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What is significance? Is it a tangible act of permanence that sticks like a residue to the history of time? Time of which there is no significance. There is no matter, no physicality, no essence to the existence of time. We live inside of it and it inside us, it is our mother and spawn. Yet you ascribe stability to this thing that cannot be, you make it absolute in your reality. Reality of which there is no significance. If you were to step through reality’s door to the abstract space within; you may also develop the eyes to see, the ears to hear, the skin to feel everything there has ever been and will be.

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You are the center of my universe. Rediscovery is infinite, digging itself out in search of more. There is always more, want is a hunger best starved. If I could tear it up from the root maybe I would rest, I should rather press the soil tense and bid it to grow deeper still. We are flesh healed, the energy that cannot end with death; we are living poison, toxic paradise. With decay there is always life, that putrid squirm of bacterium. I want your acid, your spores; fill me with your pathogen, give into me your illness, contaminate me, corrupt that which makes me. No skin is new, severed and sewn we become all from one. A garden unweeded is the landscape of wild reparation, fertility be damned of the sacrificial virgin. Amen.

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She is the most fathomless pain. She lives on my nerves, tangled up and squirming inside me. Velvet is only soft in one direction, I want to go against the grain forever with her. Let her branches catch me, hold me to the frozen sky, feed me to my own divinity. It is time for purity’s extinction. I will be the plague on the garden, necrosis of man, the still infant; she the shadow of purgatory yet to reign.

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Vasile long held a fondness for sunsets. No matter what colours joined the dance of a star dying upon the horizon, whenever he watched for its final breath of the day a poppy red ribbon always held the stage to itself just before the darkness came to claim the sky. That last gasp of life upon a dancing ribbon reminded him who he was. It reminded him what he would still become.

That desperate grip to life praying for the ecstacy of release that would never come was something even the day star could not escape in his presence. There was something ancient and hungry within him. Something of immense power and immeasurable age. Something which once threatened to devour him but now lay gasping beneath the heel of his boot. For even ancient powers cower from their nightmares. And that was a gift all his own. In time all nightmares would whisper Vasile’s name in hopes he may bring them life. But his gift would bind these aberrations to him. The more real they became, the stronger their addiction to the bestowals of an old god’s essence would grow. The old thing would regret it’s choice of willing vessel. Crushed by the irony that a taste its vigor was all this simple being needed to bring even the eternal to fall beneath his step.

All that tasted the boons of life Vasile offered would grow to crave more. Praying and wishing the euphoria his endowments promised would final pay in full. Even if they knew that what he offered would only keep them upon the edge of that razor for as long as he deemed them worth his covenant, the simple whispers of “But you’re different” “You are something special” would be enough to sell themselves whatever lie they must to indulge again. Be they mortal or god.

Once he could finally break the Life Giver’s spine his presence would grow until it became encompassing to all that ever were and ever would be. Then he would break the world and build reality anew.

If only he could discover the final piece to this eon long puzzle. He had already spent 600 years in pursuit of it. He would gladly spend 600 more . . .

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There is a casket, we bear it to that empty expanse of sable and star. If I should split open the body would this carcass fester and grow? I desire nothing yet necessitate for all. I am the covetous, burrowing insect that gnaws at the flesh. I am swarm, mass, nullity; I am a force that has always been and will continue on in the destruction of me. Open the casket now for the end of the world.

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Sincerity brought us here, that tumultuous careening through empty space that tore us to atoms and flayed our spirits like a burst of stars on the divine black lake. We die, dissolve, fade into new designs. Even rock is shaped by the ocean. We fall in on ourselves as planets spinning on infinity’s needle; it is a horrible fate we cannot fathom, a heaven to lament.

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Breathe, let it hurt. You’re ill, rotted. Pervert, feel everything. Break down, dig in, spill out for me. Kin of me, stripped of you, seed of nothing. I am your sin, lash your back and bleed into me. Give to me your torment, crush my body, let me weep for you. Ready her flesh for the wound, Open up this bloom upon the earth. Make nothing of this world.

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Let me sift through the sands of your soul to pull you out, free you the confines of this deceitful plane. Take my needles, my blades, my toxins into the vessel like the earth of rain in drought. Hold these shards of glass between your teeth, swallow your blood… My blood. Cleanse the palate and become a fresh stain on this our new reality. They do not harm, you are willing sacrifice. Feed into the black, become the void. I will sear out from you the agonies of a life sewn of baseless meaning. Give in.

