A story set in Cathonia, one of the Empires in T and T
Ancient stone walls stretch to touch the clouds. Glorious spires crowned with ornate statues cast deep shadows throughout the streets of Vericentris. Shadowy images of the great Lion, in his thorned crown dance across the cobblestone paths that sprawl in front of the heavy iron-wrought doors that separate the dark secrets of within from prying eyes.
Tomas looks to the shadows nervously. His gaze settles and he watches as his own shadow fades and conjoins that of the Lion. He shudders and reaches his hand to his chest. He feels his fingers feebly feel for the scroll tucked neatly into the folds of his sanguine robes. The Ivarshade, he remembers it being called. He feels the scroll still tucked, and a whirlpool of dread and relief works its way through his body. He swallows. It is a rough gesture that almost pains him, and he pushes forward into the shadow of the cathedral.
He stares at the doors before him. Heavy ancient wood is supported by thick bands of obsidian-black iron that wrap around in delicate patterns that look as if black serpents dance and writhe before him. The secrets of the most sinister of confessions ooze through cracks and small holes, tiny terrible tentacles that reach for the release of the outside world.
Tomas… The sound is a whisper that writhes through the walls and worms its way into his ears. He knows he hears it. It beckons. It calls to him. It burrows through his ears worming inside of his brain until the whisper is the buzzing of bees. He winces in pain and once again touches the scroll through his robes. He sucks a deep breath of air into his lungs. The taste of sin and sorrow taint the air, and he loathes the feeling it gives him when it is deep inside his lungs. Slowly he breathes out. It is an attempt to relieve the pressure inside of his head, but he has found no reprieve through this futile exercise. He knows what he must do. He reaches those feeble hands to the sturdy doors, weak fingers wrapping around the strong iron handle. The air around him swirls and pushes past him as the door is pulled open. The whispers of sinful confessions are now a maelstrom, and he feels the intensity pull at him, its siren’s song luring him deeper inside.
Tomas… It whispers again.
Tomas looks around. His eyes search the walls for a door. He knows it is here. He knows he has seen it, but every time he enters the cathedral it is like the first time. Windows seem to sink slowly down walls, while stairs seem to endlessly wind from the divine heights of Aetherra to the plagued pits of Narthul. Tomas has never understood how the cathedral works, despite being a junior archivist. He has heard the old ones tell tales of ancient spirits that protect the walls from the outside. He has heard the heretics speak of dark magics and eldar beings. The more he learns of the cathedral the more power it seems to have over him. No reprieve. No respite. Only the clawing whispers of the inner workings of the cathedral haunting his dreams.
Tomas…
The whispers seem to direct him and his eyes follow them. The walls dance and move, until slowly the door reveals itself. The wood of the door is charred and black. It swallows all light. It devours. Adorning the door is a single sphere. Tomas believes it looks like an eye, it is milky, shiny, its pupil missing. It stares deep into his soul, he can never escape its penetrating gaze.
The scroll in his pocket grows heavy in the gaze of the eye. It yearns to pass through to the other side. It demands to be taken. Tomas finds his fingers once again feeling for the parchment, but when he looks down he realizes he already has it in his hands. The scroll is old, the papery dark and leathery. It is wrapped with a cord and a wax seal holds it shut. He stares at the seal and notices that it, too, is adorned with the same unblinking eye as the door. Has it always been there? Something moves and he catches it in the corner of his eye. Unease slowly drips down his spine. Did the door blink? Was he imagining it?
Tomas…
The air is heavy. It is filled with the smells of brimstone and fire. It is suffocating and he finds it impossible to breathe. He wants to get away, to turn and run, but the dread weighs him down, anchoring his feet to the marble floor. He closes his eyes. Pain sears through his head as he struggles to close them ever tighter. He thinks to himself. He considers what has brought him here, how he came to be the owner of this scroll, this unholy burden. Slowly he opens his eyes. In his mind he’s decided that when they are open he will be back home. He will be nestled slowly in his bed. He will awaken from a fiendish nightmare and relief will wash away his fear.
He gasps. It is a sharp, pained sound. His chest is tight and he tries hard to force air into his lungs, but the brimstone burns when he sucks the air deep inside. The door is now within arms reach. The blackness swallows all around him. Light and sound diminish. Now he can only hear his heartbeat. He wonders if it is even his heart he hears, if it is his heart he feels. He can feel his pulse in his palms and he looks to his hands. The seal’s eye flows from milky white to cloudy crimson. It pulses rhythmically as Tomas realizes it was not his heart he had felt.
Clouds of sulfuric ash bellow from the cracks in the door, and the air burns every fiber of his being. He watches the door creak and groan under the pressure of the hellish nightmares that await on the other side. The eye of the door sits, unblinking. It beacons him to open it. He can feel himself struggling to resist. He attempts to pray, but gibbering words fall from twisted lips. His free hand slowly reaches for the handle of the void.
The hand hangs in the air. He doesn’t recognize it. The knuckles are gnarled and crooked, the skin pitted and rotten. The wordless sounds continue to writhe from his burned lips until he feels something warm and wet trickle down his cheek. A single tear hugs the ruined skin on his face as he realizes how powerless he is. The twisted hand feebly grasps the handle. The door slowly groans as the pressure behind it is released.
Tomas…