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The Dreadlord spoke to Aerin. Except, he didn’t truly; he didn’t ‘speak’ per se, not in the way the word was traditionally used, but rather… He had this sort of presence; dark and foreboding, distinct yet nebulous, powerful, and so intense. Rather than hearing him, it was more so that Aerin could feel him, and this was an experience unimaginable to those who have never felt it themselves and indescribable by those who have...
It had terrified Aerin when he was a child; now it was almost comforting.
The presence was so much stronger than Aerin had known it for a long time, a heavy weight, as he spoke to him, guided him on how to prepare the vessel (-Nia Ellarious, his mind supplied, a priestess of the Light, a member of Kore’s party, a gentle, pure-hearted woman who smiled at Aerin and told him his dream was beautiful-) for the taking.
The chamber was dim and gloomy, so different from the Temple; yet the act was the same; a sacrifice. Theirs would have continued the old regime, allowing Baldur to ascend; through Aerin, Whitetower could be ushered into a new age, a better age. They didn’t see it now but they would.
A Light-user would have been able to light candles in a manner of seconds; Aerin, however, lit them one by one.
For the believers of the Light, the act of lighting candles was considered almost sacred; thought to be the closest one could come to reaching the Light when not chosen themselves.
Aerin had no such notions when doing so.
The Temple’s residents, the Light’s Chosen, tended to use their own Light, some even believing it sacrilegious to do otherwise. The Light graces you with power; so that you may be a conduit through which It can grace the world.
Aerin’s mother used to light candles in her chambers; Aerin was born irreverent. The Light hadn’t chosen either of them; but Aurinae chose the Light and surely resides in Elhalas. Aerin, on the other hand, was set in his fate of shadow and darkness, surely to be thrown into the lowest levels of Hell.
The night she died though… Aerin sat surrounded by lit candles till morning had broke.
When he was done, Aerin turned back, eyes resting on Nia’s sweet face–the vessel's face illuminated with warm amber, the only source of life in the dark, cold chamber. Aerin had positioned her head on the slab of stone; yet it lolled sideways, exposing her neck. Her robes spread across the altar where she lay, almost giving the illusion she lay on rose silk bedding (the first of a bride; the last of a corpse).
Aerin had encountered very few records of dubious legitimacy surrounding possession, of forces of great power exerting their presence onto another being, inserting their presence into their body and laying claim, making it their own. It wasn’t until the Dreadlord had told him about it that Aerin even considered the concept.
A vessel, and this is what the Dreadlord told him in that voice that no one else knew to hear, must be prepared for the taking. Such an act could be considered near sacred, with roots believed to be extended to the time of the Old Gods…
Sacredness held little meaning to Aerin; still he followed the Dreadlord’s instructions on how to prepare the vessel. He was used to tending the various plants of the palace garden; tending the Dreadlord’s vessel wasn’t so different he told himself (or did the Dreadlord tell him… at times like these, he had trouble distinguishing between).
Traversing through the Shadow Realm’s terrain had left dark stains on her face, and with gentle hands, he dipped the cloth into the vessel of water and wiped her face and hands. He then reached for a bottle from his bag, the flowers tended and later crushed by his own hands, mixed into a sweet-smelling perfume, and now sprinkled it over the vessel’s body (-pushing down the feeling of unease and shame-).
The vessel did not stir (-he had to knock her out cold-)… Nor did she when he took out the amulet the Dreadlord had requested, brought in by one of the members of the Shadow Court. For a moment, Aerin’s thumb outlined the symbol engraved, and through the Dreadlord he knew it was from a time long gone, of a language unfamiliar…
He slipped it over her neck.
(It all rather reminded him of his mother’s burial rites…)
The hands act as conduits of the power that resides within us, or so the Temple would preach. This was what the Dreadlord told him now and this was the thought that settled in Aerin’s mind as he took out a dagger, and with steeled breath, cut across the vessel’s palms. He stilled as deep crimson pooled and dripped onto her robes, staining the silk (-was this truly necessary, my Lord-)
When his mother had died, High Priest Solerne had personally attended to her body, reciting words from scriptures Aerin had never dared to touch (-because he was impure-)(because he was greater than the Temple, than the Light, look at the power he holds). As such, Aerin was at a loss for what to say now as he kneeled beside the vessel (-Nia Ellarious, one who served the Light, one chosen by the Light, one devout to the Light-).
(This… This was what was right… Aerin was doing what was right…)
With trembling hands (his hands never trembled when tending to the garden; they had when he kissed his mother’s cheek in goodbye), he cupped her cheek one last time. (This… This was…)
Suddenly, the Nerada stone in his chest flared, the pain bleeding through his veins, burning through him, and drawing out a sharp gasp of agony, killing any words attempting past his tongue.
Aerin clenched his teeth, attempting to stabilise himself against the excruciating ringing in his ears, product of his pain, grip on the vessel tightening momentarily, shadow bleeding through as copper erupted on his lip, and tasted on the teeth that worried on it. Bones clicked as his body was wracked with gasps, until they slowly but surely died.
When he finally returned to his senses, he glimpsed one last time at the vessel. Perhaps it was a trick of the eye, but Aerin could have sworn her skin turned several shades paler (-like a corpse, robbed of life, robbed of Light, soon to be robbed-)
Any words had long died, only leaving behind conviction.
It was time.