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“Money is the shape of this world. It’s the muscle that bends power, the neuron firing signals into the minds of these mortal beast.” Jezebel coiled her hands to clasp about the right palm of Ezekiel, their arm drawn in snug to her form in an embrace that guided the pair in a stroll of the city.

“And to me, an orphan of the father god I murdered? The church left me morsels, not a profitable inheritance. How would you suggest I manipulate the wealth?” Cool eyes like rings of mercury floated with casual intensity about the evening crowd about the Berlin streets. This gaze dropped, curious to sync with Jezebel’s own soft, sooty orbs to seek the silent answers hidden there. Her eyes moved before the rest of her head tipped upwards toward Ezekiel, subtle amusement at the lips that never seemed to pool enough pink into them to suggest health.

“You’ll never be wealthy, you only need to steer those who are. Will I always think for you?” The directness in Jezebel’s tone shifted its weight, lightened upon her last words as she tilted her head to rest against her entity’s shoulder so that they might not pull away from the teasing remark. She wore a coat, long nearly to her knees where Ezekiel did not so that to onlookers they appeared begrudging of their assumed partner’s wishes to share a walk.

Ezekiel turned their vision now to the passing buildings, scanning each sign for some window into the nature and business of income and finance. “Indoctrinate the rich, facilitate the poor, correct?”

“In a word, yes.” The raven haired woman hummed. She pulled away just enough to watch Ezekiel work the idea around in their mind, arms still entrapping the entity’s right; affection or threat indeterminate. Ezekiel suddenly became something like a marble statue, still and silent; sterling eyes locked as a cat’s on a wounded bird. The greatest ruckus to sweep the city originated from visitors commonly; the ilk of which was broad enough. Obvious however were those of a particularly pampered tourism, of national privilege. Jezebel need not follow her Entity’s view to perceive what was understood between them both, taken once again to resting against that stiffened shoulder whilst beaming upwards at Ezekiel. A group of young Australian men striding ahead of them made a grand enough cacophony of their plans in the Pergamon Museum that evening that she could recognize their fate without a hesitation to the thought. Well dressed and groomed, lavish in the comforts of high society, decorated with impudence of an education only money could buy. These were heirs, seeds of a garden primed to produce an abundance of crop for harvests to come; but where there is rich earth there are weeds, and such a beautiful bloom has the Devil’s Snare.

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Dream Scene: Ostium

The walls squirmed like a mother’s abdomen alight with the siphoning, selfish bulb within. Heat washed over my head and shoulders with the power of many hands. The staircase at my heels now seemed a crooked, separated spine lashing upwards into the empty pit from which I emerged. This door, stood like a great titan of pearl and bone before me; it was stretched across oceans of uncertain ground. Even the scent of this place was as heated steel, the ambience that tight squeal of scalding fire pressed around a glass before rupture. I moved with a cloak of weight now; each movement constricting unseen ropes in painful coil about each limb, icy hooks in my back flesh, unknown hands pressed at my chest, a collar sealed upon my throat.

Ashes, ashes under my feet. Perhaps bone crushed to dust, sands of the lost eternal. On through the desecrated earth, forward to press exhausted against the door. A great shriek shattered the air, the sharp echo of this towering gate shedding like an eggshell beneath my delicate pressure. I was tumbling in, falling through, whirling against gravities from all directions in absurd weightlessness. I could hear them now, biting at my ears and chattering amongst themselves; all those ashen bodies cast listlessly into this infinite cacophony adrift. I took hold, gripped at nothing at all and yet felt it realize in the curl of my fingers like velvet chains rooted somewhere in this endless beyond. The blur halted with such extremity I was left bent and kneeled, my hair became a white veil across my vision. Up my knees a dampness crawled, something viscus, living. The warm swirl leant out before me in all directions, I felt it squirming against the walls however distant they had become from my form; I was but a blot of erasure in this plane. Something seared down upon me, it cast the white glow of my wrappings in an edge of red; I was as cotton dipped in crimson. It bore down on me, too full, too real, too present. A sob gasped from me, crippled me down into the lake of blood until all was black once more.

“You weep like a child.” Jezebel mused.

I felt her fingers claw the locks from my shoulders softly as I heaved hunched and shuddering beside her in the darkness. The bed was cool with our bodies, the air touched me with the temperate reality of a fresh night. I was here, present, a solid being in grounded surroundings once more.

