Psychopomp and Circumstance

Ten thousand years of memory could not prepare the vicar for what he was about to see: The stone doors of the mighty ziggurat were open. Eons ago, he had given up his flesh and soul to the ancient deity buried deep inside, to remain as a ghoul floating in the physical world. His only material connection was the blood-red robes covering his ghastly, ethereal form.

No one had even seen the doors ajar, let alone wide open. The primordial god slept down in the depths, below the structure's foundation, beneath the sands, beyond the stretch of the human mind. What did this happening mean?, the vicar wondered, digging for information in the space that once held his brain.

As if on cue, the vicar's ghoulish flock appeared beside him. Robed in crimson, they stepped toward the doors. The vicar spun and flew into the air in front of the doorway, sleeves stretched wide. "Blasphemy! Dare you enter the realm of the Most High?!"

The glittering eyes of the faithful looked on in confusion. "Is it not what-- what we have waited for? To join the Most-"

With a wave of the vicar's arm, the outspoken faithful became silent and still. Another celebrant stepped forward, "Vicar! You dare keep us from our Lord! You spake of this day! The Reunion! All our sacrifice! Is it not for--"

Vicar waved his other arm and the vocal follower's robes fell to the ground, folded over and empty. The stunned crimson congregation stepped back from the doorway as the vicar floated back to the stone firmament. "None know... the will of the Most High... All that occurs in this world is a test. The Lord has received our blood. Our hearts. Our very existence. And our death. It is all already in the possession of the Most High..."

The vicar glided toward his fearful faithful. "What else could we desire? What else could we need? There is nothing beyond those doors for us. The Most High has already rewarded us. To think... there would be more? Blasphemy... Greed... Ungratefulness... Did the Lord choose his servants incorrectly?"

The crimson congregation paused and then as if filled with the same spirit, answered in unison, "No! Praise the Most High! Praise the Most High!"

If the vicar had lips, he would smile.

Then, in the distance, far from the steps of the ziggurat, along the mountain walls that hid the holy structure from the outer world, came the unexpected: humans. A legion of them. The robed faithful watched on as the second unbelievable event. The mountain line that hid the ziggurat in the valley was impenetrable. None could climb the rock face and spelunk the caverns without eventually dying. In fact, many of the congregants' bodies and bones still rot beneath the boulders of the mighty mountain.

So, how could these living beings make their way through the rugged deathtrap? In unison, the faithful turned to the vicar. His glittering soulless eyes peered parsecs over the sands to the oncoming party. He studied them, counted them, absorbed them with his gifts, given to him by the Most High: ethereal knowledge.

"Romans," spoke the vicar to the faithful. "They come from... very far away... They are smarter... cleverer... but... heh... They do not know what is in store for them!"

"Father, why do they come?"

The vicar made a thoughtful response. "It does not matter. They will know only death."

The congregation gathered around the vicar, arms crossed over their empty chests, a sign of their supplication to the Lord. "As we have before, let us give these Romans the grace to give themselves to the Lord."

"Praise the Most High! Praise the Most High! Praise the Most High!"

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Finally, what was left of two infantry units had arrived. Only eighty soldiers left, the other hundred or so lining the road back home in graves. So much death. For what? thought the tribuni augusticlavi. He was tasked with leading this unit through the empire into the outskirts of foreign Bactria to find… a weapon. A weapon to change the tide of war against the barbicans in the north.

Maybe the barbarians should make this trek. If this miserable road doesn’t kill them, they deserve the empire! It was a treasonous thought, but Captain Laetitia had little hope of returning to Rome. To a home that would squander the lives of his men for the mere rumor of a military tool.

The blind faith and zeal of General Serta had led these men of the empire to graves far from their birth and allegiance. In the captain’s mind, there was no worse deluder of humanity then cultist fervor, be it for god or greatness. And what was this blessed device? thought Laetitia. Was it as a small as a pea or as large as a--

“Captain! There’s a structure in the distance!” bellowed the remaining reconnaissance team.

“Well,” replied the Laetitia, squeezing his body through the craggy mountain walls and onto the vast valley of sand. “Would you look at that!”

