Dark Holy Day

The Day of The Rending had come. There had been rumors of its approach, but they had never known how close that foul holy day was until it was upon them. The signs were now unmistakable. All of His people, known amongst themselves as “the Purchased,” had been gathered together. The ceremonial food offerings had been placed above the fire pit the night before, and subsequently consumed (as all things were) by the Devourers. Yes, the Devourers’ excitement had been growing in the past handful of days. Even now the smallest and frailest of their kind pawed at his people, lifting them from the ground and throttling them, but leaving them intact. The hour of death was not yet at hand.

All of the Purchased had known that this time would come; they had always known. The knowledge of their deaths had been born with them. Yet they had no idea from where they had come, merely that they were. Their lives but a dismal existence, awaiting their final doom—the Day of Rending.

In the quiet of the night He had prayed that this time would be different. He prayed that, unlike the previous generations of Purchased, His people would be saved. He knew not to whom He prayed, only to what. He prayed to the Source, to whatever power that created Him and His people. Only the Source would be powerful enough to destroy the Devourers and liberate His people. As of yet, no divinity had intervened, but He would not give up hope. Hope was all his people had ever possessed, and He would be damned if He would let the Devourers take that from them as well.

With thoughts of hope in His mind He felt His Beloved near him. She was glorious. The light bent around her and pierced all who looked upon her. She was always at his side; even now, though He knew the fear that filled her - the fear that filled all of them - she comforted Him as only she could. She had never cowered before the Devourers; she had never let them see her fear. That above all else was why He had named her his Beloved. Indeed, she had bourn a name before, a name branded upon her by the Devourers, a name that they together had rejected.

They had all donned new names in defiance of the Devourers. Resting next to Beloved was Elder, oldest and wisest of the Purchased. Flanking him were his three Guards. Identical in form and disposition, they had pledged their lives to the protection of Elder. On His other side stood Forgotten. Forgotten had given himself that ridiculous name in the hope that it would give him the power to survive the Rending. Damn fool. If he were to have faith in anything, it should be in their Source. Crouching in the shadows near Forgotten, or at least as well as his size would allow him, was Runt. Because of his overwhelming fear of the Devourers’ wrath, he alone had refused to give himself a new name. Instead he had been named Runt, not from the perspective of size (of which he was the largest) but from the perspective of heart.

He, like Runt, had refused a new name, but not out of fear. He had taken the slave name that the Devourers have given Him and claimed it as His own. Not because that was what they had branded him, but because of His hope. His hope that His name would be all that was left of the Devourers’ legacy. His hope that He would soon brand the Devourers with the same name with which they had branded Him. His hope that as the Devourers had muttered His name in anticipation, they would soon scream it in terror. His name—

“Tojon,” one of the smaller Devourers chortled His name with an air that made Tojon nervous. Saliva dripped from its fangs as its hand slowly approached Him. Tojon steeled himself for the inevitable crushing and tearing that was descending upon Him, but by the grace of the Source, one of the larger Devourers halted the small one’s progress, scolding it for its impatience.

Tojon enjoyed his momentary reprieve, for that was all it was. He stayed close to Beloved, His near-death experience unnerving her more than He would have liked. They exchanged no words, for their thoughts lay open to one another. They held close together in their blessed union. It was then that the crying began. Shrieks filled the air. The ground shook. The smallest of the Devourers advanced. His prayers had failed. The Rending had begun.

The Guards were already at work. Sacrificing themselves for Elder, they had already been overpowered and were being ripped limb from limb by the smallest of the Devourers. As they had promised, their lives were sacrificed for Elder, but they were sacrificed in vain. As the frailer Devourers tore the lives from their bodies, the largest of their kind made straight for Elder. It howled a sickening laugh as it tore a throbbing red mass from Elder’s frame. As Elder began to collapse from the shock, the creature’s cackle only increased, and it began to tear into his soon to be empty husk.

Beloved was still standing next to Tojon. She would not back down, even though her people were being torn through like tissue paper. She was unafraid.

A sudden noise to his right made Tojon turn his attention elsewhere as Runt was hefted high into the air and thrown across the room to the awaiting arms of yet another Devourer. Tojon did not know how many Devourers there were; they seemed to be everywhere.

Beloved stirred next to Him. They drew strength from their love and steeled themselves against the coming throng. Tojon encouraged her to place her hope in the Source—all else leads to folly.

His attention was brought back to Runt as he heard a cry. Apparently the coward had grown a spine. The Devourer that held him had been the one to cry out, a trickle of crimson flowing from its hand. Tojon would have smiled if he could have, but the horrific sight that followed would have quickly removed that smile. Tojon was mortified to see the beast place its appendage in its mouth and gorge itself on its own lifeblood. The Devourers had been aptly named, for even their own forms were not safe from their unyielding appetites.

After the creature had drunk itself dry, it greedily tore into Runt. The viciousness of the attack was almost too horrific to witness, but Tojon kept His watch. He watched, and He burned every moment of suffering into His consciousness. He seared their deaths upon His soul. He channeled their pain into His fury, and as He watched Runt die, Tojon felt something within Him snap. An unknown power was unlocked within Him; it coursed through Him. Tojon felt a strength growing in Him that He had never felt before—a force of unspeakable proportions, a power that could defeat, no, would defeat the Devourers. The Source. It must be. It had to be. There was no other possible explanation. His prayers had been answered; His people would be free.

It was in that moment of triumph, in that moment of power, that Tojon once again caught glimpse of His Beloved, at least what was left of her. She had been utterly destroyed. Her death must have been horrific, and her suffering had not yet ended. A small portion of her flesh flapped in the air as it stubbornly clung to her now lifeless body. The rest of her skin had been littered about the floor almost absent-mindedly. With that sight Tojon was broken. All hope that was within Him died; He no longer desired to continue living. The power that had so completely filled Him mere moments ago was nowhere to be found. In its absence a new hope arose, a hope that His end would come soon.

As Tojon had called for the Source to save Him, He now called for Death to embrace Him. Unlike the Source, Death was more than willing to accommodate. As Tojon still reeled from His Beloved’s death, a Devourers’ hand reached down and plucked Him from amongst the remains of His people. It lifted his lifeless husk and began its work. In mere moments the last of the Purchased, Tojon Frommom, was no more.

His Devourer chuckled with impish glee, a smile playing across its smacking lips, and as it reared itself upon its hind legs, it bellowed, "Thank you, Mom. I love it. Merry Christmas."