Lightbringer - The Patron Saints of the Damned III
Chapter 2 - Welcome Home

Though Exousia could see nothing but darkness, she did feel. And that was the strangest thing–stranger than the screaming, tumbling down a sloping tunnel with what felt like hundreds of other people, and even than the cave that smelled of burning meat. As the slope lessened to what would likely become horizontal, she began to fight and struggle against the tide of bodies around her for every foothold on the fleshy ground that wouldn’t lead to her falling. Of course, Exousia’s training gave her an advantage over the screaming and confused creatures around her. After a little while, the slope evened out. The ground below became rock instead of a literal mountain of writhing meat and flesh.

Exousia felt herself pressed against a hoard of other beings who had likewise managed to stand. Together, they slowly shuffled toward a smaller tunnel that seemed to funnel the crowd, judging by how they slowed and pressed in more tightly. Others piled in behind her, all of them trapped in a line of slowly shuffling bodies that seemed to be ragged, dusty, and generally exhausted. There was a flow here, and everyone had to use baby steps to keep up without stepping on the bare heels of those in front of them.

After what felt like a few minutes of slow shuffling, an orange light began to illuminate the cave so that Exousia could see a little bit. It revealed the shapes of adult humans, all looking confused, scared, worn, and miserable. Above and below were only jagged gray stone that formed the tunnel.

So … this was Hell.

Exousia remembered a few things about this place from her studies. She made an effort to recall all she could, as the tide shuffled forward.

-O-

A nine-year-old Exousia looked around at the woods around her—purposefully looking away from the book in her lap. There were several hours of daylight left, and she didn’t want to use the last of it studying. Of course, she found the books interesting, but the brown demon letters were difficult to read, especially in such small print. It made things no better that the leather binding looked like they were made of human skin. Everything Dufaii brought from Hell was made with human skin, or human bone, or human blood. That included this book about one of Hell’s Golden Ages. It had been a time of emphasis on making the prison more livable, through the sciences, arts, and research. But, after five hours of reading, Exousia was finally tired.

Exousia looked at Dufaii, who was standing over the campfire, and said, “Did someone die to make this book?”

Dufaii was frying of some sort of meat, probably hunted out of the woods. He replied, “The human whose skin and blood went into making this book is still very much alive.” His tone was grave.

Exousia had long since learned to get over being queasy or uncomfortable with any topic of conversation. According to Dufaii, taboos on what one should and should not talk about were a tool of human society to control the minds of the populace. As such, talking about death and torture over breakfast was not at all unusual for them. “Then can they feel everything we do to the book?”

“Not quite,” Dufaii said, scooping what looked and smelled like well-seasoned venison and vegetables onto a plate. “Though you shouldn’t feel too bad, regardless. There is only one type of human that ends up in that place. They are the ones who turn their backs on life itself through acts of purposeful hate and sadism. Not even zealots who do evil in their pursuit for good or relief from pain—only humans who knowingly abuse other forms of life for their own personal gain. When they get to Hell, they are collected by demons who know exactly what they are. Some of these, those manipulable, are used as slave labor in Hell’s endless projects. For those who will be less useful, their soul is taken apart to create materials—blood, bone, and flesh—which make the prison bearable.”

“So … their souls are taken apart?” Exousia said, after a moment of thinking. “Does that mean they stop existing or feeling?”

“Disassembly is not destruction,” Dufaii answered. “Though the husk of their soul is used to create items such as books, and furniture, wine, food, and mortar, and everything else, it’s still alive. Think of it as the soul being stretched. While it may seem like it’s in many pieces, all of them are still connected in the spiritual sense, meaning somewhere between it all, there is still consciousness. Similarly, the shard of the divine floats invisibly, trapped somewhere between all the pieces of the husk.”

Exousia thought again for a moment before she asked, “Then the souls used to make this can feel me using the book?”

“Not as long as it is on the Earth,” Dufaii replied. “The Creator designed that prison so that it would be completely disconnected from the flow of life in the universe. There’s a barrier which divides all life within from that which is outside. For that reason and others, you should not concern yourself with the soul that this book was made from. It is likely grateful to have been parted with this flesh for a while.”

Exousia looked at the book, still feeling unsure.

Dufaii took the book, opened it to a specific page, and then gave it to her. It was a chapter about the Golden Age factions of Hell, the divisions in territory, the major powers, and how they all came to be. “When you have finished fifty pages, we will speak about any questions you have while we spar.”

Exousia groaned but continued to read as she ate, learning all she could about the prison she preferred to eventually face, rather than the monster that had designed it.

-O-

Exousia allowed herself to linger in the memory for a while. And it didn’t stop at the relevant points about what she needed to know about this place. No, it went on and on, until she knew she had watched her entire life go by as she walked. And, with nothing else to do, she watched it all again. It was a useful distraction from the oppressive lack of humidity that made her throat and nose burn. Against the voices of condemnation she had to perpetually shield herself from. This much remembering … it could not have happened over a matter of hours or even days.

