| |
Alone in his castle, Jivar waited for his rising. Sitting on his throne, he could have been mistaken for an ice sculpture. Then he sensed a change. Something altered the course of time. Someone did. Yet, Jivar’s memories remained intact. Viessa? He teleported to her room, but there were no signs of it ever being hers. The books, the crystal ball, and the old toy boat on the shelf had disappeared.
Upon returning to his chamber, Jivar found someone he never thought he would see again.
"Everything is ready, my lord," Zaros said with a respectful bow. "Should I capture Doyle and the witch?"
Jivar stared at the two-eyed Zaros without a blink. "You’re alive."
"Why wouldn’t I be?" Zaros’s voice mirrored his confusion.
Jivar sat on his throne and straightened his back. Although his mind was riddled with questions, his face showed no suspicion. "Tell me, Zaros. Have you ever been to the Land of Darkness?"
"I haven’t," Zaros replied with no hesitation.
"Have you ever contacted the Mortons behind my back?"
"I would never do that," Zaros cried out.
Jivar knew he was being truthful. Without Viessa in the picture, he never had to compete for attention or betray his lord.
"What do you know about Viessa?" Jivar asked, and a puzzled look appeared on Zaros’s face.
"I once had a sister named Viessa. She died when I was a child. May I ask for the reason behind your questions?"
"You may not." Jivar rested his hands on the armrests. "You asked about Doyle and the witch. Don’t go after them. Wait for them to come."
"Wait? My lord, this is not the wisest choice—"
"Learn to be patient, Zaros," Jivar preached. "Unless you are patient, you will bring your demise."
Zaros gritted his teeth. How could he understand Jivar’s endless patience? To see things Jivar’s way, one had to go back to the very beginning, to the moment Jivaros lost his soul.
***
In the beginning, there was rage. A fire burned inside Jivaros’s chest for the loss of the woman he loved. Though, it was soon replaced with emptiness. His soul evaporated, freeing him from the pain but leaving behind a hole. The sun no longer scorched his cheeks, the dryness in his throat no longer hurt, and he no longer cared for Rimanis’s body on the sand.
Intrigued by the change of heart, Jivaros kicked the body with his feet. A wide grin surfaced on his lips as he kicked it again and again. He was free of guilt, free of agony. He was no longer human.
The soul was a mystery science failed to unveil. Some called it a myth. Others tried to weigh it with scales. Only a few understood the power of a soul and knew what it was like to lose it. Jivaros did.
For days, he wandered in the empty world. He had eternity but no will to live it. How could the feeling of nothing hurt? How could one be thirsty for thirst itself? Jivaros let these thoughts run through his head, hoping they would give him the joy of pain.
They didn’t.
As time passed, his emptiness grew deeper, turning him into a human shadow. Nothing brought back his ability to feel—not the taste of the finest food nor the touch of the most desirable women; not the odor of spilled blood nor the voices of children pleading for mercy.
Town after town, massacre after massacre, Jivaros paved his road with the blood of the innocent. That was, until he came across a tribe of witches who welcomed him to their home as they too worshiped the dark arts and lived off plunder.
Among the bandits lived Kaimanu, a woman of pride and mischievousness. The jewelry on her chest clattered as she sashayed into Jivar’s hut. She offered him herself, but he refused. Thus, he became the forbidden fruit, coveted yet unattainable.
"If you had a soul, you would be at my feet."
"Perhaps." He snickered before stepping away.
"Don’t walk away from me," she shouted as she caught his sleeve. "Jivaros...I am the only one who can help you."
"How is that?" he asked, turning to face her.
She ogled him with her contoured eyes before summoning a black grimoire. "With this."
"Can you bring my soul back?"
"This is beyond any witch’s powers," she said with a titter, but then her voice went sultry and her eyes drippy. "But I bet I can teach you to feel again."
Kaimanu’s magic enabled Jivaros to feed on other people’s souls, stripping him of any residue of humanity. She offered him one of her people to consume. A bloodstained sacrifice, she called it.
Holding the man’s face in his palms, Jivaros inhaled. The victim winced and wailed as white light emerged from his mouth. His sweat became cold, almost as cold as Jivaros’s stare.
Ecstasy surged in Jivaros’s body as it sucked in the soul, heightening his senses and bringing awareness to his heart pumping and the breath passing to his chest. He relished all the emotions rushing into him—pleasure and pain, love and hate, bliss and torment. They were all equally joyful.
But Kaimanu’s powers couldn’t withstand the curse. The euphoria she evoked soon vanished, and callousness returned. Unfazed, Jivaros turned to her. She pursed her lips for a kiss, and he inched closer and held her face in his palms. Her musk perfume flew to his nose.
"Your turn." His voice revealed his intentions. Kaimanu tried to resist, but he gave her no time. He indulged her soul, granting himself access to her grimoire.
***
Throughout the millennium, many women fell for Jivar’s charm. As he toured different dimensions, he stole the heart of the humanoid, Iris, who followed him to the Land of No Return.
"Come with me, Jivar," the blue-skinned humanoid begged, kneeling in front of his throne with her dark, lustrous hair hanging down her back. "You have held onto your grudge for five hundred years. It’s about time to set yourself free."
"I cannot be free unless my plans are realized."
"To hell with your plans." She came to her feet. "Would you rather destroy the human world than spend eternity with me? If your soul cannot come back, why do you care?"
"I do not," he said in a dull voice. "I cannot... When will you understand?"
