v1 EPILOGUE: The Remembered Garden at Night
Contrary to popular beliefs about games played beyond the reach of space and time, the pair of players were certainly not playing chess.
The first hand reached out to move one piece. The little black disc looked almost like a checker, and the surface it rested upon looked almost like a checkerboard—that is, if game pieces flowed and melted, oozing into each other like hallucinations or surrealist watches. The hand grew more defined, sporting nails of ebon and skin the hue of fresh blood, as it slid the piece forward and to the right.
A second hand reached out to the tabletop; this hand was dark as soot, with startlingly shiny white nails.
Neither hand grew from an arm or a body. The owners of the hands were concentrating on the game, on bringing the idea of checkers into existence, here amidst a howling void of meaningless agony, noise, and unquenchable emotion. The bodies would come later, when necessary.
« I can’t help but notice… » pulsed the owner of the second hand, communicating soundlessly, assaulting the other player with bursts of pure information. « …you’re playing black this time too. »
« You know I like contrast, » came the reply. The messages of the other player somehow conveyed a languid, sensual tone, despite the absence of sound or form. Style transcended everything, as usual. « Your move again. »
The concentration of intent, information, and sheer power from the two ancient beings caused the board and pieces to grow more tangible, less unstable. A small, round table appeared beneath the board, and something vaguely like grass and trees wavered into existence in the background, an unremarkable lawn set against a night sky.
Hell wasn’t so bad if you had the vast stores of willpower necessary to carve your own niche out of an unthinking expanse of pain and nothing. Either of them could have done so alone, given time and interest, but it amused them to collaborate now and then.
« Should we have drinks? » A wine goblet wove itself into existence as the soot-black hand nudged a red piece forward with one fingernail. « We have… current events to discuss. »
« Not after last time, » his companion responded. « You put something in that mead. » There was a pout, a teasing reprimand, in the communication; the bursts of meaning had the terroir of a peculiar and long-trialed intimacy, not entirely devoid of trust.
« Only my eternal regard and affection for you, my dear. » The honeyed reassurance slithered across the pocket they’d carved out of Hell, where a green moon now shone down on their wild garden.
« But yes, let’s talk about her, » she resumed, disregarding his overtures. « Has she done well for herself, do you think? Our little moppet, our unruly one? »
He scoffed, a puff of emotion that tore a small rent in the fabric of their construction, letting a breeze of nothingness and pain flutter through. « If you believe success lies in allowing oneself to be devoured by a priest—of all people!—rather than the other way around. »
She laughed at him. It wasn’t the first time, but he still seethed a bit, for old times’ sake. « Tsk tsk, bright eyes. You can’t bullshit me, Scratch. The priest is a priest no more, nor even a priestess, but something more. And our daughter isn’t gone; her sigil remains. »
« Your daughter. » His response was routine, expected. « I have no children, not while the sun mocks me in the sky. As for her sigil… » He traced lines in the air, and they glowed with unfettered fire, each tongue of flame eager to obey their master. « It’s gone reversed, as if cast through a mirror. It marks her place in the unchained order, but… even I can’t say what this portends. Human taint, I expect. »
She clapped her hands, having two of them now, both blood red. Her heavy breasts swayed inside her cream-colored gown. « Potential! » she hissed. « The uncertain die is cast; my progeny again bring newness into the world. A different birth. I can’t wait. »
« There will be mistaken identities, » he grumbled, but in the tone that she knew meant he was grudgingly curious. « Pursuers, that tight-fisted bastard, thrill-seekers… but I suppose you’re right. She’s an unknown factor. »
He sighed and got to his feet, his elegant wingtips leaving smoldering imprints in the grass. « I suppose you want me to help her. »
« No, » she said. « I prefer my kin help themselves, first. My daughter, or granddaughter, or whatever she is… we’ll see how she fares in her inevitable trials. After that… I’m sure some useful scenarios will present themselves. » She picked up a black checker between her index and middle finger and tapped it lightly at three spots on the board. « Queen me! » she piped, cheerily. « I’ve captured three of your pieces. »
Her opponent gazed out at the moon, smoking a long cigarette and paying absolutely no attention to the game. « Good for you, mother of many. But the mortals say king me, don’t they? »
It was her turn to scoff. She flipped the board over with a careless wave of her hand, and it dissolved. The concentration of play had its uses in helping to focus on a scene, a tiny world to hide in, but she had other pleasures to tend to. She glided across the grass towards her companion.
« As if I care what mortals say, or gods. » Another familiar refrain. Fireflies floated around them, burning into cinders when they drew too close to either of the energy-saturated beings, the demons of old. They stood for a long while, nearby but not touching, just enjoying the moment they’d dreamed together. This scene was only a bubble waiting to evanesce and shatter into the endless nothingness of the Qlippoth. That, at least, provided a connoisseur’s appreciation of the fragility of mortal life.
Her gaze lingered on his face. She could still remember him as a young, bright spirit, flying out of the dawn before history began. Though cynicism had darkened his gaze, he remained handsome in a way that transcended physical beauty: strong jawline, sharp nose that lent itself to haughty expression; those pale eyes forever seeing too much. Even now, they watched the imaginary stars like a raptor.
He raised his goblet to her, gold and filigreed. « To Una, » he said, « and the strangest of possibilities. »
In a blink, she held a goblet as well, silver and curvaceous as she was. « To Una, » she agreed, « whatever she becomes.» The goblets clinked.
***
This is the end of...VOLUME 1: SUCCUBATED! by the Nine-Thousand-Year-Old DemonessThe story of Una, Yael, friends and enemies will continue soon in...VOLUME 2: UNHALLOWED! Rise of the Neo-Succubus