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“Your god is in these places. Glassy eyes inescapable, rotten scent of sacrifice, manipulation strains the shoulders.” -Jezebel Inmortalis

A pitch black suit cut out the clean outline of a slender soul beneath waning, aged fluorescent fixtures; a tie of equal opaque split their chest between the shocking white of their button up. Muted clatters lay beyond a door of recognizably cheap, burnt orange hue. The man behind his squat desk sat with the incline of studied structure, rigid as if the spine had replaced a titanium pole. Every anxious, shrewd glance from this pawn saturated Ezekiel’s lazy melt into their seat with dismissal. Half lidded eyes of mercury lay static on the receptionist, unchanging, without reprieve. The young man’s brows furrowed, discomfort tensing his features moments before a click sounded from the door at the opposite side of the room. The swing of the door acted as a knife snapping a constricted string in the air of the waiting room, a middle aged woman positioned with calm indifference within the doorway as she nodded a beckon to the pale figure sprawled with open delinquency in wait.

“Take a seat, please.” Miss Cermak, as read the name plate at her desk, gestured across from herself over the deep mahogany desk. Her hair was a pale honey, eyes scrunched in years with a smart nose and lips as decisive as her posture was even and without improper lean.

Ezekiel did as requested; slumping like a broken puppet, chin resting upon a palm propped by an elbow across their knee. The woman’s eyes shifted about the unusual position, her lips pulling into something taught and reminiscent of displeasure. The Entity only gazed on, innocently amused; borderline smug were it to be known what sort of intelligence dwelled in the space behind those white eyes.

“Have you worked in government before, Mr…” A shuffling of papers interrupted Miss Cermak’s question as her vision bounced between the pale stranger and what were meant to be their papers… Blank. She knit her brows and squinted across the desk.

“Ezekiel, that will do.” A cool voice replied with unusual delight. They drew in a soft breath and continued, “Miss Cermak, I’ve not come here for work today. I’d only like to speak with you… You don’t mind do you?”

The woman’s mouth had fallen open slightly, her features softened with simple dismay as she watched Ezekiel reach into their blazer pocket to expose a single, silver pin. A perfect line of metal held horizontal vertical between them.

“Have you ever sworn on the Bible, Evangeline?” The question struck the woman with a jolt as if even the soft voice it carried upon was too loud for the deathly quiet room.

“What are you talking about? What’s going to do with that?” A dryness had entered Evangeline Cermak’s voice, her unease had taken closer to annoyance now. Before she could stand from her chair to put a stop to the strange affair, unwelcome guest brought up their free hand just enough to prick the tip of their index finger upon the pin. Blood, black like wine in the bottle, tracing down the length of the metal.

“Does your god still take blood? Is he indulgent? Do you bleed for him, Evangeline? Has he taken what all you had in youth?” As they spoke, Ezekiel lifted their hand and like a line on a page the blood stood from finger to needle’s edge; unbroken, constant. The woman had begun to fumble about her desk, never tearing her eyes from the horrible act before her once. Finally Miss Cermak grasped her cellphone and turned her attention just long enough toward the screen to attempt an emergency call. A guttural, exasperated moan wrenched from the woman at the sight of pixelated chaos flitting across the technology; rendered now little more than a brick.

“Angel… That is what your father called you isn’t it? Be not afraid, Angel. You have your purity yet… Haven’t you?” The Entity purred on. They tipped their palm up steadily, open to view the spotless finger that had seemed to bleed but a second prior. With only a blink, once white eyes were black and from them tumbled a darkness as deep as forever. Like obsidian marbles, tears of ink, a blackness so void of light it beckoned one to fall full into its embrace; Ezekiel opened their arms and and stared with longing vindication for the mortal.

Evangeline Cermak had sworn on Bibles and sung sweet hymns, she’d prayed on others and given up her sins. This night she witnessed her first miracle… At least that’s how the vitae felt as it wrapped her in tender ecstasy.

