White Flowers.

Darkness. This isn’t the usual Darkness. The ‘lights are out’ kind of dark. Not the ‘It’s dark but the stars light up the field’. No. It’s more than that. It is the type of darkness that envelopes. Penetrates. Twists and turns and corrupts. There is an evil here, in this darkness, an old and wicked thing. It has a cruel and intelligent sense of humor, a depraved mind that laughs at the world’s pain.

There is darkness here. And it speaks.

Hoo-rah.

“Reader?” It asks. It’s still dark, and you, ‘Reader’, can’t see anything. Your eyes are open yes, but, Like stated previously, it’s very dark. A sheet of black obscures your vision, a darkness that almost has a weight to it. You can’t see a thing.

It’s cold.

“Reader? are you there?” The Darkness asks again. It’s voice is deep and soothing, like that of a trusted and well learned father. But there is something else to it- a lingering beast to the calm- The sound of its voice could only be compared to the relative tranquility of a lake-but there are shadows in that lake. Beasts swim, hidden from human eyes by the beautiful dark water- Waiting for someone foolish enough to dip in their ankle-

You answer.

The Darkness laughs.

“Good”, It says.

“I thought you were scared to death.” The voice says.

“Let’s play some music.” It says.

You hear a swift rush of air fly past your ears, and the clicking of heels on wood finish. A few moments of silence, and then a click. Slowly, the sound of music is heard. It’s haunting but beautiful, a soulful sounding song, with heavy percussion and saxophones and chirping guitars.

The voice begins to sing along to the music- It’s then you realize its singing to swing.

The voice matches the music- Moody, deep, dark, and mysterious. It seems to come across a great distance, and as the voice sings, your eyes begin to adjust. It’s still dark- but now there is a shape to the darkness- A shape which turns into a man- sitting in a chair, legs crossed, well dressed, a dark wide-brimmed hat resting upon his head.

He flashes you a smile. You see fangs.

“Hello, reader.” He says. He rises, and humming to the music, approaches you. You try to move, but then realize you are bound. You can’t see what constricts you, but it feels like a very heavy rope. Your eyes are unable to look away from the man.

He leans over. He is inches away from your face now, as close as his large hat would allow. He lifts his hat with one pale finger, and then pulls it off. His face is pale- Chiseled. Violet eyes stare into you. Invasive.

Controlling.

He smiles again, the fangs poking out more noticeably this time.

“Reader, you’re probably wondering why you’re here. Why you are reading this event about you.” He says. He pokes a pale and thin finger at your face.

“You see, Reader, this story isn’t just about the hero. The villain. It’s about you. And me. But you aren’t the hero, and I am not the villain.” He says, his smile closing, thin lips sitting upon each other, forming a straight, red line across his pale profile..

He turns, and walks slowly to his chair.

He sits.

He snaps.

A book appears. He opens the book delicately, and you can hear the fine snap as the book’s binding reluctantly gives way to his force. The man looks back up at you, his eyes glowing.

“It all began in Rome..” He starts, and then suddenly, it is dark again.

But there is light. And then for the first time, You see that Light can be worse than The Darkness.

***

The First Night

Witches. They, and their abase craft were outlawed. A ruling that Arrian himself thought was enforced. But as he sat, his face colored and warmed by the fire, watching his father speak to one of the abominations in front of him, his mind was dull.

And his sense of right and wrong nullified.

Cold air snuck through the thick and dark colored wool coat that he had wrapped around himself, the cowl of his hood obscuring his face and a portion of his vision. The bitter bite his skin received and the small reprieve each time the fire danced in the howling wind were the only reminders that he was not dreaming, and what he saw- what he was seeing, was real.

A Witch.

He looked at her with abhorrence. As opposed to he and his father, she was pale-skinned, with icy blue eyes and blonde hair. Traits that his father told him were the marks of the barbarians- traits of cowardice. Yet, here they were. The wind howled again, and the long grass that surrounded them tickled Arrian’s legs. They sat in an open field, upon stools that the Witch produced. The fire faced them all, Arrian sitting by his father, and the Witch sitting opposite of them, across the flames.