At first, Exousia thought that weeks had gone by. But soon, she wondered if it had been months. What was odd was that throughout all the time, nobody around her really talked much either. They seemed as lost as she, in a nostalgic lull that had probably been purposely instilled into this place by its creator. Additionally, speaking seemed even more painful than breathing.

When Exousia had grown bored of her memories, she found herself sulking about what had happened leading up to her death. Perhaps ‘sulking’ wasn’t the right word; she felt a depressing and soul-sucking rage that left her more tired than energized by it. It was unlike the anger from before–often miserable but also like fire, energy, life! This … this was something entirely different.

And … after a while … all of it wore Exousia down. The voices of condemnation began to worm their way into her mind. She knew how badly she had failed. It didn’t matter that she could remember that the Archangels had predicted this. It didn’t matter that Ammon had obviously known all along that he would win. Dufaii had been counting on her, and so had all the demons in Hell–whether they realized it or not. The humans … she’d failed them too, not just the teenagers but all the humans. Not to mention the faeries, the monsters who respected the Balance, and the other hidden remnants of the old-world.

Exousia had also failed Megan. And she didn’t want to think about why this recurred to her more than the others she’d let down. Megan had been brought later that the rest of the humans for a reason. And Exousia had fallen for it. It was disgusting, and it left her with a prickly feeling on her skin and nausea in her stomach.

Before long, Exousia’s mind succumbed to another memory. This time … with the voices of condemnation taking the wheel.

The cycle of remembering points of shame and failure lasted for a long time … until a day came when it was interrupted by a change of movement and energy in the humans around her. They were looking at something up ahead. And whatever they saw, it caused them to begin shoving and pushing against those around them.

Since Exousia was shorter than most others, she hadn’t seen what was ahead. Though she had a suspicion about what it was that they were seeing, or rather who. But instead of learning what was ahead, she soon learned that her size also meant that he was one of the targets of those humans trying to shove and trample.

When Exousia was able to withstand the shoving, an enormous hand was eventually just swung at her from one of the corrupted humans nearby. Exousia grabbed a man’s thumb and twisted it until she felt bone snap. The man screamed and then shouted, “You little bitch!” He charged forward.

Exousia turned toward the man and met the oncoming shoulder with a sharp elbow, followed by a heel to the man’s ankle. There was a loud snap, and the man fell to the ground, his screaming slowly hushed by foot after foot that trampled him into pulp.

For a moment, Exousia was able to breathe easily. Then, she noticed a woman watching with a particularly horrified expression. The woman shouted, “She’s one of them!”

Exousia put her head down to pretend like she didn’t know what the woman was talking about, but it was too late. Souls all around were looking at her, and those closest began to back up. Whatever “they” were, the human souls knew that she was one. Was it because she’d fought the man further back? No, there were many souls ahead and further back who had gotten into fights.

Regardless, the humans were soon murmuring about whether they should ‘get her.’ These questions were answered with murderous glares of agreement. One man with clenched fists, was getting closer and inspiring others to do the same.

Exousia had no intention of waiting for an attack. She hopped onto her left foot, closing the six inches between herself and his first potential attacker, and shot her right heel into the man’s knee so that it broke in the opposite direction of what a knee should have gone. There was another snap, more screaming, and more angry cries from those all around him. And though Exousia thought she could take them one at a time, she knew she had no chance staying afoot once they all were determined to put her on the ground.

“Move!” someone thundered up ahead. There was a crack—like that of a leather bullwhip—and two of the closest humans screamed wildly. Blood splashed as their faces were horrifically disfigured by the attack. It was a gruesome sight, but it did diffuse the situation for a while. Still, progress remained slow and hazardous as the hours went on. Older and frailer bodies were continually pushed aside by the masses, and ground against the sides of the tunnels when they narrowed. Those who fell were soon crippled and crushed to pulp underfoot. The walls soon closed in considerably so that the stone ledges at the top of the walls were visible.

That was when Exousia could finally see what the humans feared. Every thirty feet, parallel to one another, stood a pair of solemn demon guards with whips. Their movement was limited to hurrying the crowd and brutally punishing those who tried to climb the walls, cause trouble, or go against the flow. Most were inhuman shapes of ghastly characters—like the most horrible aspect of every animal, insect, and nightmare combined into one unnatural form that was ideal for killing. Yet, these had some sort of aesthetic balance. Others demons that took their form from what must have been their original appearance and crossed it with some animal or monster. The most impressive of these was one guard that had mixed its form with that of a scorpion. They used their stinger instead of a whip, crushing and impaling those who broke the flow. The rest of the demons were those who had retained their original appearance like Dufaii and Ammon. Their beauty could still be seen, though it had been diminished through years in the darkness.

