~~~

Read a sample: 

At first there is only sound: a dull moan, a heavy breath panting in and out. Then a quick inhalation, a suck of air for strength before it blasts out again in a scream as the stylus digs in. The cry stretches out into the silence for long seconds, then dies away. It will go on like this for as long as consciousness remains.

In the background, underneath the human noises, a more animal one. A constant scratching as the pens move across their parchment. They are leaned on, forced down against the toughened material.

Open your eyes and the light streams in, illuminating the scene. A small, circular room, high in a lonely tower, the one window displaying an empty, careless sky. The room is accessed by a single trapdoor, heavy wood with a thick steel bolt locking it from the inside. The occupants will not be disturbed.

A single black raven flutters up to the window sill, drawn by the smell of blood and open flesh. It watches them at work for a moment, before being startled away again by another scream.

Three aged monks sit in a circle on the floor, rocking back and forth as they dip their pens and lean down to scratch more letters on the pale, dead skin that is stretched out on the floor. They each work in turn, closing their eyes to study the timbre of each scream, identifying the notes and syllables revealed within it. Translating it into a language more easily understood by their fellow man.

Each one is thankful for their work, thankful for the continued panting breath of their colleague. Each breath in and out is another gift for them, another moment of life before they too are forced into the centre of their circle, forced to become the mouthpiece.

The skin stretched on the floor around them is thin, but elastic and tough. It retains a sickly yellow colour from the air and the rudimentary cleaning it received, but it will outlast them all. Its natural oils will keep it safe for the coming centuries; keep it until the time arrives. The dark brown, almost black scratches of blood on its surface dry quickly.

The letters themselves are sharp and thickly set. The pen shakes as another cry rips out and it moves to set down its meaning. Dark scholars will pore over these markings for the rest of time, only ever glimpsing flashes of their true power. They are not meant for such eyes.

A final cry bursts forth from the bound figure in the centre of their circle, and the remaining three all raise their heads to watch their brother’s final moments as he slumps gratefully into the arms of death. He has been strong, and has served well. He will be rewarded.

They stand as one and lift the thin, empty body onto their shoulders, then push it out the window to smash onto the steps far below, where it joins its brothers in rest. Blood smears across the stone window sill. A grateful caw calls back to them from the birds feasting below.

Only they three remain. Without a sound, two sit and pick up their pens. The third removes his cloak to reveal a fragile, sagging body. He moves into position, slips his hands behind his back and into the tough leather cuffs that will keep any human weakness from sullying the work.

The sharp pens reach out and dig in, deep into the thick rich ink his body holds. A cry pours forth and he drops his head. Words mumble on his breath, words that only he and his brothers can hear, that only they have the power to capture. Words that will be the most powerful and final gift to the world from the Angelici.

The raven lands on the sill again, pecks disinterestedly at the blood drying under its claws, and continues to watch. Its dark, empty eyes scan the room, taking in the pages of human skin stacked around the walls, marked with the teachings of the last great grimoire. It will be the greatest, most powerful of its kind. The dark bible. The Book of Samael, Venom of God, Angel of Death.

~~~

1 – e4 e5

Every night he dreams, and every night he dies.

He wakes with the memory of life flowing out of him, opens his eyes just as he breathes his final, halting breath. He dies any number of ways. Strangulation. Drowning. His throat cut by a stranger. His brains dashed out on the ground – that one was most common. He falls from a great height and feels the world rushing towards him, waking life and all its consequence ready to break his fragile frame when they meet. He’s heard that most people wake before they hit the ground. Not him. He feels the final kiss every time.

Domonic has found that if he lies very still, his eyes open but unfocused, staring up through the ceiling, if he doesn’t allow the light and noise of the world to pour in and wash away the few remaining phantoms from his sleep, then he can almost remember what it had been like to be happy.

Before the doctors came with their questions and stares, their searching eyes and final decisions, their drugs that wiped away his mind and left him empty and blank, heavy yet somehow still floating and disconnected. Before any of it existed at all.

Before this bed, this room with its clean white walls, scrubbed clear of possible distraction, its hard tiled floors that announced any visitor long before they appeared in the doorway.

Before the nightmares.

The doctors wanted him to write down his dreams, capture them for study and discussion. He did what he was told. He used the present tense. He listed minor details. They seemed satisfied, but he knew his descriptions were inadequate. The terror was missing. The knowledge that no matter what he did, he would die before he awoke. He would be taken.

The doctors spoke to him about themes, about common fears, about responsibility. He nodded as though considering their views. He remembered red and grey skies streaked with fire, heavy with conflict. He remembered wings.

His dreams weren’t about the future. He was no prophet. They showed him things that had already occurred, long before his existence. He was a trespasser in each scene, unable to leave until death removed him. He watched strange beings fight each other, saw humans commit acts of treachery and horror against their own race. He watched it all without lifting a finger. He stood perfectly still. He knew there was nothing he could do.

The doctors asked him about his waking life. About his work. He tried to sound enthusiastic. Lately his dream world had become brighter, more vivid. The colours stronger in hue, the smells and sounds clearer, less muted. The real world had suffered in comparison. It was fuzzy and indistinct. He went days without talking to anyone.

At least here he was safe. There were no dark corners here, no shadows to hide in. No mirrors, those doorways to infinity. Let the doctors write what they wanted.

He wasn’t sure why he told the doctors what he did, but they seemed concerned. They believed their work was important. He didn’t want to shatter their illusions. He understood the need to feel necessary. He didn’t want to let them down.

He smiled and wrote and waited for his dreams to come true.