Iris sighed. Her parted lips revealed her long, white fangs. When she brushed her hair back, three small holes appeared on the side of her face. They looked like USB ports, not that Jivar knew what those were. In Earth time, that event happened in the early sixteenth century, but Iris’s world had already leaped to the age of artificial intelligence. Iris had offered to teach Jivar about her life, but no matter how much he saw, he remained stuck in the past.
"What if you failed, Jivar?" Iris asked. "What if you miss the eclipse or lose your vessel? Will you come with me then? Or will you wait for another five hundred years?"
"I have learned to be patient," he said nonchalantly.
"Well, I have not." Striving not to cry, Iris stood still. Her eyes blamed him for her broken heart.
"I should have never come here," she said before walking away. Standing at the door, she looked over her shoulder to ask one last question. "Is it entirely gone? Your soul, it’s not here."
"It was never here," he answered.
***
Five hundred years ago, the sun, the moon, and the earth came in alignment, turning the day into a perfect night. Yet, in the darkness emerged a fiery ring that centered itself in the sky.
The blood of a virgin, the bones of an infant, and dust from the grave of a saint—Jivar’s worshipers pounded the ingredients and used them to draw an inverted pentacle on the top of the Lon Mountain. The vessel sat in the middle. A black cloth covered his face, and iron chains restrained his movement.
The worshipers joined hands and waited for their unholy miracle. Jivar had lured them in with his false glory, promising them paradise. In the desolate valley of the Land of No Return, he replicated their altar. He stood under the two shining suns, surrounded by an army of Katarus.
"Appear to me," Jivar chanted, summoning four grimoires, one for each noble witch he had killed. Fearing the extravagant power, the Katarus retreated.
Jivar opened his palms to the sky and invoked his spell.
The ground beneath him vibrated. A moaning wind blew sand into his mouth, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but his plans. The rising day had finally arrived, or so he thought. For a reason beyond his comprehension, the shaking stopped, and the wind calmed. Blood oozed out of Jivar’s nose. He stared at the floating grimoires, wondering why his spell didn’t work.
Only then did he realize the flaw in his plan. No matter how many grimoires he collected, he never had his own. He relied on borrowed power, which could only take him so far.
***
Jivar barged into the Barag, where a spirit of light stood guard. She had hair and eyes as gray as murky clouds. Like many women of the time, she wore a long gown with a minutely pleated chemise that covered the neckline of her low-cut bodice. The narrow sleeves drew attention to the gold rings on her fingers.
At the sight of Jivar, she curled her fingers, summoning her sword of light. "Why are you here?"
"To find my grimoire," he answered. "I imagine after five hundred years of magic, I have earned nobility."
"A grimoire is made from the essence of a witch’s soul," she spat out her words with bitterness. "You have no soul."
Jivar strutted towards the spirit, whose nostrils flared. He clutched her neck and lifted her off the floor. Though she strove to breathe, she stayed unshakable. "Kill me if you want. It will change nothing."
"You are right." Jivar put her down. "Safety, is this your name?"
"How did you know?" she asked and wrinkled her forehead.
"You are not the first spirit I encountered," he said. "I applaud you. Safety can make a devoted warrior; however, you have a fatal weakness. You would do anything for what you must protect, regardless of the greater good."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." Jivar pointed his finger up, and the sound of thunder struck. The sky outside turned murky, and the Barag shook, bringing down the shelves with the grimoires.
"What are you doing?" Safety flung her sword, but he snapped it into halves.
"Do not do this," she cried out. As the bricks fell from the ceiling, she became shaky, vulnerable. "I pledged to protect this place with my life."
"Alas, it has no use for me," he said.
"No, no." She waved. "You are wrong. It does."
"Does it?" Jivar put his hand down, and the shaking paused. "Enlighten me."
Safety’s eyes glistened with tears, yet her face showed only her disdain towards Jivar. "There is a prophecy. A witch will be born to the cursed bloodline. She will be chosen to fight you."
Jivar snorted. Safety’s words sounded like a bad joke. He raised his finger again, and the shaking continued.
"I beg you, listen to me," she hollered. "The chosen witch will have your grimoire."
Jivar lowered his hand.
"The witch’s soul will be born from the essence of yours," the spirit explained. "If you feed on her, you will claim your grimoire. But you must wait until she is born."
Jivar considered the new revelation. "I have learned to be patient," he said, waving his hand to restore the Barag to its original state.
"Thank you for keeping this place alive." Safety dropped her head in surrender. "You have my gratitude."
"I do not care for it," Jivar said before opening his palm with an electric charge that darted towards the broken spirit.
It took five hundred years of patience before Safety’s words came true and Echo was born into the world. But the sour years never changed Jivar’s mind nor stirred his confidence. No matter what, his plans would be realized.
***
Two days before the eclipse, I found myself on a date I never planned. At the Barag, Jivar awaited with his chin lifted proudly and his arms folded behind his back.
"I have been waiting for you," he said, turning to show his face.
My heart skipped a beat. "Y-you know who I am?"
"More than anyone. Born to the cursed bloodline, the chosen witch is destined to fight the impending evil," he recited. "Fascinating how preposterous prophecies can be."
"How so?" I tried to look calm, though my legs were shaking.
"Prophecies are anything but inevitable," he explained. "Yours claimed you are predestined to defeat me. Yet, all it did was lead me to you."
My stomach hardened as Jivar took some heavy steps towards me. I tried to teleport away, but it didn’t work.
"What do you want from me?" My brain failed to think of an escape. We were in a room with no exit, floating among clouds.
"Echo Blackwood." He reached out and held my face in his ice-cold palms. "You are my secret weapon."
