Hark

A distant mewl brings the shadowed man to the tent where a crying baby is held by his dead mother. “This child has the fire in him,” the man thought to himself as he tore back the rigor mortised fingers grasping the child’s body. As he lifted the boy aloft, like he was offering him up to the condemnatory sky, the ethereal power in the air coalesced and formed the words: HARK! He would be God if it were not for me.

The world had long since been marred by the conflicts of men, and longer since by demons, and even longer since by God. But this story takes place in a different time, in a different world, ruled by a different power.
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“Neshamah is the breath of life. Like this flame in my hand, it flows peacefully never touching or burning, but without control, it can ravage in pure destruction.”

The man speaking was well built and well dressed, sporting a white stitched shirt tucked into black pants. Holding out his hand a small candle-like flame sprouted out an inch above a black dot centered in his palm. On his wrist, a blue band lay tattooed on his skin marking him in exile of his tribe.

The boy crouched by the fire and watched him.
“You are to be King of the Left, Cormac.”
The man pauses.
“As such, you will inherit your forefather’s Idol.”

The boy, Cormac McCarthy, age of fourteen years, was the third born to Lord Charon Rimini McCarthy King of the Left. On the night of his birth, the Lyranids fell from the night sky marking the birth of the next Vessel for Dante God of fire, as it had done for every generation before.

“I get it Mr. Montag, learn to control and shape your Neshamah or it will only hurt you.”
“Alright Cormac, that’s all for today,” said Montag as he snuffed out the flame in his hand “let’s meet with your brothers and head for the Immolationer’s Tribunal.”

As the two headed out of the cave they often enjoyed training in, the full view of the kingdom came into view basked in the morning light. Wheatfields watered by farmers coalescing the water from thin air, stone houses being erected from the ground by masons, all of this merging into great spires on which groups of men sit atop driving away the morning clouds. Further in and further up sits a large castle nestled on the back of a gigantic stone figure akin to Atlas, who was built to resemble Dante the God of fire and Protector of the Left.

This was the first time Cormac was deemed old enough to join his brothers in witnessing the King’s justice being dealt. His brothers’ who both had the experience of at least one of these trials told fantastical stories that made Cormac nervous with excitement. Braum thought perhaps a tribe had been stupid enough to go to war with the Kingdoms and were caught at the wall by the Lost King Tanyll Branwell. Cormac remembered what Mr. Montag had told him of his past life living in the tribes and the stories that went with them. The tribesmen were each as strong as the strongest Kingdom soldier while the tribe’s leader was oft as strong as a King. If the Lost King Tanyll Branwell was stronger than an entire tribe, Cormac pondered to himself, then why are there still tribes that settle around the wall?

After nearly half a day of walking, the group made its way to the clearing where the tribunal was to be held. Instead of the Lost King Tanyll Branwell stood Cormac’s father and instead of fifty or so tribespeople stood one next to four of the Kingdom’s guardsmen adorned in the same shackles.

“What have you all to say for bringing a non-exiled tribesman past the wall?” boomed Charon’s voice.
The smallest guardsman was the first to speak, “King Charon, the man has told us stories of horror from beyond the wall and asks for refuge in the Kingdom.”
Lord Charon stood solemnly in front of the five men, his hair grew long and grey, and the wrinkles on his face did not betray the 55 years he had lived.

“Let me hear this story, Outsider."

“Let me hear this story, Outsider.”

The tribesman looked up, once proud he now looked palid and thin.

“Two men and a boy came into my village nestled in the mountains, all with the exiled blue band and a golden crown tattooed on the inside of the wrist. The boy wasn’t particularly strong, however, neither physical attack nor Neshamah could come within one meter of him, no matter how strong the man attacking him was. Among them was also a man that held a brilliant white sword with which all those within his view would be cut asunder, instantaneously.”

“And the other?” Asked Charon.

The tribesmen broke eyesight with the King and stated, “The other had the largest reservoir of Neshamah I had ever felt. I am thankful that I had not seen him unleash his strength on my tribe, as I would most likely not be here to tell the story.”

The King looked down upon the tribesman with his steely grey eyes, “Humor me, Outsider. I’ll show you the full potential of my Neshamah, and you tell me if this other man could give me a good fight.”
Without allowing the tribesman to agree, Charon lept back a great distance. The air began to shift uncomfortably under the weight of the Neshamah being released. Plumes of fire began to overtake the old man’s body as he ascended into the air. Finally, a third eye opened on his forehead as he was finally overtaken by the raging fire. The force of the transformation alone cracked the ground for a mile around as the grass billowed in the hellfire above. Where the old man stood, was now overtaken by a 100-meter tall anthropomorphic fire. The sight alone left even Guy Montag speechless, the guardsmen had all but soiled their pants. The heat was so unbearable that even Cormac, a user of the same fire attribute as his father, had to hide behind the ice wall created by his eldest brother Thom, however, even that was beginning to fade despite the constant stream of Neshamah pumped into it to keep its form. The effect was so large that even tens of miles away in the Kingdom of the Left, the commoners and nobles alike had to work together to keep the heat at bay.

Lord Charon, now Dante, God of Fire, asked aloud “So little one, how do the remnants of my powers compare?”

To which the sullen man replied, “You would be killed the instant you met him, maybe even before then.”

“HA! So there are still men trying to climb the ladder? Interesting days ahead indeed. But why should I care about the conflicts between the tribes and the men they exiled?”

The tribesman looked up, “The blue band gives them free access into these lands, does it not? And with a stronghold set up just a few days travel outside your wall, surely you would be worried about invaders this strong in your lands?”

“Perhaps I would, but the question remains as to why a tribesman would worry enough about the Kingdoms to share this information.”

“Because I would like refuge in your ‘kingdom’ for a few days before I head east.”

The hellfire incarnate replied, “Unfortunately, the contract we made with the tribesfolk to ensure ours and the tribe’s safety is one that can not be easily broken. We help the tribes by taking in their exiled, only proven by their blue bands. Apart from that, we are allowed no leeway as to be seen as third-party to the tribes. In return, the tribes leave us alone. You could see how letting in a non-exiled tribesman into our city could be seen as poor form to the other tribes?”

The taller of the four guardsmen interjected, “We know that we have broken this contract, but this seemed to be too great of importance. We beg of you to understand, we did this for the Kingdom. Please, have mercy on us and let us go honorably.”

“For aiding and abetting a non-exiled Outsider’s access past the wall I sentence you four to death. Thank you for sacrificing your lives for the safety of the Kingdom’s, your ashes will be buried in the Hall of Fathers.”

The guardsmen thanked the God and prepared themselves for execution.

“As for you Outsider, you can choose death here or life outside the wall.”

“I have no home or family outside the wall, the only fate that awaits me there is death by the hands of the next tribe that finds me. Just kill me here and spread my ashes to the wind.”

“Very well.”

Cormac McCarthy watched as the behemoth he knew as his father burnt away to ashen bone the five prisoners who lay before him. He noticed, in that instant, the dark turmoil of the clouds above, the gaping fire that tore away the landscape around him, and the puffs of exhaustion his brother Thom delivered to keep them all safe. In the next instant, the clouds had cleared, the ice wall stood proud surrounding the three brothers and his teacher Montag, and in the place of the fire incarnate behemoth stood Cormac’s father with a solemn expression.

“Montag. Bury the ashes of those four next to their fathers, and send 100 more men to guard the wall. No one is to enter or leave, blue band or not.”