The structure, a ziggurat gleaming in the bright sun, had restored the captain in a way he did not expect. After all these months of follies and falls, the rumors were right. The ancient scrolls were true. “Faith rewards us, men!”

The captain secured the remaining soldiers into a camp and planned for their next move. Laetitia held a meager feast of rations and gave the living and the dead their due. Then, as the men slept, the captain organized his soldiers into the teams, to build several gurneys and carts of various sizes to carry whatever was in that ziggurat. No matter what it was, Laetitia was determined to bring it back to General Serta. And Rome.

As twilight faded, the men rose and began their work. By sunrise, the unit marched toward the steps of the ancient stone temple. At the base, they built another camp. Laetitia looked up the stairs of the magnificent structure, marveled how it survived the test of time and the relentless sand.

Laetitia placed his sandaled foot on the first step. The stone was solid beneath his feet. As he climbed, his men of Rome followed. This was it. This was what they had suffered and sacrificed for, their blood, body and soul.

Suddenly, as the undefeated sun bore down on them, the once silent valley was filled with rhythmic clapping. “Halt!” ordered the captain. The reconnaissance team ran up the stairs in front of him, searching for the source. The men in formation behind raised their shields, ready for a tank position.

“Sit-rep!” commanded the captain. As the vanguard neared the top of the steps, the clapping was only getting louder. Suddenly, before they could report, Laetitia felt a wet splash at the back of his calf. As he turned, he saw a pool of blood where a soldier once stood; his body and armor gone. Then a scream at the bottom of the stairs. Three men exploded, bodies torn by invisible claws, their blood raining down on their fellow men. The Romans' exit was compromised. There was only one way to go.

“CHARGE!” The unit scrambled up the stairs, flanking the captain as he watched their retreat up the ziggurat. The clapping continued, as the screams of his men harmonized to the tune. The captain turned to run up the stairs and bore witness as his soldiers were swallowed up into the void; their blood staining the white stone of the temple steps.

Laetitia did not have time to think or ponder what was going on. As he reached the top, a shrine appeared, doors wide open. He ran toward them, not knowing when the void would swallow him. As he jumped through the threshold of the bloody holy place, the ancient doors closed behind him, locking the captain inside.

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As the doors closed, the congregants returned to their crimson robes and gathered outside. They hovered over the rivers of blood that cascaded down the ziggurat like sanguineous waterfalls. They muttered and questioned the meaning of the doors closing and the opportunity lost.

Finally, the vicar appeared. The murderous faithful turned to him, seeking guidance.

“What does this mean, father?”

The Vicar took a moment to reflect, then answered. “The Most High… has brought us here… over… thousands and thousands of years… Whatever meaning the Lord has for these events, my children, he will reveal them to us as necessary. Praise the Most High.”

The crimson congregation did not repeat. Their ghoulish eyes stared down the robed leader of the faith. “Let us pray: The Most High is King!”

Silence. The vicar floated backward down the stairs as his flock turned against him. “Blasphemy! What temptation beckons this heresy?! Think what endless punishment awaited those that would trespass into the shrine?! The Most High would not lead us into hell when the Lord has already given us heav--”

The celebrants raised their arms and the vicar flew into the air, suspended by unseen restraints. They began to chant a murderous liturgy, the vicar writhing in midair. As the vicar began to feel the void around him, summoned by his own worshippers, a voice spoke:

“Go.”

The evil mass stopped and the vicar’s robes dropped back to the ground. One by one, the congregation disappeared, leaving a pile of old, bloodied fabric behind. When the last of the faithful fell, the doors for the shrine opened, and the roman appeared. Under his arm was a small boy.

Both Laetitia and the child climbed down the stairs, crossed the sands of the valley, and retreated into the mountains back to Rome.

The congregation saw this through sight no longer limited by time and space. Before, they could only summon the void, feed the void. Now, they were the void. And they were hungry.

What was once the vicar shared his ethereal knowledge with the vast nothingness that was previously his flock: The void was there to protect the Most High. Now that the Most High had left, in the form of a child, the void must follow and protect the Lord. Complete the Reunion.

As Laetitia ran back home, he could still hear the faint chant: Praise the Most High!