Rowdy Dead Productions

By David C. Daoust

He awoke again in the tunnels, the dark shaft of cut stone arched over him. He knew he was underground; Away from the wreckage above. He knew not the town that stood before, anymore than he knew himself. He had his faith; he had his god’s name in his heart, as he had when he was young, when he first found his way free of the Eternal Night.

The Darkness was again around him. He stood, dusted his clothing, his long coat. He pulled the scarf, which covered his scarred neck, up over face. The tunnel was ever so long, he felt as though he’d been moving through it for days, it curved round and round. The darkness behind was distant, though before him showed no promise of change… was he back with the Eternal Night?

No, Bash’lovay- he knew, guided him.

Bash’lovay was all he ever needed, all he needed to know. He knew his god would tell him what was next, what was needed of him. He studied what he’d left behind, naught but darkness. Much like his own mind; He held no history, no past life. Nothing before he awoke in that chamber, so many days before.

His god told him why, why he was a blank slate. It was his pact. A pact he made with the God of Secrets and Lies, the Unknown. He knew through this darkness, he would find true power at last. He just need trust, trust that the path before him, shrouded in darkness, was as true as his faith.

It was here, that he strengthened himself. Pulled his faith to his center, solidified it into a beam that cut through all doubt, all fear. It was here, when his resolve to continue on through the nothing, solidified, that he heard the voices.

Voices of young teens, fooling where they ought not be fooling.

The small group appeared from the shadow, a group of young men, boisterously chatting, pushing and shoving as their game of searching though the tunnels peaked at more boredom. He could smell the sweet odor of smoke in the air, and he knew why these young men were here. They saw him, standing in the dark, and all but froze. The tallest, strode forward to greet him, as another in the back tried to discreetly extinguish the small cigarette they had been passing around but moments before.

The words the tall teen spoke were foreign, as everything seemed to be, but the words he spoke back, he could tell they understood. He knew his god was guiding him, telling him what to say, even if he could not participate in the conversation himself. They quickly lost interest in harassing him, as the voice that emanated from behind his scarf, was strong, commanding.

He felt the tug of his shadow and he moved past them, his eyes on the darkness that stretched before him. He felt their gaze on his back, the shadows enveloped him, glancing back he watched as they collected themselves, and what started as small snickering, returned again to boisterous chatting as they continued on their own way.

The tunnel at last came to an opening, a small concrete stair led up onto a platform. He strode up onto it. He’d been here before, over the past few days of his wandering, he’d come across many of these stops. He knew by the markings, the graffiti that covered this platforms walls and many columns that held the ceiling securely above, that this is where he had started. He had to hold faith, he knew. He was guided back for a reason. His shadow assured him this was his destination.

His journey through the tunnel was quickly coming to an end. Was he yet ready to journey back up into the light? Having found the answers in the endless darkness, more questions, he knew if he took the stair up he would find the wreckage. Wreckage of all he had wrought since he named the Eternal Night, Death Incarnate.

From the ashes the next truth would be revealed.

He felt the tug of his shadow as it guided him away from the stair. He passed the long array of empty booths and approached a service door. Locked. The writing on the wall, he found incomprehensible. He muttered a prayer under his breath. He drew power from his god, the time before. As he passed a hand over the letters, he could hear the voice of his god read it in his mind.

He knew what need be done, he placed his hand solidly… with a strange noise, and a rather loud click, the door suddenly opened before him.

The tunnels were long and winding, but the Shadow was there. The Shadow was a powerful servant of his god; it was not unusual for him, a High Cleric of Bash’lovay, to witness such beings. He followed, quickly, and trusted that this was the way.

At last he entered into the lowest corridors of the town center; the great structure at its center. He knew it was in the chambers above, that he awoke within a Bed of Light but days before. He had returned.

His hand met many door, the time before guided him through each.

Searching at last he came to the final door, he knew not what was on the other side… until it too clicked open. The Shadow vanished.

He came into a small room, unfurnished, but with a cot in the far corner. The sleeping lump of a man lay huddled, turned away from him. He approached as the man stirred. In reaction to his presence the man lifted himself up and turned in his direction.

He pulled the scarf from his face just as the man flipped on the light.

The man’s face lost all color, mouth dropped open, and tears welled in his eyes.

“Emmanuel?” the man spoke, at last words he understood. “You… you’re alive?”

The man did not make it to his feet. Instead he crumpled to the ground; he grabbed at Emmanuel Grady’s legs, as though to reassure that he was real.

“You’re alive?” he asked again as he looked up, lost in awe. “I’m sorry Emmanuel, I’m so sorry. I ruined everything, please. Please, forgive me…”