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Dream Scene

A rotted staircase of stone plummeting into the hungry maw of the abyss, the scent of dust ancient and unharmed about the studded walls curling about me. There was no choice in the matter, down into it I was beckoned. Something floated about there, no stagnation in a place so carved in stone yet. Curling, dancing, silky strings they were; like a spider’s webs though more glistening, more alive of their own. They touched me sometimes, curious brushes that occasionally stuck for fractions of seconds to feel me as equally as I them. My brain rippled with a heavy, constant, timely reverberation from far below into the lake of shadow. It was not a sound, not quite; only the very notion of such a thing that might be heard deep into the mind. The only true note the queer, rounded echo of my heels upon the steps; like a stone dropped so far that the tinny response had become warped, bubbling, alien to my ears. I traveled fast, or perhaps impatiently for the stretch of time was beyond vast and threatening always to never end. I know I was clothed in royal blue, black, ivory, gold; something soft and trim in fine lace that harborEd great respect to some unspoken purpose. My hair was brushed, the waves neat in their sway about my back and chest. I held my gaze straight and down, I would not or could not toss it side to the pit below that breathed chill against my cheek. Silence from above so heavy it felt as though it pressed hands to my shoulders and guided me on my downward trek, coaxed me on, threatened my future with humiliating malice.

Suddenly I shook, my heart beat once like a jolt. And with that the place was dashed for me, up in smoke and billow into black. It was night again. Crisp and corporal. My mate turned to watch my from her side.

“You stumble like a child.” Her words were curt though her voice mellowed with amusement.

I only nodded, shame is a useless sound. Failure cannot be spoken away.

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“If you’ve nothing to deny yourself, take until it is too much.”

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“Better, better, better. I shouldn’t survive this, if I do you won’t. Chiseled out, chipped away the shapeless stone. Strength is to cut away the unnecessary, only when there is nothing left is there wholeness.”

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“I can taste her dark misery, putrid delicacy. She is a swarm on me, a hundred chambers burrowed through. I am her meat and she is my drink, gorge and be intoxicated. Sup in malignancy ‘til there is not.”

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Sin

In 1957 within Rhineland-Palatinate, Germany, Ezekiel Lamb entered into the world marked in rejection and shame. The unnatural silence of the child upon their birth only sated the superstitions of the mother, a woman so deeply religious that pregnancy had been possession and birth the expelling of an evil seed. The father was not known, or rather not recognized for dubious connection to the church; for the mother had in fact taken the vow a year prior at the age of sixteen. Sister Franziska had a suffering grasp on reality before entering the convent, one tampered with by the solicitous advances of her own father and the foul disregard of a knowing mother. She had believed desperately when the priest promised to rid her of her “evils,” her “sins.” To her, the infant result of this was merely the demons being driven from her physically. Ezekiel, named so by the nun midwives, was to be kept as an orphan to the convent under the close supervision of the church like a guarded stain on their legacy; one of too many in their history.

Sister Franziska was not to raise the child, and interaction between the two was in fact heavily avoided. This however was an impossible consistency to keep and soon the woman had become a horrifying specter in the memory of Ezekiel, a presence leering from the corridors and glimpsed betwixt the crack of a door in her private quarters. She was a shadow, a shape, a looming presence for which Ezekiel could not comprehend the reason for her haunting. Whispers through the halls between the other sisters carried with them a fearful gossip toward their Sister Franziska and the evil child; she carried the stigmata, the child was ill of mind, the sin could not be washed from him, the father was the true sufferer of his legion. Ezekiel’s silence since birth carried on through adolescence, the cold disposition upheld between them and the monastery was ever present and the discomfort toward their unspoken malignancy was palpable. Ezekiel was regarded first as an unwanted reminder of guilt; this strange, uncanny, staring, mute creature with a crown like sheep’s wool and eyes of blessed silver. They were the visage of something mocking the angelic, a cherub that could look into the eyes with such innocent malevolence that the nuns went about the sign of the cross when speaking their name at times.

Ezekiel left the convent at sixteen just as their mother had entered at that age, stepping into the world and taking with them that continuous vow of silence as they did. They observed life from afar, at the edges of a fuzzy vision distorting and morphing in front of them in a society brimming with new experiences and sensations abandoned within the cloister. Here that command of the superstitious however did not exist; truly Ezekiel was odd to those about but not so in the way that existed with the knowledge of that dark history and unclean descent. Now their manipulations came in the sheer mystery of them, the overpowering unknown that emanated from a cavernous internal nihility. Spoken only as an author of dark philosophies and distorted concepts of existentialism, Ezekiel had a firm hold on the lost generations and stragglers of humankind. It was never enough though, their existence was infinite vacuity; hell was a spiritual tar pit they could not rise from. It rendered their tongue stiff and still, it sent their mind careening over vast expanses of the fragility of humankind and the secret pull of something opaque and hungry.

