Binarius (3 page)

Castle Blacken is led by a dark
collective consciousness; that is as much as the people of Fia
know. No one knows who the leader of the Mist of Blacken is —
tactics.

So, since the Mist of Blacken, Fia
has been in a state of panic and it is a constant battle to fight
the forces of the dark frequencies.

The hope that Auralia had always
left Firinne with was that there had been whispers that The
Clandestine Guardians were still alive, in small numbers and that
one day Fia will lead them. That is the only chance, the only way —
faith in Fia, and The Clandestine Guardians. Auralia would always
follow the legend with an ancient hum, and Firinne would fall
asleep to dreams of hope — or terror.

The Sun had fallen over the
mountains hours ago and Firinne was back in her chambers. There was
a single crystal glowing on the table that she was sitting at. The
oval mirror was reflecting someone that she did not see — not
truly. She was beautiful; long black hair, full lips, and eyes that
disappeared into a deep abyss of mystery. But all that she could
see was sadness. All that she could feel was the weight of Fia
which she allowed to rest on her shoulders — which were
aching.

She slipped into her nightgown and
nestled deep under the silk blankets that smelled of Lavender.
Cyneric was asleep with his face turned away from her. She loved to
listen to his breathing, like waves crashing in — out. She missed
him horribly. What an awful feeling it was to have someone’s warmth
next to you in bed but feel so cold. There was an empty, aching
space in her heart. A deepness she had never felt, and an impulsive
longing to fill it.

Everything felt like a fast wind
had come in; spinning her around in circles of confusion. She
couldn’t tell up from down. Lost. She forced herself to cling
tightly to the amazing memories they shared together; an attempt to
reassure herself that all was not lost, that he would come back to
her.

Tears were welling up in her eyes
like the perspiration in Fia’s caves. She could feel her throat
tightening — empathy’s noose.
Let go of
things that are out of your control, Firinne.

A truth that she knew but found too
hard at this very moment to accept.

Through the distortion of her
tears, she saw, what she thought, was a wisp of black mist, snaking
its way up from the back of Cyneric’s head. As soon as she thought
she saw it, she thought she hadn’t.

Panic.

CHAPTER THREE

Desideriums

Deep within
the bowels of Castle Blacken, there was an intense energy building;
an ember ready to ignite. Desiderium guards were moving within the
walls and on the grounds in straight, purposeful lines. Screams of
agony echoed through the halls from the dungeons — Castle Blacken,
the grand theater. Voices of peril bounced from wall to wall,
smashing into the grand arches of the ceiling, and plummeting back
down to the floors, where the Desideriums marched. This was a place
of abuse, where even the vibrations on the floor caused by the
victims screams, were abused by the boots of
Desideriums.

Castle Blacken was a dreadfully
beautiful sight to behold. Built of Obsidian that looked like
liquid, there were intricate symbols carved into the sides of the
castle walls. The corners and edges of the Castle were sharp, and
they reflected the light of the Sun so intensely, that the lines of
the castle looked like they were glowing. Following these glowing
lines up, there was a single tower which was centered at what might
have been the beating heart of Castle Blacken. The mere height of
it created a shadow that stretched as far as the forests; miles
away. At the top of the tower, there were three black spears
pointing up towards the sky, where the Mist of Blacken swirled like
a vortex above the castle. No one on Fia could deny that dark
energy had been used to bring Castle Blacken to life, and it was
just that — alive. A breathing entity that absorbed all things
black — hate, greed, lust, envy, fear, power, dishonesty, and
death. Tears provided it hydration — screams gave it life. Blood?
Blood gave it power.

Inside the highest and most
magnificent tower, there burned a black fire in the center of the
room. Standing in the gray light surrounding the black flames, were
the three Lords of Castle Blacken. The Dantalion Lords were
facilitators — delivering orders to the Desideriums, and observing
the vibration-altering process. They wore long cloaks made of black
lace, with hoods that rested weightlessly on their skulls. The
Dantalion Lords were a mortal adaptation of purgatory. Their bodies
were spliced down the center, one-half was skeletal, and the other
was a face resembling that of a human. Their skin was stretched
tightly which made every bone and vein protrude. Their bones were
as black as the stone beneath their feet. They were torn between
two realities of existence — humble servants to the Great King of
Castle Blacken.

The Lords were holding out their
hands over the flames. While one hand had its palm facing up, the
other black, skeletal hands were moving in a twisted sort of dance
in and out of the flames. They were chanting something
unidentifiable which would begin with a low growl, and then reach a
slow climax; a high-pitched screech of ecstasy. With each pause
between notes, black sparks would float out of the flames, which
would enter into the mouths of the Lords upon the inhalation
leading up to the next note. It was a dark, ancient magic whose
purpose was to sort and concentrate the desired energy frequency
that was being released onto Fia. This ceremony would be finished
by the sacred ingestion of the Blood of Fia, which the Desideriums
were siphoning from Fia, hourly. Fia’s blood was invaluable to all
that was Castle Blacken. It was the source for their black fire,
the drink that the Desideriums indulged upon, and the power which
fueled the beasts they rode into battle.

