Abomination

The world snapped.

My body was a storm. Tar and darkness split through the seams of the flesh, bursting out from within me and coalescing into a behemoth shape—the blue earring snapped, split, shrieked, consumed by the bulging mass of my body that absorbed the sand underfoot, absorbed the enchanted black kukri, absorbed Demishah, absorbed Herrat. I had no skin; only darkness and tar, I had no flesh; only darkness and tar, coursing in constant motion like river rapids. My outline was that of a massive wolf.

I was the Hunger.

After three months to fester, it came all at once: a hunger so intense that my mind couldn’t grasp it. My body moved without me, only barely cognizant of what I was witnessing: a hot, vile tongue licking up the souls of the palatines, then turning to lope to the city of Vish. Buildings were crushed under my footfalls, and jaws descended to gobble up tens upon hundreds of souls in one bite. Screams raised from the early morning streets. I was so tall I blacked out the sun.

I raged over Vish; hundreds upon hundreds of casualties in minutes, and the whole city reduced to ruins, consumed by the void that I was. The church, gone. The hospital, gone. The vet’s, and the penitentiary, and the charity house... all disappeared into my maw. Anything. I needed anything; any scrap of food that could sate this hunger, even if it was a thousand, ten thousand grains of pure rice, souls I would never consider as eligible normally, but all added together, I needed anything.

Vish was not enough. My body surged for the nearby walled city of Ghinnejar: and I was there, wrecking the same wrath upon its elegant streets, raising more screams, consuming a thousand more souls. Palatines came against me and were slaughtered in one swipe of a paw. The Bishop trembled in his church, stammering orders of evacuation around the most earnest prayers of his life: stop this! Dear Czjeir, stop this!

I threw my head back and swallowed down Ghinnejar’s penitentiary, much larger and more orderly than that in Vish. As I choked back the rock of the structure and the flesh of the inhabitants, my body shrank to become flesh and blood in the shape of a human again, and I was doubled over on the ground, panting.

Destruction of ruined buildings surrounded me. My eyes were wide, feral.

What... what had I just done?

What the fuck had I just done?

A cacophony of screams blazed within me; a sudden increase of volume by a twofold measure. I clawed at my ears—finding no earring—knowing already that in the span of thirty minutes, I had consumed more souls than I had in the past thirty years. Most all of them innocents. Oh God, oh God, oh God...

“Fuck!” I screamed.

I punched myself in the head. I raked claws down my face.

“FUUUCK!”

Demishah destroyed me. I hadn’t taken her seriously enough—no, I wasn’t sure I was even able to take her seriously enough, as high as I was on the calm of the fast. I wasn’t nervous enough. I wasn’t desperate enough. At least I could’ve brought a fucking knife, not that I knew how to use one. I had to disarm her. And now...

Czjeir said killing her was quite possible. I had just completely fucked up.

“Nngh! Augh,” I grunted, cradling my stomach. Now that I had a moment to think, I realised I was still famished. My stomach was a yawning hole of fire. Magnetic threads pulled at me in all directions—Ghinnejar was quite central, and I had already extinguished anyone in the city who could be called a ‘sinner’. To find my next meal, and fuck, I needed to hunt meals again, I could go almost anywhere.

I got to my feet, panting and wincing. The area was a deserted mess of rubble and dust, since I had killed all the people, but there still stood a massive, conspicuous church overlooking the rest of the city. I reasoned that this was Ghinnejar’s head church, and that the Abbot would be in its office, and that the Abbot would have means to contact the Church in Amsherrat.

I needed to report what had happened. I needed these souls out of me, now.

I took one step toward the church, when the sense hit me that the Abbot would be far too busy dealing with casualties to handle my entreaties too. Sucking a breath, I sprouted wings and took flight along the magnetic trails instead towards the other nearby city, of Rikkjar.

The sky was disgustingly bright. As I flew, hunger pains battered me, and faces cycled through my mind: Herrat, Yani, the Keshdanji volunteers, hospital staff, patients... people who had become comforting, commonplace, and familiar, now all damned with the same tortures that befit witches and paedophiles. Speaking in sheer numbers, any good I had done as the Tax Collector, taking out sinners, had been overshadowed by atrocities in one swoop.

I couldn’t cry. I just hid my head in my hands and wished I could pull my face off.

I touched down in Rikkjar shortly after and located the city’s head church. As it would be in Ghinnejar, the Abbot was in his office when I knocked.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, have you heard what’s happened in Vish? A-and Ghinnejar?” I asked as he rounded his desk. He was a portly man with a charmingly round face and round features—not quite the look of someone who inspired confidence in a crisis, like this.

“Something has happened in Vish? But my gosh, you are pale. Come, take a seat and speak,” he said, inviting me to one of the seats along the wall.

I resisted for a moment, but relented and seated myself. “I—I’m Mephi tel-Sharvara, the, the Tax Collector. Um, I was stationed in Vish—which I suppose you know—and...” My chest twisted in grief. “I—I—I lost control of the Hunger, and I just d-destroyed Vish, and half of Ghinnejar, and I’m so, so fucking sorry—I know that doesn’t make up for it, but, just, I need to contact the Pontifex, right now. It’s as important as death.”