They were twenty-four in 1981, living in Berlin and staring down the meaninglessness of their future upon a thin plane of reality. As bitter a silence as ever bore down on Ezekiel as they walked into a desolate forest, their car abandoned on an empty road and their trek for solitude taking them deep. The sharp teeth of winter reddened their nose and cheeks, a brilliant shade against the barrenness of their pale pallet. They walked with a calm intent to spill with greater vibrancy hot crimson over the snow. Ezekiel wished to face their mortality, to make it a tangible reality just to know it existed. They found instead mortality embodied. Tangled in a rash of thorns and brush was a body, lifeless and serene. Her black hair sprawled across the twisting mangle of thorn branches like a plume of feathers in the aftermath of a hunt; her skin tinged in the grey-blue shade of the frigid environment; her eyes laid open and jet beneath sharp and unusually neat bangs. There was an unspeakable morbidity that beckoned Ezekiel to the dead thing, something illimitable and grotesque. There was no finality there, only yawning eternity in the stillness of a permanent state. Ezekiel left the forest that night, they brought death with them like the crumpled game of a forbidden poaching in their arms. The silence of this action was perhaps better than any words that could not describe for the human any reasonability for it; nor for the tenderness with which they rested the vacant body on their table once returned home. There was such a severe jealousy for her, a curious coveting of her lifelessness eternal. Ezekiel studied the dead one a long time before resting that night.

It was such a soft sound at first, the shift of weight pressing down onto the bed beside Ezekiel; just behind them. The air about the form was chilled, the hands drifting up to hook with searing edge into the human’s chest like claws of ice.

“Prophet.” Her voice emitted no breath, yet it drifted weightless into sound.

Absolution, rapture, the embrace. Ezekiel was reborn, torn through the veil and tossed to sink into the ocean of ink that had marked them lifelong. The vow was broken and breathlessly as their sire they spoke; curses to god and to man, blessings of hell and of havoc, consent to the bidding of an eternal night.

Salvation

The freshly sired Entity was set upon the task of proving their will at the threat of absolute end in final death at the hands of the sire, Jezebel. They pulled upon their strengths with conviction, pouring into their philosophies and theories to form cults of mankind; small though with violent result. Ezekiel had become a sacrificial priest of a god yet to come, cleansed in darkness and promised to chaos. Carved into their flesh, embedded with an inky blackness from within were its words of faith; a painstaking process committed the night of the embrace. All that was unholy in Ezekiel as a human was now poured out upon the world like oil bubbling up from the earth, they were every superstition laid onto them and a vengeful Devil for it.

There were still yet gods to be conquered though; those all adorned in benediction and sealed away in their tombs of gold, clothed in the purity of their robes and impurity of hearts. Father Immanuel, the progenitor of that spiteful, angelic, monstrous thing rested well in power of the congregation through which Ezekiel’s upbringing left them exiled from all that could be hallowed and good. The nuns were at first dismissive when Ezekiel came to ask for confluence with the father, protecting even then the secrecy of his sins waged against the young sister Franziska twenty-some years prior. However when Jezebel requested the Father’s services in exorcizing that which had blackened the eyes of her Entity spawn an exception was made, the nuns having realized this was a matter of business and the secret perhaps still remained as it had been kept from Ezekiel religiously in their upbringing. There was a relief amongst the monastery, the comfort that the demons put into that orphan of Lucifer would finally be driven out, washed away; the torment of the sin would be forgotten for Father Emmanuel, so they thought. So they thought.

The exorcism was a harsh affair at the very least for Ezekiel, an Entity of spiritual bane. A willing torture, a means to an end as that dormant evil played along with the Father. It was of course a mockery, a trap to bind Father Emmanuel with the false hope that through this act he could save his soul from the bastard offspring’s stain of lineage. Upon the assumed final hour of the exorcism Jezebel stepped in for the kill, crucifying the priest alongside her Entity. Like an unholy sacrifice to the shadows, a darkness was pulled over the monastery that night. Sister Franziska wandered the halls and rambled of hell on earth, the faith was lost within those walls, the bell tower was left silent on the hour to ring no more. In the wake of the Lasombra pair there was a putrefying stillness about the place. Ezekiel had proven themself worthy in the birthright of the new god for another night.