De Mysteriis Dominus Satanas

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De Mysteriis Dominus Satanas

Postby Farithras on Sun Oct 31, 2010 10:51 pm

You don't need me to tell you what the title means, do you?
Fine. It means "The mysteries of Lord Satan" in latin. (Or at least it should. Stupid latin.)

I submitted it for my creative writing Coursework as a 1000-word piece of fiction towards my portfolio (with 10% either way, so it was 900 words least or 1100 max - I got 1096 words :P)

Enjoy! (I hope!)

“I am Yours, whether I serve You willingly or not,
for I am myself, whether I am true to myself or not.
Of my own free will, I now acknowledge Your power.
Of my own free will, I now present myself to You.”

1615; it was surprisingly dark for an age of enlightenment. I found myself in Inverness, for I had been alerted to a coven of witches chanting their sacreligious rites and binding their souls to the service of Lucifer – Souls that needed to be saved. A blanket of the darkest darkness covered the sea of stars above my head, and it was quiet, so quiet, as I trudged my way through the gravestones that marked the land of the dead towards the castle door. I put a gloved hand on the handle and pulled and pushed with all of my strength, but to no avail. The secrets held within remained hidden from my gaze.

I unlatched my flintlock from my belt and loaded it with but a single bullet, removing the lock to the door in a fashion undesirable to my senses – The loud bang of the bullet escaping the barrel and the clang of lead upon iron piercing like a scream through the otherwise-silent surroundings of the country. The mischievous mist that danced around my feet like a nymph thickened as I destroyed the door to force my entry, hiding the ground my leather-clad feet rested upon.
Cautiously, I reloaded my flintlock with a silver bullet, and adorning the walls to either side of me were paintings – portraits of past holders of the castle, wearing flamboyant wigs, looking as though they have been well-fed or primed for their portraits. However different all of the people in the portraits looked, there was one thing that was certain – They were all looking at me. I was certain of this, and a shiver crawled up my spine ever-so-slightly. Left, right, left, right I continued down the corridor, my footsteps echoing throughout the hallowed hall.

I discreetly peered around the corner of what seemed to be the main room. Inside, were luxury red velvet chairs, congregating around a small, wooden coffee table; past what I could see of the mist, the floor was sanguine – perhaps, stained with the blood of sacrificial victims? Part of me did not want to find out, to go back out from this place. But I continued in nonetheless. The paintings continued to stare at me. I could not see the floor, and the ceiling looked like an upward abyss. The rain, outside, thundered like a relentless army against the windows, and the freezing moon broke through, coldly illuminating the hallway. From the end of the hallway, I could hear hushed whispers, and it seemed as though there were more than one.

I picked up the pace and moved faster down the hall, flintlock at the ready. My breathing quickening with my pace, my eyes affixed on the end of the hall. The pitter-pattering of my footsteps was now indistinguishable from the rain battering the windows outside, and it seemed as though I was making little progress down the seemingly-endless hall. Something must have been playing with my senses, or was it the room that was getting bigger? I burst into sprint, and heard the whispers and chants once more, circulating my mind like the blood around my body – I did not know a way of removing them without bringing myself to harm, physically or mentally.

In front of me was a small girl with long black hair, skin as pale as a corpse, and eyes as large as moonstones, with a pearly-whiteness to match. Her dress was ripped; it was also white, and it looked like a burial gown. Her blue lips parted and from her mouth came the most unbearable scream I have ever heard, much worse than the screams coming from those burnt at the stake. I shielded my ears with my hands, but the sound still penetrated, and I raised my flintlock and fired it at her. The scream drowned out even the sound of my flintlock, but it ceased one I pulled the trigger, and she collapsed onto her knees. Blood poured from her chest, and with her dying breath, she uttered “Leave this place...Hic Noenum Pax” (Which I know to mean “Here is no peace, roughly) and collapsed lifelessly to the ground. I looked up at the ceiling in horror that I had taken the life of a young girl, but when I looked back down, her corpse was gone, and there was no blood. Her scream still crawled through my mind.

On the walls, I could have sworn “Hic Noenum Pax” appearing in flames in either side of me, illuminating the sides clearly. One particular door was singled out, and again, I loaded my flintlock with a silver bullet, and put my ear against the door, voices again coming from the door, satanic prayers, along with the sounds of screams. This was enough evidence of treachery for me, and I quickly kicked down the door, forcing my entry, and fired a bullet at the woman closest to me. In a heap, she fell, and next to her, another woman screamed something to me, in Latin. I was unsure, and I drew my knife and hurled it at her, piercing her windpipe so she could not lay some foul ailment upon me. The room was silent, and in the middle of them was a goat, its’ insides strewn along the floor, candles cradled in skulls littered the room and filled it with dark light. I bowed my head. My work here was done, and this torture ended.
Hic Noenum Pax.

Or so I had thought. The girl I had shot earlier appeared once more. This time, she looked as dead as she had before, other than her dress was now bloodstained and she looked less sorrowful and more furious, likely at my actions. She screamed “Hic Noenum pax!” once more and I fled towards the entrance of the castle as it the earth beneath my feet began to move. The door was closing, and I realised that my time to escape was running out. I leapt towards the door, and rebounded off it. My arm was caught in it, and the girl began to approach me. I looked towards my arm, which was trapped within the door. I squeezed the trigger of my flintlock, but it was empty. The way out had been sealed, and as the girl approached me, I knew that my fate was, too.

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