Page 55 of Dead Wrong

Retracing my steps to the sanctuary, I took my time enjoying the pockets of warmth brought on by the sun before pulling open the heavy wooden door. A few moments passed before I located Cirian, knelt by the altar at the end of the aisle. His soft voice carried through the still air, the words mulling together in a stream so fluid that it almost sounded like a song. Quietly, I made my way up the aisle, watching the man as he shifted his position, arms extending and the muscles along his back pulling taut as he shrugged off his tunic, letting it fall to the ground behind him. From his kneeling position, Cirian tucked a leg under him, balancing on one foot as he remained in a low squat, centering himself. The prayer, or whatever it was he was reciting, continued uninterrupted as he moved through a progression of postures, his skin quickly beginning to glisten with the fruits of his exertion.

I had never witnessed a communing ritual before. Mother had not allowed me nor Lynette to delve into the practices of the Hallowed during our studies, preferring that we focus on more ‘appropriate’ subjects. There was an abject beauty in the way Cirian’s body moved, how he bent and twisted himself into shapes I would have thought impossible, all the while his concentration never faltering.

It was impressive, to say the least. And the longer I watched him, the more I wondered if my fascination was with the ritual itself or the beautiful man performing it.

Cirian’s body seized suddenly, his limbs going rigid as the prayer ceased, casting the sanctuary into an eerie silence. I took a cautious step toward him but halted as Cirian’s posture straightened, turning to face me. The whites of his eyes were swallowed by cerulean light. It poured from his orifices, nearly blinding me as his mouth opened, a guttural voice echoing through him:

“Son of the Second, lost in the ether.

You have been beckoned, Death is your teacher.

Awakening draws nigh, the fragmented power,

Longs to be whole, and late grows the hour.

“Bind them together, imbue them with might.

Test the connections betwixt shadow and light.

Keep close the prophet, cling to the seeker,

Stand firm with the rebel, wake not the sleeper.

“Son of the Second, your journey begins.

Wastelands and deserts, flee wide across the stems.

Look for the mirror, reflecting the truth.

Beware the distortion, trust only the sooth.”

Cirian fell quiet, the eerie light receding from his eyes, his chest heaving as he stood stark still. My own breath was cemented in my chest. When his gaze finally lifted to meet mine, confusion twisted his features.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, shoulders sagging with fatigue. “I don’t… I don’t know what just happened.”

Fear roiled in my gut, twisting my insides and rooting me in place. Memories of Lynette staring back at me with milky eyes set me on edge, but I shoved them down. My mind raced, repeating the words spoken by the ominous voice to try and commit them to memory as best I could.

“A pen,” I said, and Cirian’s expression only grew more confused. “Quickly! I need a pen and paper! Anything to write with.”

Cirian moved then, circling the altar and retrieving a scroll of parchment then rummaging through a derelict chest of drawers until he uncovered a stick of charcoal. I played the words again and again while he searched, hoping that my addled mind wouldn’t muck up the transcription.

Snatching the material from him, I unfurled the parchment onto the altar—the only semi-flat surface around—and began to write furiously.

“What in damnation are you doing?” Cirian asked, hovering over my shoulder.

“Quiet,” I ordered, devoting every bit of my function to documenting the words. My mind had been a sieve since my rebirth, but surprisingly, I was able to complete the set of couplets, only faltering on a word here and there.

“What is this?” Cirian questioned as the charcoal fell from my hand and dusted the lingering residue off on the leg of my trousers.

“I think it’s a prophecy,” I replied, scanning over the smudged, hastily scrawled lines. “Direct from the Source, if I had to guess.”

“The Source?” Cirian echoed, turning to face me. “What are you talking about?”

The absurdity forced me to bite back a laugh. “Are you telling me you don’t remember reciting this, oh great Acolyte of the Source?”

Cirian’s expression turned tortured. “You jest. This is an ill-timed joke, Tobias, so cease this at once.”

“What’s the trouble, Acolyte?” I pushed, the mocking tone welling up from someplace deep within my subconscious. “Proof of your faith in the Source is right here in front of you, and you’re cowering like a mongrel pup.”

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