There was something that was
different in the castle on this day. The Desideriums were
whispering to each other behind their black, masked helmets as if a
battle would soon be engaged, or maybe a plan that was successful
had led to this profound moment. Whatever it was, there was
excitement in the air and it was seeping out of Castle Blacken —
transforming into an air of nervousness as it whistled through the
lands. It swept across the grasses, around branches, over the
lakes, up the rivers — everyone could feel it. Something had
changed.

A long day of preparation had ended
and some of the Desideriums retreated into the great hall where
they would dine on confiscated food and Fia’s blood. The
Desideriums would drink and drink, until they were either fighting
with each other, fumbling into the sleeping quarters, or ripping
off the clothes of their latest female victim.

One man was pounding himself into
and in-between a woman’s legs as she was chained to a wall in one
corner, while another man violently fondled her breasts. With every
untamed thrust, she was slammed into the stone wall, leaving
bruises on the back of her skull. Yet, when she met his primal
gaze, she thought she saw a look of horror in his eyes.

In another area of the great hall,
two men were standing on tables, threatening each other with their
Obsidian swords. There was a man who had fallen on the stairs that
led out of the hall — he was now unconscious. All the while,
screams were still echoing from the dungeons as if it were proper
dinner music — The Grand Orchestra of Death And Torture.

What was worse, the Desideriums
were the sons, brothers, and fathers who had once lived on Fia.
When the Mist of Blacken came, it had a power that no one on Fia
could fight. No man was safe unless he was weak, young, or sick —
somehow the Mist knew. When the Mist found a Desiderium, it would
twist its way down to him, wrapping itself around him, and sucking
him back up into the Mist. Nearly ten-thousand men were taken from
villages and castles that fateful day following The
Ascension.

After the Desideriums were
collected, the Mist of Blacken constructed them just as easily as
it had built Castle Blacken. These poor souls were trapped and
replaced with a dark apparition of the Mist of Blacken — like a
soul it only needed a vessel — a desirable vessel. It was not clear
whether the Desideriums were aware of the things they were doing
and people often thought that if they were aware, how much they
were being tormented just as much as they were tormenting the
people of Fia — their people. Having no control of their actions,
they would watch themselves do horrible things. What was even more
concerning was whether there was even an ability to save the
Desideriums from their slavery. If they could be saved, how damaged
would their minds and souls be?

After all of the men had finally
fallen asleep; heads on tables, bodies lying where they had fallen,
women trapped under snoring men who were too afraid to move; the
Mist would come to collect its vessels. The poor, lifeless,
Desideriums floated on the heavy air of the black mist as it
carried them down to the sleeping quarters, where they were
suspended on hooks from the ceiling until sunrise — a prized
collection; possession.

That was the moment of the evening
when whichever woman who was left in the dining hall had to make
her move. The moment the Mist of Blacken was out of sight, they
would scramble, with whatever strength they had left in them, to
the tables. The Desideriums fancied the blood of Fia more than the
food, so there was always a heaping amount at the table which would
be wasted the following day. Stuffing their mouths in silence with
whatever they could get their hands on, trying desperately to not
only taste the sweetness of the food which contained spectralin,
but also build their strength. They ravaged through every morsel —
they had to. Without those few moments of gluttony, they couldn’t
be sure how many more days of torture they would
survive.

These women had been at Castle
Blacken for such a long time that they had a precise method. They
had timed the Mist so that they knew when it would return to carry
them back to the dungeons. Once the Mist of Blacken returned, they
would muster every ounce of fear they could by forcing themselves
to relive torture, rape, and whatever else they had been through,
which masked the new spectralin they had just obtained from the
food. Every evening the women in the dungeons were alternated, but
they had all shared the method with each other in hopes of
survival. Yet, it was becoming more apparent that most of them just
wanted to die. They probably would die sooner or later.

When there is no foreseeable hope,
fortitude becomes a wasted effort. They couldn’t see a way out; of
Castle Blacken or the horrible situation that their world was in.
It seemed that whatever power was controlling the Mist of Blacken,
was allowing it to grow stronger by the day. No matter how hard the
people tried to stay strong and faithful to the light of the
cosmos, it was futile. Everyone — people, creatures, and plants
were in despair. When they tried to focus their intentions on
positive vibrational frequencies, there was always an obstacle that
forced them to succumb to their fear. These women were no
different. They were feeling more and more disconnected from The
Ethereal Collective.

There were of course small acts of
rebellion, and those women cheered for them, even through the pain
they cheered; through the suffering of it all; they cheered, but it
was only that — just a cheer.

A fleeting feeling of one small
victory that is effortlessly shadowed by adversity.