“Vish is—destroyed?” The Abbot stumbled, not quite comprehending.

“Yes. It’s, destroyed, it’s rubble, and the people are—they’re f—f—they’re dead, okay? Please, can you contact the Pontifex?”

The Abbot’s face chilled as the information settled. “Thank you for giving me this information. I will speak with the Church. Stay here.”

He departed down a door that led to the church, and inevitably, its vestry. I fidgeted in the chair, bitten by guilt and by hunger, but marginally relieved that the situation was moving.

The Abbot returned. “The Pontifex is occupied with Ghinnejar, but there is an Archbishop who will be here soon to speak with you. Tell me, though, Mr. tel-Sharvara, what on earth happened? The Church is in a chaotic state and communicating with them was quite muddled.”

“It—it’s just what I said, or... well—there was this person, a cultist, that Czjeir told me—through the Pontifex, the old one, last year—told me would, cause a disaster like this, but not in those certain terms, anyway, he said she’d come for me and I’d have to kill her, and, well I was stationed in Vish, and since things were going so well I got this idea to fast, and—” I grit my teeth. “And when the cultist came and hit me with this, this enchanted object or something, all that energy came out at once and just... I wasn’t thinking, I should’ve dealt with her fist, and I didn’t, and, um, sorry for asking, but how come you aren’t organising relief efforts right now?”

The Abbot’s face went red with embarrassment. “I’m not sure I understand your account either, Mr. tel-Sharvara, but I understand what has happened is horrible.”

“So... so a relief effort, or? I’m not, telling you how to do your job, just...”

“I will be able to organise matters more smoothly once the Archbishop arrives,” the Abbot answered. He awkwardly shuffled from foot to foot. “Can... you assure that we will be safe to host you here? You are in control of this ‘Hunger’?”

“I mean, I’m not literally... a monster, out of control of my body,” I snapped, then ran my hand through my hair, “okay, this Archbishop better be here in a day or two, or I think I’m going to be forced to get out of here, it’s still... pretty bad, just, more targetted...”

“The Archbishop should be here within the hour. However...” The Abbot grit his teeth. “Forgive me. I must speak with the Church again.”

He bowed his head and exited, leaving me alone with my thoughts and hunger. I stared after him for a short while. The room was understated, but decorated with subtle floral wallpaper and plaster reliefs on the ceiling.

The Abbot was likely speaking with the Church to attain immediate countermeasures to me.

And the Bishop coming so quickly... would be relying on miracles to get here from Amsherrat, for the purpose of putting restrictions on me.

Half of me thought, Fair enough. I was under restrictions for nearly a year, and they worked.

But the other half was deeply unsettled.

The feeling that struck me then is difficult to describe—an instinctual wrongness and urgency that I had to move, had to get out, that I wasn’t safe. I wavered on whether to heed it. An Archbishop wasn’t the Pontifex, but it was a step closer...

The image cohered in my mind perfectly of the Archbishop restraining me, taking me to the Pontifex, and then...

And then, not acting in my best interest.

Why would he? I had just destroyed a city and a half. It hadn’t even been this bad in Vamu. The Church had been very charitable with me, but how far did that grace stretch?

I fucked up. Czjeir warned me against Demishah, and I had simply gotten it wrong. And now the consequences...

Seconds stretched agonisingly long in that office.

I took a breath, stood up, grew wings, and departed the city.

And that’s my version of events: the legacy of the Tax Collector, from my eyes. I’m sure you’ve been very curious, through all the rumours and the mythology, to hear everything from the main first-hand source... however far my word stand for you, anyway.

But I’m sure that, more than anything, I’ve been open enough about all my mistakes and misdeeds. You can at least take those accounts as truth, not that I’m one much to lie anyway. What do I have to lie for? My image? That’s always been far enough in the mud. Or my wellbeing, survival? We’ve all always known what a monster I am, and how far you in the Church went to accommodate me.

You tried. You really did. I don’t blame you for siccing that swordsman on me; anywhere else would’ve done that before they tried negotiating.

Otherwise, my life has been just what you see: vagrant through the desert, forced to snag what meals I can, running from the Church. I don’t have to doubt now that you might throw me in Nix. I know that you will.

Return to the Church with this one message, though.

All those souls from Vish are still within me, and they’re still suffering. If the Church has any goodwill for me left within it, please let the Pontifex come out of his sanctuary and face me himself—to save those innocent, tormented souls, then do whatever he wants to me. Listen, I’ll fight for my freedom. I’ll doubtlessly lose. But I won’t run away from the Pontifex, the same way I’ve slunk to avoid the Archbishops.

And that’s all.

Do I still hope that you will forgive me? A little. Those days I spent in Vish, mistake that they were, were the best hope of goodness I’ve had in my life. If I could have that back, if I could fast again, I would try. I just don’t fucking learn.

But do I expect it? No.

...What, is there more you want to know?

How do I feel, about being evil?

...Hey, listen.

The sun is setting.

It’s getting late.

You should go home and sleep.