Exousia looked at these demons with wonder. Even having met a few, seeing this many that were not the highest of assassins or messengers was something new for her. But what surprised her most were the hundreds of bestial creatures filling the gaps. They looked like crosses between fetal forms, insects, rodents, and birds, with absolutely no aesthetic. Instead of black eyes, their eyes were yellow, red, and sometimes even infectious shades of green. This coloration was what really let on that they were something other than demon. But what were they? Dufaii had told her nothing of these creatures whatsoever.

One rat-thing with feathers had what appeared to be a fishing rod with several lines and hooks. The thing would throw it leisurely into the crowd, pull, and then wail wildly in delight as flesh was peeled off its victims. Another like a pig-fetus held small bones and rock—all sharpened to hooks, barbs, and blades. These it would throw randomly into the flood of people, causing them to fall, their flesh to tear, and for them to be kicked along by those behind.

The most insidious of them all was a harpoon throwing monkey creature with patches of lizard scales on its sickly-looking skin. It began by tying one end of a rope to the cave wall, and the other to a harpoon. It would then take aim and spear the biggest target it saw. Its victim was then stuck, unable to get free. Eventually, the force of the crowd would force the harpooned targets forward, leaving the harpoon (and often time limbs or bones that were skewered on it) to be pulled up and used again. The creature who threw the harpoon had several assistants or servants. These were smaller abominations which would take the ripped limbs, squeeze them for blood, and then cook the meat over an open fire.

Dufaii had said that demons needed no food, nor drink. In Hell, consumption came for relief from their suffering. Demons needed food and drink to regain mental stability in times when the taste of dust became too much to bear. While unnecessary for strict survival, they served as a replacement for sensory sensations that they were deprived of in that realm … and demonkind suffered greatly without them. Dufaii often compared the consumption of human souls to the oil of a vehicle rather than the gas.

“Get down here!” screamed a human voice with a thick accent. The man, overweight on top of being very large, had somehow gotten hold of one of the hooks and started a tug of war with an abomination. Soon, more humans joined the man, even at the cost of their arms and hands being impaled by the hook. Eventually, they were able to pull the abomination from its perch.

The other abominations began to scream with maniacal laughter as their companion was crushed, kicked, and stomped by the victors. The demons, however, were quick to act by bringing down those responsible with well-aimed blows. The abominations were then sent down to retrieve their comrade and received much damage in the process.

Exousia was able to watch each scene fold out to completion due to the slowness with which the crowd moved forward. It was hours before they could walk more than a few feet in distance. The tormentors remained as many and brutal as ever. Meanwhile, the ground steadily became a puddle of blood and flesh with bone shards that stood out from the soup and pierced their feet.

The strangest thing to Exousia, however, was that the demons did not aim a single blow at her. They easily could have; she was as vulnerable as the next damned soul. They just stared as she passed, making her wonder if they somehow knew her. She doubted this only because they seemed to study her with curiosity, as opposed to with any sort of recognition. One abomination that seemed particularly demented, with about a dozen eyes that all looked in different directions, did try to throw a stone at her. The demon’s hand was caught, mid-throw by a demon who then beat the abomination and sent it running. The guard then whispered something to another demon as they both stared at Exousia. The latter demon then flew down further into the cave.

Again, Exousia thought about what the human souls had said earlier when they attacked, that she was ‘one of them.’ But she looked down at herself and noted that she indeed still looked human. It was at least an interesting break in the tedium of everything else.

Then, for a long while, things again calmed down. Exousia was again lulled into memories of shame and failure. Until, at long last, she arrived at a separation chamber of sorts. The far walls of the cave began to widen and divide the single path into many. At the top of each divider stood a guard with an enormous hooked pole that they used to prod the human souls into the line they were supposed to be in. If any of the prisoners seemed to replace their way into an incorrect tunnel, they were picked up but the hooks and brutally slung into the right place.

Along these walls, the abominations were prohibited. Instead, there were additional guards with spiked rakes used for raking in the bodies that had fallen and been crushed earlier on. Each path ended with its travelers being caged … or raked and shoveled into vats of gore if they’d been crushed entirely.

That was when Exousia noticed the demon from before standing on the edge, scanning the crowd more attentively than the other guards with the sifting job. This demon had brought along several others, all of them looking for something. And there was nothing to do except move slowly towards them.

But then someone hissed.

Exousia looked around until she saw a small, hunched demon in the shadows. She lifted an eyebrow, acknowledging that she had heard then. The demon beckoned her over with a clawed hand. Exousia thought for a brief second about whether she should. With nothing to lose, she readied herself to vault over the shoulders of the other humans.