Consequences

Vorek stood alone in darkness deep within the Veil Sanctorum, at the heart of an immense chamber of black obsidian. The only light came from a solitary beam falling from high above and within this pool the disgraced shadowbinder waited while around him the quiet murmurs of an unseen multitude of his comrades whispered accusations at him. His heart pounded and it was all Vorek could do to remain calm, in control. How many times had he been the one watching? The one sitting in darkness? He had never expected to find himself standing here, the focus of attention, waiting for his turn before the Triad.

Before Vorek, just at the edge of the small pool of light, a stone dais rose and upon it sat three thrones. A figure in black robes occupied each, little more than wraiths in the darkness, marked out by the cold, unforgiving glint of their eyes. These were the Triad, who had judged the guilty through the centuries, and they would be his accusers.

Subtle movement at the base of the dais caught his eyes and Vorek’s breath caught. A figure huddled there, nearly invisible in the darkness, black upon black. It was naked, save a thick metal band wrapped about its waist and connected to a heavy chain that held it prisoner. Its shape was mostly human, though the top of its head and edges of its body dissolved into shadow, as if it were composed of smoke that was slowly drifting away. Its face was a smooth black sheen devoid of features, as was its flesh, though a complex pattern of pearly white swirls interrupted the oppressive darkness of its body. As all of its kind, it had no genitals.

He shivered as he looked at the creature. Long ago, Vorek had seen the results of an umbral’s ministrations. Jareth had been a friend and Vorek still didn’t understand why he betrayed the Veil Sanctorium. He had done so, however, and Vorek could still see him in his mind’s eye. He lay limp, slumped against a wall, his skin ashen, his eyes hollow. Even the room had seemed empty, the air thin, the life drawn from it. The whisper that escaped Jareth’s lips was barely audible, “The umbral… it… it took everything.” and Vorek knew it for true, for there on his face, where complex tattoos should have proclaimed his power, there was instead only smooth, clear flesh.

“Shadowbinder Vorek Dravyn.” a voice boomed from above, interrupting his thoughts and pulling his gaze upwards. “Speak.” it commanded, and Vorek felt the compulsion fall upon him, smothering him. He struggled against it, but even as he did, he could hear his own words, spilling out, condemning him.

“The stone is sundered and the Ender of Days has come. The Holy Shepherd is born again and the Dawnblade lies forgotten in ashes.” Vorek declared. At his words the murmuring around him grew as the assembled shadowbinders gaped. Vorek stopped fighting the compulsion and let the words spill out of him.

Naked, forsaken, and alone, Vorek huddled in the tiny cell they had thrown him into. He was allowed only a candle, paper, ink, and quill and given two days to write the reason for his treachery. Two days, and then judgment. Two days, and then everything about his life would change again.

Earlier, as his mouth, moving of its own accord, recounted everything from the time he entered that forsaken village to the time he returned to Wrykspire, Vorek had let his mind wander. He was uncertain of his own actions. Why had he helped them? Why had he let them go? Certainly he owed them nothing. They were strangers to him. Barely more than children. Was it not his duty to bring them to the Veil? Deliver them to the Eclipse?

Why had he ignored that duty? Was the Triad right? Was he giving up everything for nothing? He couldn’t say. All he knew was that in that moment, standing in what had once been the bleak, dead land of a voidscar, Vorek had seen what could be. He had watched as new life blossomed where there had been only desolation. At that moment, he had believed.

He knew then. He knew why he had done it. Lifting a sheaf of paper, he wrote a single word in bold letters: HOPE.

Three days after the Triad judged Vorek, the umbral’s arrival was heralded by harsh grating as the cell door swung open. Blinded by the light, Vorek flinched and shielded his eyes, revealing the outline of a burly man. A black hood obscured his face, hard eyes looking out through cutouts. In one hand he held a brank, its metal bars rusted, its mouth bit chipped and jagged, and in the other hand he gripped the chain affixed to the broad band of metal wrapped about the waist of the umbral, which scurried about at his feet.

Vorek had always despised the handlers. But this one filled him with fear. “No.” he croaked, retreating until his back hit the cold stone of his cell.

For a long moment the handler just stood there, watching and Vorek could feel an almost palpable sense of menace from him: an anticipation of the violence to come. With a grunt of satisfaction, the handler stepped over the threshold, his booted foot coming down on the stone like a gong going off. Again the handler stood silently watching Vorek while the umbral cowered behind him, its body seeming to drink in the darkness around it.

In the seconds before the assault, Vorek futilely raised his hands to shield himself. A useless gesture, for the handler’s fist, weighted by the rusty brank, crashed into his tattooed face. It stuck with a bone-jarring snap, the force staggered the shadowbinder, driving him to his knees. He coughed, spitting blood and teeth from his now-broken jaw.

“Oh yeah.” the man growled in a cold, “This’ll hurt.” he muttered, kicking Vorek sharply. The shadowbinder crumpled, falling to the floor and curling into a ball. The only sounds, the scratching of the umbral’s nails across the stones of the floor and Vorek’s groans.

The handler paused, his heavy breathing filling the small space as he prepared for the next assault. He stepped forward deliberately, each of his booted steps thudding ominously on the stone floor. Then he began. Blow upon blow rained down upon Vorek, each punctuated by a grotesque wet sound as flesh split beneath the force of the handler’s fist and the metal brank. Barbs tore through skin with sickening ease, drawing dark blood that began to pool on the floor.

As the blows continued to fall, Vorek lost all notion of time. In one fleeting moment, as the relentless violence paused, he caught the quiet drip drip of water somewhere nearby, the noise so at odds with the brutality he faced. Finally it ended. Vorek lay broken, the cold stone slowly warming with the spreading pool of his blood. The air was thick with the iron scent of blood and the sound of his own ragged breaths.

He had difficulty seeing. One eye was gone and the other was nearly swollen shut. Everything about him was a twisted mess and his facial tattoos, the marks of his office, were ripped and torn. Whimpering, he crawled to a corner and folded in on himself, turning his body away from the handler in another useless attempt to shield himself. The handler just watched and though his face was hidden by the hood, Vorek was certain he was smiling.

Then came the sound Vorek had been dreading since the door opened. The sound that chilled him and caused panic to surge through him. The quiet click of a lock being opened followed by the clattering of a chain falling to the floor. Through his one remaining eye, Vorek watched in horror as the umbral crept forward. It walked on all fours, its face forward, head up like a dog sniffing the air. It was, Vorek realized, as beaten and broken as he. With agonizing slowness it came upon him, its long fingers probing his ruined face. Then, with a sudden rush, it wrapped those fingers around his throat and began to squeeze.

---

Many days later Vorek turned slowly about in a gibbet. The brank, still covered with his dried blood, clung to his face, the mouth bit pressing down hard on his tongue. Every part of him screamed with agony and he had been given no more than drops of water in the days of his torture. He knew he would be here until he died, a grim warning to the people of Wrykspire. A reminder of the fate of those who dared to oppose the will of the Veil Sanctorium and the shadowbinders within.

A few stopped to spit at him, others to throw stones. Once he had been mighty. Once these masses had cowered before him. Now, however, the broken and bruised flesh of his face bore none of the tattoos of his office. That was gone. Stolen from him by the umbral. He was a shadowbinder no longer.