The brightness of them brought out the depths of her eyes. She was adorned in some sort of Tribal dress, a bone necklace of small rodent-like animals silently screamed as they stared ahead with empty sockets. Blue paint marked her face- Two thin streaks that fell from her eyes like tears, and another line, this one thick, that drew from the bottom of her lip to the ends of her chin.

A red circle was drawn upon her chest, with a bleeding line that found itself at the nape of her breasts. The shadows created by the fire accented their curve.

“Can it be done?” Arrian’s father whispered, his voice shaking. Fear gripped him. Arrian looked to him with question in his eyes, but said nothing.

The Witch laughed. An eerie but somehow soothing sound, her eyes growing wider and brighter, so bright they seemed to glow in the relative darkness.

“Yes. It can be done. It is something my people have done for thousands of years.” She responded, Arrian noticing the fullness of her lips, the sensual savagery of her voice.

It was silent as Arrian’s father stared into the fire with old and tired eyes. He brought a hand up to his mouth and wiped it, slowly, dragging his skin as he finally pulled his hand away and allowed it to land in his lap with a silent plop.

“My-My wife..” He began again, to which the Witch rose from her seating position quickly, putting a hand to her lips.

“Shh.. Shh” She cooed, and danced around the fire halfways- approaching Arrian’s father with an open hand.

“No, stay back!” Arrian’s father warned, getting up himself and producing a steel dagger from within his robes. He stood in front of Arrian, shielding him from her view. Arrian stared into his father’s back-and eclipsing darkness covered him now.

He heard the Witch laugh with a sense of demented mirth. He heard the sound as her soft feet walked upon the cold autumn grass.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Roman. Now, Where is the body?” She inquired. Arrian saw his father’s shoulders sag, and he himself sighed deeply with a sense of what he believed to be premature relief, despite himself. His father moved away, revealing the smoldering fire to Arrian’s eyes, which quickly dilated to adjust to the sudden light.

The Witch followed his father to where he had left the body, carrying it with him all the way from the capital to the outskirts of the savage lands. A company of soldiers were with them, but they too, were barbarians- merchant soldiers whose loyalty, above all else, was owned by greed.

“Arrian.” His father called, causing Arrian to turn around to look for him in the darkness. He couldn’t see clearly, not even the stars helped him, but he nodded in blindness.

“If anything happens-You know what to do.” His father said morbidly. Arrian nodded dumbly again as he suddenly felt the pressure of the dagger strapped to his chest. If things were to go wrong, he was to end his own life without hesitation. Becoming a prisoner to Barbarians was worse than any death that could be dealt. He turned his attention back to the fire. It danced, like it always had, like any fire that he had seen. But somehow, it seemed wrong. The way it moved- The way the wind seemed to make it grow larger, the way it seemed to be defiant to the world.

Abnormal. A creation not of this earth, but of something more sinister.

Lurking.

Feeding.

And that’s when he heard it. The scream.

“Arrian! Ru-” And then a struggle, and then nothing. Arrian jumped to his feet, struggling out of his coat, his barely clothed body exposed to the full chill of the night, the coldness covering him like a sheet.

He grasped for his dagger, and held it at his side. He stood by the fire, alert, afraid, heart pounding.

Where were the mercenaries?

Silence.

“Father.” He whispered.

Darkness.

“Father!”

A cackle. A crack.

He heard something, Someone, walking towards him. Behind him. Every direction. The fire danced, grew brighter, and with each footstep he heard as it met the wet grass, the fire seemed to get hotter-more dangerous. It began to burn his skin, and he yelped, jumping away from it, but attempting to stay in its light.

“A gift to the romans.” A male voice hissed behind Arrian, and before he could turn, a sharp pain took his neck. It dug deeper, almost reaching the bone of his collar, and then he felt awareness leave him.

A Gift to the Romans. A Gift to the World. A Gift to the Lord, A blessing to the Son.

This has become our prayer, our mission. The Seed shall grow. The seed shall spread.

The seed shall supplant.

The Seed shall supplant.