapped as he dragged the chair over. “We’ve got hours to kill before the moving guys come for the TV. Rev up the sexy heartache.”
The sexy heartache was full throttle an hour later, both of them gripped each other across the decking table like it was a floating door in ice water. On screen, Armin was searching for his two best friends in the aftermath of a bloody battle between titan shifters. When Mikasa appeared out of the dust, that was it. They were done for.
Armin let out a howl of grief, as his eyes landed on what Mikasa was carrying. The decapitated head of Eren, her found family and first love.
Em burst into tears again, flinching when a whole pack of Kleenex was wordlessly offered by Nate, whose sleeve was covering his face.
He grabbed his own tissues, blowing into them loudly. “Why do you enjoy seeing me in pain?”
“Correction.” She joined in with an elephant sized trumpet. “I enjoy seeing you emote, and there’s nothing wrong with a cathartic cry every now and then. It’s what makes us human,”
Ping!
Ping!
Ping!
It’s probably Hannah.
“Speaking of humans, we should join the land of the living.”
Stationed next to the Kleenex, Em’s phone was popping off. Before they’d begun their solemn journey, she’d of course posted about it and shared GIFs of the sexy Captain Levi on her Tumblr account. As expected, her best friend had reblogged it and left a comment.
Nate aggressively wiped his face with another tissue, using the distraction as an opportunity to find his composure.
“It’s Hannah, rightfully thirsting over Captain Levi,” Em announced, Nate huffed next to her. “She says not to overdo it before our girls night next week. Oh wait, I’ve got a text from Dave too...”
There were three slow raps at the door.
Nate looked at the source, then back to her, then at the time on his own phone. “Damn, the moving guys are really committed to the night shift. They’re an hour early.”
He rolled up limply, checking his reflection in a bubble wrapped mirror. “And we're both a mess. Hope they don’t think we had a domestic.”
Em’s thumb froze over the screen.
Dave the Van Man: “Road’s flooded sorry, won’t be there till mornin!👎”
“It’s not them.” Em threw a concerned look, showing the text. There was another set of knocks, more impatient this time.
“Hmm, I betcha it’s Mrs Clearwater,” Nate reasoned, heading to answer. “Nina’s been using our garden as a giant litter box, and you know how martyr-y she gets about it. I’ll tell her it’s fine, it’ll be the new family's problem anyway.”
“Okay…”
There was no rational explanation for the unease creeping in her chest throughout his scrabble for the keys.
The door opened halfway, then gave up. “Heyyyyyy, it’s totally…not her. Hello, can I help you?”
She craned her neck around to three figures in the darkness, their long capes dripping rainwater onto the patio. Her eyes strained uselessly, their hoods covered their faces and the porch light was on the fritz again. The sense of dread had reached surface level. Halloween had been and gone, and it after hours for door-to-door salesmen.
“Uff da, are you lost?” Even Nate sounded uncomfortable, the first sign that something was off.
“We are not lost,” One spoke in a strained gruff voice, reminding her of an ugly Geralt. “We are looking for someone.”
Em muted the telly, clutching her phone like a security blanket.
“Think you’ve got the wrong house,” Nate said curtly, guard on full standby. “Lose the fellowship gear and try again.”
“We have been looking for Miss Cartwright for a long time,” A tall one stepped in range of the hallway light, clothes hanging loose. He was dubbed Lamppost.
Em froze, inspecting them from the chair. She could barely make out a crest on their robes. A golden and red circle, what looked to be a feather and fire. Forcing herself to focus, she picked out embroidered lettering in red.
She didn’t recognise it, nor could it be affiliated with any local boarding school or campus. Though her blood inexplicably cooled as one tilted their head over.
Nate scoffed, not having any of it. “Lord of the Rings quiz night is twenty minutes down the road. And Miss Cartwright is otherwise occupied. Come back in the mornin’.”
He knew damn well they’d be gone before then.
“Nate, just close the door.” She whispered, praying they didn’t hear.
Ever her protector, he was already halfway through an exit strategy, when Ugly Geralt wedged a heavy boot in the doorframe.
“Listen dude, you’re gonna remove your foot, or I’ll remove it for you.” Nate said, lowering his voice intentionally.
“We simply wanted to wish Miss Cartwright a good evening. There’s no need to be rude, we’re long time friends.”
Nate gulped audibly, staring down at the foot. “Well, if you’re on such good terms, you’d know that she prefers to be called Em.”
They faltered, yet kept smiling their smiley smiles.
Ugly Geralt spoke again. “She remembers, she just pretends she doesn’t.”
