A Contract Upheld

Azazel, eldest and most respected of the council, nodded his head in solemn agreement. The Fae before him grinned, surrounded by the viscera of its rampage. Together, they left the people of Sylvan’s Cradle behind. They watched with tearful eyes, but none could follow. The deal with the Court of Hearts was done. It had been a clear choice in the man’s mind. He would suffer until the end of his life, and, in return, his village would forever be spared. All those many lifetimes, in exchange for whatever few years remained of his. Even the council’s impassioned objections could not stand against scrutiny when the trade was so clearly right. It was this firm belief in righteousness that kept Azazel marching dutifully into the hills. He wanted to speak to the Fae—after the Druid’s lifetime of devotion, it felt a waste not to—but he found the questions caught in his throat. Why had it come? What missteps in their rituals had brought about such hatred? The longer he thought of the potential answers, the heavier his legs began to feel. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, and, focusing only on the goodness of his sacrifice, kept pace.

When Azazel, behind the Fae, arrived at the long dormant Site of Power, it was as if he saw the Realm of his birth with new eyes. The great ziggurat stood, no more a place of reverence, but a warning. How they had not seen it for the evil therein, Azazel could only guess. They wove their way through winding corridors and crumbling staircases, until finally, they reached the great, central chamber. There, the Fae spoke. ‘You will come to know this place well.’ The room was vast. Embedded in its stone floor, there lay four metal shackles holding the bones of some ancient beast. Azazel could scarcely look away, and, as he watched, the ribcage seemed to rise and fall, as if still breathing. Only the Fae’s voice tore his attention from it. ‘That role is now yours, to give suffering enough for all of your people. I had a fine harvest before me. It will take many, many lifetimes to atone.’ Azazel’s hands began to shake. ‘Your mortal form will not suffice, but fear not. I can change this.’

Looking into the Fae’s vicious eyes, Azazel at once understood what he had agreed to. His blood ran cold, and, though his legs bid him to flee, he held fast. Perhaps he <i>was</> a fool to think he could deal with a Fae, but deal he had. As the Fae began to whisper, the beast’s ancient shackles fell open. ‘Bound to suffer 'til the bitter end, with bonds new severed, thou must amend.’ Though he could not recall moving forward, Azazel found himself suddenly chained within them. The Fae’s chant rose, calling forth a magick that surrounded Azazel. It pressed in around him, building to a suffocating pressure. The air was forced from his lungs. Moments later, he felt the first of his bones break. No scream could escape his lips, and Azazel was brought to his knees. As the magick reached impossible heights, his body began to change, broken bones reshaping and breaking again. A few feet away, the ancient beast breathed its last.

Time passed and yet lingered, as did the pain that coursed through Azazel’s new form. He groaned and wept, but none were present to hear his protests. None could be. To enter the chamber was to break the contract and put the village at risk. Still, Azazel hoped for release. As decades passed, he watched the bones of the ancient beast turn to dust and envied their death. The words of the vicious Fae echoed in his mind. ‘Bound to suffer 'til the bitter end…’ Death. Death would release him. Though his new form meant a lifetime filled with lifetimes, he could still be killed. Surely his people would recognise this. Surely they would spare him. But years passed, filled with nothing but loneliness and pain. The pain became all-consuming. Slowly, he forgot his village, his people, his sacrifice. Soon, all that remained was a great, twisted beast and the whispered echoes taunting ‘’til the bitter end’.