The Occultist III

[Jentos 9422]

 

THE OCCULTIST

III

 

 

Dancing horrors!

Singing sorrows!

The ecstasy of pain. 

 

A fire. 

Give me a fire. 

 

And there it was that the thing did run. It’s arms and legs carrying it with hectic resolve. Blood was driven from a myriad of wounds. Within, it’s very body shifted and corroded - manipulating and creating. The very divinity of a life that would not end. A miracle, replicated, deranged, sinister. How dare he?

 

The heart of Man did sunder - it began beating as thunder, and the thing did falter, cascading down. Limbs flayed madly, and deep, wild words echoed from its throat. 

 

Eiresh Vagr. 

Yr Barghahm. 

Yr Barog.

Aeimon. 

 

It spun and spasmed. Riveting lights danced in its mind. Pain - wholly holy pain assailed him. He sat damned in his puddle of blood and mud. Careening within under the visitation of suffering. The making of a living, breathing, murderous martyr. 

 

To define such a mind is to defy greater Law. If there even is such a thing. It is to attempt the impossible - to correlate the philosophies of the mind Man has made - and implant them into something so older and so horrific, so that it becomes utterly cryptic. An insane, floundering and shivering mountain of a mind. It redefines the mind. For as the Heart attempts to adapt to the Soul, so does the brain to the spirit. 

 

And so there it lay in its peaceable fury.

In its melancholic suffering. The very flesh of it threatened to slough.

It’s very stomach howling. 

The mind demanded and the Heavens implored. 

 

Before him, a burning choir of stars that shone past the screen of clouds. Eyes widening it rose. It stumbled. It fell. 

And there again, and yet again the mind did try to fit the spirit. And the Heart did attempt to resolve such a Soul. And this Soul is a wheel; you must understand it for this Soul knows God. Or so it tries in all its burning, horrible macabre glory. This Soul carves away at its very flesh. It contradicts the World and offers itself as a martyr to a distressed society so it may burn and suffer forever. 

 

Above all it desires fire. That flickering thing. And if it cannot become fire it shall let it devour him. Just as mankind does with passion. Just as they do with their inventions. Their words, their customs and thoughts. The only difference is that the thing I speak of does not see as man sees, and does not care to hide it. It may attempt to replicate, but it cannot descend from where it ascended. It already sits above to the complexity of others. 

 

All for its nightmarish, ghoulish attempts to defy eternity, and please the Thing it calls God. 

 

God is not a god. The God is God. 

It does not laugh. It does not cry. It is pitch and it is a flame. And no matter how hard you stamp down that flame it will remain. The harder you blow, the harder you choke it, the more it consumes. 

The God dreams in blood. It sits in a puddle of its own creation - forever unknowable. 

It sits separated. Destroyed. Tossed and shattered by the things that make men men. For when it did make life did it surrender divinity for desire. And what makes a God, but the lack of desire?

 

How foolishly it takes another Heart, in the hopes that its Faith is the only one. 

 

It is not. But it shall be the last.