This night was perhaps different from all the others, for the court was closed and only he and Kalma were there. No one else, not even a shadow of another man, not even a single guard or a servant.
Only Ignar, who was on his knees, and a god who sat on an obsidian throne.
It is an intense stare. A stare that captivates you, that calls you, and demands you answer it. To remain on your knees and never look past him, never to avert his gaze... But he had to; he could not take it. He felt like nothing. He was nothing before a gaze so intense. That judged him. Under the gaze of a god, he was nothing.
But in those eyes, there was something past the judgment. Perhaps a question or a command. Either way, a thought would soon come to the surface and would reach past the intensity of his gaze and become transformed into words, into those commands and questions that might be.
But the first words that God uttered to him weren't born from such thoughts: "And so a traitor dies." Words soon followed by a singular nod: "Wonderful. I had anticipated that you would not disappoint me."
"You've earned my trust, Ignar," Kalma said and rose from his throne; he now stood tall and imposing. Looking further down at the man, who was no more than a youth in comparison to the many years that he himself had lived.
But then he stepped off his pedestal. One step at a time, he descended the many stairs that were between them and soon stood right in front of Ignar. The youth who trembled, the youth whose hands shook, whose whole body had now tensed up.
Ignar's eyes only saw his feet, the scales that covered every inch of their feet, and the sharp nails that one could use to kick someone to death. To stomp on those he deemed to be nothing more than maggots and bugs beneath his feet.
"Arise." Kalma commanded, his voice stern and filled with authority, "Do not avert your eyes."
He couldn't help but swallow; his body was so tense now; it was too tense, for he found it difficult to get up. And as he got up and as he faced Kalma, they stood as equals in height. Their eyes were on the same level.
Piercing and white, yet so... dead? How can something so beautiful seem so dead? How can the eyes of a god have no life in them? From so close, he could now see things that he couldn't see before; before, there had been just a hint of them.
Pain. So much pain. There is enough pain to give up on the notion of pleasure or the notion of life itself. What is life if you've become unable to die? If you've become Death…
And those eyes… they stared at his. Mezmerizing him until... nothing. Until... there is just the abyss. And it's so cold here. It is so lonely here. It is so... dead.
"Time means nothing to me." God spoke, "Life and death are just the same."
"I lived once in a hut made of clay and hay. I was a child back then, and I had not dreamed of a world of marble and gold. There were no such things for someone like me."
"But... behind our hut, there was a garden, and in this garden, there grew not only flowers that populated the earth beneath my feet but also a tree, a singular apple tree."
"I cannot remember the face of my own mother, nor can I remember the names of those whom I called family."
"I only know that they must have existed."
The sharpness in his eyes was gone, and past the once judgmental gaze, now came truth.
"I can remember the hut, the flowers, and even the apple tree. But not the faces or names of those whom I should love the most."
"Instead, I can imagine myself lying beneath the shadow of that tree on a bed of flowers, and all I am in this moment is lonely."
"I, under the shade of a lonely apple tree."
"In this vision, I have. There is nothing else. There is no face that I love. There is no life, just me."
"And I wonder..." He whispered, his brows twitching slightly, "What does it take to forget someone you love?" He tilted his head.
"Did I even love them?" He asked, and he blinked as tears wet his eyes. "Ignar, tell me, am I then a monster?"
He dared not breathe, lest his breath upset the God who cried, and now that he could not hold his breath a moment longer, he breathed in heavy breaths of air. In his mind, just this: How... how mortal a God can seem…
"I… I don't know…" He blurted out the only answer that he could give. His body stopped trembling, and fear had been set aside, but now it roared once more; it returned like the wind on the sea; it returned as the eyes of God sharpened once more. As they became callous, they became dead once more. As the judgment had begun anew.
It was like the tears were never there. Like those words had never been said. Kalma now spoke: "You've gained my trust, but now you must earn the name that you and I must share."
Kalma turned around and, in long strides, returned to his throne, but he did not sit down; instead, he witnessed as Ignar fell to his knees, looking up at God, who had graced him with his presence, with his tears.
"The leaders of the rebellion are not dead yet. They breathe, and their breath upsets me." Kalma spoke, and each of his words was spat out: "You will be the one to kill them; one by one, you shall make them fall; you shall make them enter the eternal night; you shall become mine; you're of my blood."
"Become Death… Become like me, and forevermore shall I love you as a father should love his own son."
Ignar trembled violently. Fervor. This was fervor. This was what those who believed felt when they prayed to their gods. This was ecstasy. This was bliss. As if against the wishes of his own body, he awkwardly bowed, placing his head on the ground, and announced, "Lord, may your will be done."
Every night since then, he has visited him in his dreams. And they would walk in a garden meant just for them. Where the flowers would never wilt nor wither, and where the apple tree's fruit would be plentiful and its apples ripe and sweet. A garden so beautiful, a dream so beloved, that it took his nightmares away; that took all the other dreams with it and made them not matter. Nothing matters—not the pains or the ails that have plagued him in his life. Nothing mattered, not like the garden, not like the tears that made it grow. Not like the promise that parted the lips of God.