What the hell are they talking about?
“Enough of the pretences, grab her!” Lamppost snapped.
Ugly Geralt pushed through the door. Nate stomped on their foot, hard, as they recoiled, slamming the door and using it as a makeshift riot shield.
Em scrambled off the chair and launched at the door, shoulder first.
It continued to rattle, then, a distant scream. A firework had gone off and alerted their closest neighbour to the attempted break in.
Nate relaxed, resting his head against the door. Em rested her head against him.
“Ran off. Good. Fucking cowards, I don’t know what they were playin’ at but-”
They’d celebrated too soon.
With no warning, the door detonated, taking a chunk of the house with it.
They were clapped into the wall's palm like two annoying flies.
On the verge of fainting, Em picked herself off the ground as the house fell apart, water pipes burst inside the foundations, soaking through the floorboards.
Nate groaned, clutching the back of his red and sticky head. He’d broken her fall.
Laughter rebounded through the severed home, cold and cruel, something meant for villains in superhero shows, not in merry old England. With buckling knees and a headache for the ages, Em glanced towards the kitchen.
Kitchen knife, top drawer, second part of the cutlery tray.
I’d never reach it in time.
The strangers casually walked towards them, as if on a pub crawl and rounds were on the most destructive member.
She barely breathed when her office worker boyfriend leapt on his feet like a wrestler and tackled the shortest one, Stubs. He landed a successful punch in their jaw, and they staggered against the wall.
He cheered when Stubs doubled over, wasting no time to deliver a stunning kick in the crown jewels, finally bringing them down.
Em watched from the sidelines, as Nate took them out one by one, earning a few trophy bruises of his own, she had to ask herself where he’d learned these moves. Maybe if she had three older brothers as well, she’d be the one kicking arse and taking names.
Or she could be normal in a crisis and ring the police, that’d be helpful.
They worked as a team, Nate got Ugly Geralt in a chokehold and smashed their head against the table, while Em retrieved their phones from the floor.
Neither of them would turn on, and spamming the power button stung her finger.
Again, no explanation.
“I’ve had enough of this,” Lamppost snarled, dragging themselves up after being downed again. Resilient bastards; she'd give them that, though their movements were weird. They didn’t even try to dodge Nate’s flailing punches.
And then the answer to all the weirdness presented itself in the form of a loose sleeve. The man’s arms were covered in strange tattoos, in her concussed state, they were a radiant white.
Ridiculous, she told herself, before he raised his arm in her direction.
Naturally, she ran, or tried to. Her legs weren’t co-operating, and her arms had turned on friendly fire, glued to her sides. She snapped forward on pure instinct, teeth catching fabric and skin. Someone yelped and reeled back. They treated her like a dangerous stray, arm out in caution, mumbling something incoherent.
A fourth one revealed themselves, stepping into their home as if they'd been invited. “New plan, restrain the specimen and kill the pest!”
Their words cut her like a blade, but Nate had come to her rescue again, hearing the threat. She was literally pinned to the floor, kicking blindly as he took out more tattooed strangers.
She didn’t expect the tide to turn so quickly. Stubs raised their arm behind Nate with one more dramatic tattoo reveal.
She had never been more wrong.
Em was helpless as the dagger plunged into his side. Five times. She’d counted.
Nate yelled, and she screamed into the carpet as her world splintered.
He sagged against the counter, clutching a red patch over his hoodie. The men turned on her, the electrical wires finally tripping, lights flickered as they drew nearer. Bulbs popping in succession of their steps, the air around them dropping to freezing, then it was like a vacuum of air being released.
Glass shattered, from windows, doors, the television went bust. Cardboard boxes reassembled themselves into makeshift foxholes, shooting tiny shards of shrapnel at the enemy, and Em ducked, limbs unlocked.
The mini bullets hit their mark, and the four wizards, she supposed, toppled over, bleeding out on the landlord's carpet.
Not even entertaining a second thought about them, Em skidded against the floor on her socks, to where Nate lay. “Nate! Oh my god, Nate!”
He panted, visibly exhausted, barely upright.
“They didn’t hurt you, did they?” Nate, the stab victim, cupped her cheek delicately. “You weren’t kiddin’ about the knife crime over here.” He winced, trying to steady himself. “Guess this makes me an honourary Brit.”
“Don’t joke right now, how can you joke after that you stupid, wonderful idiot.” A curved dagger poked out of his chest, there were jewels and similar patterns as the men's tattoos on it. It blazed faintly at the hilt, like a branding iron.
They were not normal men.