If he could, he would build the temple of Kalma's desires; he would build it on the highest hill with his very own hands. Even if it would take a million years, he would construct such a creation and dedicate it to someone so great.
It was the seventeenth day after the raid on the Adrian Estate, and finally, he had word of where he could find one of the leaders of the rebellion. Apparently, they had gone into hiding after the many raids that had happened, but they did not hide far away, but instead, just on the outskirts of the city, in an impoverished part of the city, in a building that was perhaps once a normal inn but then had become a brothel, one of the many similar establishments that populate the outskirts of Anavasii.
Prostitution was not illegal; it was only frowned upon. Who cared if some girl or boy ended up as one of the many workers of the night? If they have no education or significant powers or skills, then should they just starve away en masse? No, no… The Sharan believed that everyone has a place in society; even those who are deemed to be worthless by most have worth to someone. There will always be someone who wants to alleviate their most carnal instincts. And for such situations, one only needs a coin to find someone who can help.
And on the very street where Ignar now found himself, there were many who would gladly take his coin and help in any way that they could. Pófos is a place for all forms of lust. Sex, fetishes, even the sating of one's intellectual lusts—you name it, there was everything that one could desire.
As a young man himself, he found that he could only stare at the many things that were around him. People so openly showing themselves, customers, not caring that they were seen, then approaching houses that seemed quite active, finding men and women most attractive, joining hands with them, and letting them lead them indoors to those many houses of so many desires.
He was out of place. He had never touched a man or a woman in such a way. He often even wondered if he had such desires. If he felt lust, would he want something like this?
Even with all these things present, he ventured forth, keeping his gaze from meeting the eyes of the women who were far too beautiful in his eyes, or the men who'd make you swing another way, or would at least give a good run for your money.
There was a rather famous brothel in the center of it all, one not only famous for its services but also for the name that it so proudly carried: the Gates of Urul.
One could guess what such a name could refer to, but Ignar chose not to even question the meaning of the name, and he doubted that he would even like to know.
And now that this house of lust was before him, he was surprised that such a building had even been built in this part of the town. It looked out of place. A building of marble on a street of rubble.
The owners of this establishment had clearly garnered much wealth through the years, and it was no wonder that it was the place to be. It was where those who had money, not just coins, would find the most premium treatment with the most diverse selection of options and a cast with varying levels of expertise in a given act.
But there was a selection that was far above any other. The most popular option was a simple, private conversation.
Prostitution isn't always about sex; there are many men and women who suffer from loneliness, many who wish nothing more than an understanding ear to hear their ails, or just a simple acknowledgment, to be called by their name, to be tightly hugged, and then warmly lead out, back into the night with whispers and promises that they would always be here for them, that they would always be waiting for them, and they would be glad to offer their ears again... for a price.
One could argue that it was sad. But there was also beauty in this. It was rather innocent. It was also proof of a simple, almost universal law: if there is a need for it, then there certainly is someone who is willing to provide it; thus, there will be someone willing to pay for it.
At the doorway to the Gates of Urul, there stood two people: a man and a woman. They seemed to work for the establishment, so he chose to approach them. At first, he thought that he should just enter through the door, but after observing and hesitating for a while, he managed to witness someone enter before him: another man, who seemed to talk for a while to the two people before being allowed entrance.
As he walked up to them, he could already feel their evaluating eyes on him as they looked for three things: signs of wealth, signs of power, and signs of danger. And when he reached them, on the face of the woman, there was already approval.
"Good sir, are you looking to enter the Gates of Urul as a customer, or are you perhaps looking for work? And I mean, no offense, there would be many ladies who would like to spend their night on top of you or under you."
"If you happen to swing that way, but if you don't, then surely you wouldn't have even a moment in lonesome as many men would come to you; oh, how they would crawl before you... I think they would let you do anything to them if you so desired." The woman explained with such great passion that it was difficult to be offended.
But taken aback, he was, and the way his scales changed color in almost an instant to a darker shade. But this only brought a more joyous expression on the woman's face: "Just magnificent, wouldn't you say?" She said and tapped the shoulder of the man next to her, who just grunted in agreement.
Ignar cleared his throat. "Well, I am not looking for work at the moment, but company on the other hand."
"Ah…" She exclaimed in disappointment, "Well, you may enter; of course, you seem wealthy enough, and I realized the moment I saw you that you just might say no to my suggestion... but I will keep a hint of hope by my side. Enter you may, but when you leave, promise that one day you will return here, and then we might talk business." Her smile was so coy, and as Ignar thanked her and entered through the door, she let her fingers ever so slightly linger on his shoulder.
It was like a jolt that ran through him as he found the desire that he thought he might not have. But alas, he was here for a simple job: murder.