“They wanted me. And you got hurt. I — where did you learn to fight like that?”
“Beginners' luck. Comes with a timer apparently,” he gestured down at himself, eyes hazy and welling up. That wasn’t like him, he only cried at funerals and weddings, and this was neither. “Em before I— I was gonna— ”
She bristled. “You’re not past tense, anything. You’ll be fine.”
Thinking back to the time she’d cut her knee open, her mother’s instructions resonated. Remove any foreign objects, clean it, sterilise the area, dress the wound, then a kiss for good luck. A pale comparison in the current circumstances, but it was all she had.
An immediate search proved fruitless, an almost empty box of tissues wouldn’t do any good.
Then, it hit her, and she wanted to hit herself for being so stupid. They were moving, boxes full of everything they could ever possibly need were literally in front of them.
Through the clutter of ripping, tearing boxes, and excavating items, Em checked in regularly.
“Nate, how you doin’ over there?”
It was a few seconds before he replied.
“Yeah, uhm, shouting doesn’t help,” he called weakly. “Other than my innards becoming my outards, I’m just peachy.”
“I’m sorry,” a lone sob escaped. “Just— okay. I’ll be as quick as I can!”
There had to be something they could use. Blankets, napkins, towels, bedsheets, sanitary pads. Fucking sanitary pads would be a godsend.
She had to fix this, fix him. They were supposed to be starting the next chapter of their lives tomorrow. Here’s what was going to happen, she was going to be the worst nurse possible, Frankenstein him together enough to wait for help, then hopefully after a race in an Uber or neighbours car, they’d be at the hospital where doctors could take over.
Tonight would be a funny story they told one day.
“Oh honey, tell the kids about the night I got stabbed by the wizards and you patched me up like a Build-A-Bear.”
It’d be hilarious.
When Em eventually found a smugly labelled box reading green med box from mum, it was lacking. Nothing but a bottle of TCP, a sewing needle and thread, a few scattered plasters and dressings for minor wounds.
What am I going to do?
“Em, about the house…”
She was back at his side in a blink, holding a pile of clean towels. “Yeah? Yeah, what about the house, baby?”
He spoke with a serene smile as she lifted up his shirt, skin coming away with it. “I was thinking we could paint a giant mural…things we both like…”
“Whatever you like, we can paint it full of those daft slime things you designed, they’d brighten up the place.” She replied with a teary grin.
Nate bit down on a wooden spoon as she pulled the dagger out, peppering him in apology kisses. Using a bottle of water from the fridge, she rinsed her bloodied hands, the wound, dabbed the disinfectant over the crater, taping him back together as promised with a mishmash of dressings, unicorn themed plasters, and amateur sewing skills.
She flinched when he grabbed her wrist.
“There’s something…else. Wanted to do it properly. Hannah was in on it…the girls night…a distraction…my busted drawer,” his breath was coming in short sputters now. “Was gonna...”
“No— no! You can get through this Nate, we both can. The bleeding’s stopped- it’s stopped and the thread should hold— it’s— you were really going to propose?”
“Universe…against that idea, huh?” He had the audacity to laugh, it came out like a hacking cough, wet and warbled.
She couldn’t think.
“You would’ve said… yes… right?”
His hand dropped from hers.
She never got to respond.
He was simply resting.
He was resting. It had been a long night.
His skin was blue. From the cold.
Tomorrow they’d report everything to the police and get him patched up by professionals, but for now they’d sleep it off, in the ruins of their home.
Anger unlike anything she’d ever known flared in her core — primal and untouchable — she let it consume her.
How dare they interrupt their perfect life together, how dare they hurt him.
Her arm suddenly flared, skin searing as if a miniature sun had been pressed into it. Heat flooded her being, her lungs filled with ash, melting every cell.
She screamed through the pain.
How dare they kill him.
There was a white light, and for a second, it felt like the world ended.
She spent her final moments remembering his hair, the sparkle in his eyes, his dimples when he smiled. And his laugh, god, she had missed his laugh.
It played on a loop, and she was quite content to stay there for all eternity, even if it was grainy and looked like an old black and white film.
The day they’d met. His dad making an idiot of himself asking for a cab, in a café full of northerners.
Their parents who’d become fast close friends.
Their tearful goodbyes at the airport after an amazing summer getting to know each other, all the late night skype calls.
Their first fight, she’d cried and he’d said something he shouldn’t, not in anger but in hurt. It was a stupid misunderstanding, someone had asked Nate out, Em forced herself to cheer “stop hesitating and go for it.”
He never did, and the girl was never mentioned again.
Then came the day he begged her to go on video call. She hadn’t even brushed her hair, and there he was, grinning, holding a one-way plane ticket. He was coming back to study at university. Back where it felt like home.
It was unspoken but she filled in the gap. With her.
She’d tackled him at the airport, both of them giggling uncontrollably while being stalked by a security guard who thought she was feral.
The fateful freshers night where they finally admitted everything and stopped avoiding the question. Also special because after a decade of pining spilled out, she’d cut him off and kissed him.
The next five years were bliss.
Finally, that horrible nightmarish night.
Three hooded figures at the door.
Nate being an unsung hero.
Glass taking itself out.
His death.
Her survival.
The reel burned out.
There was nothing more to play.
It’s been over a year already.
Colour and light bled into the dark space.
“Miss Cartwright?” a soothing voice spoke.
Could it go away? It was her only day off this week, and god forbid a girl wanting a duvet day to grieve her dead boyfriend.
Unseen cutlery screeched against a plate, followed by a sugary scent, reminding her of biscuits or shortbread.
“Miss Emilia, would you care to join us?”
Another voice chuckled when she scrunched her nose up, promptly rolling over.
Miss Emilia would like you both to do one.
“Apologies, my Lord. It seems she is a heavy sleeper.”
Correct.
“Not to worry!” The second voice was deep, and too happy. “Perhaps we should let her rest more?”
The audacity of these men, to push themselves into her apartment, offering tea and biscuits. They must have been well meaning visitors for someone else in the building. Possibly Agnes’ sons or grandsons.
Unless.
“Miss Cartwright”
They were referring to her in the same overpolite manner. What if they weren’t misplaced Samaritans, but the same men as that night?
What if they’d come back for her?
Truthfully, she didn’t have it in her to fight this time.
She jostled herself awake, staring up at two strangers. They blocked most of her view of the room but she knew it was wrong and very much not her apartment. For one, it was far too clean, two, the décor would’ve won an award for best props in a gothic melodrama. Three, she couldn’t remember buying a raven skull from Temu, though it was lovely and looked antique.
Maybe she’d ordered it when drunk, or maybe she was blacked out right now and this was all in her head. Also a strong possibility.
Her voice came out sleepy. “Who the hell are you?”
“You’re finally awake!” The loud and cheery one chortled theatrically. He had crimson hair and striking yellow contacts. “As for your questions, we’ll get to them. First,” his hand was huge, the red sleeve looked military themed and had gold threading. It looked expensive. “Barbatos?”
“Yes my Lord, I shall fetch the good china.”
The smaller framed man saved her from social suicide, initially thinking his name was an offering of narcotics, which she might’ve accepted, she eyed his strange features. His mint green hair styled in a slanted bob and calm olive eyes complimented a somewhat soothing demeanour.
Bar-bah-tos sauntered off, wearing an immaculate butler costume that could’ve been worn by a successful metal band.
Emilia sat up, slack jawed, questions lacing her tongue.
His Lord shouted, in at least a six on the Richter scale. “Hello there, Miss Cartwright! I do apologise for disturbing your slumber. Though in fairness, you’ve been asleep quite a while. It’s not who you should be asking, but rather…”
He gestured grandly to the bruise-coloured sky outside. “Where.”
“What?”
“Your curiosity is tenacious, a wonderful asset to the program. We’ll get to the extremely important how, what and why after tea. For now, who and where shall suffice.”
He spared a shred of mercy, before delivering the killing blow.
“My name is Lord Diavolo, acting ruler of this realm. May I be the first to confirm where — Welcome to Hell!”
Notes:
I can hear the gameshow noises behind Diavolo, full curtain pull moment.
Thank you so much for reading Emilia’s prologue. She's my brain baby and I adore her. She's a very fun character in a tragic kind of way, and meets horror with humour. That contradiction is the entire point and from here on out, the story wrestles with Gallows Humour rather than laughs for the sake of it. Though sometimes I can't help myself.
(And yes, Sol is funny too <3)I also need you to know how deeply I fell in love with Nathan Miller. Even knowing his fate. He completely consumed me, and my notes are full of backstory he never got the chance to live out.
The phrase "kill your darlings" has never been more true. Or more cruel.
R.I.P Nate babe, you were too good for this world.
We'll be having a scream in the next chapter, "Welcome to Hell"
Fallen_Time on Chapter 1 Sun 07 Dec 2025 09:08PM UTC
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Hexual_Tension on Chapter 1 Tue 09 Dec 2025 12:58PM UTC
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