Aether’s Dark Possession
Dark shadows twisted and squirmed, serpentine and alive, licking the edges of his vision. A cold mist crawled from the floor. It creeped like a living thing. With it came a suffocating air filled with the stench of rot and decay.
His lungs filled with the metallic scent of blood, fresh and old. His silver eyes, once bright with clarity, flickered, now burning with a malignant red hue, like the first embers of a dying fire.
“Raziel, come home to me. Embrace the darkness in your soul.”
A scream erupted from his throat. His heart beating, thumping, slamming like a sledgehammer against his ribcage.
A single, unnatural light flickered in the corner of the room, cold and sickly, casting warped shadows across the walls.
The voice came again, hollow and insistent, whispering through the silence, sinking into his bones.
“Raziel, come home to me. Embrace the darkness in your soul.”
A scream tore from his throat, raw and tortured, the sound too horrific to be human. His heart pounded in his chest, wild, frantic, as though it would tear itself apart.
It thrashed like a beast caged within his ribs, beating with desperate violence, threatening to rupture.
He felt it, that pulse of death calling him, the promise of something… something terrifying… hovering just beyond his reach.
“Raziel… Raziel… Come home to me. Aether demands your allegiance.”
The voice twisted, oozing malice, its promise of power so sweet, so enticing, and yet foul. Like the stench of rot beneath a flower’s petals.
His mind screamed to turn away, to flee, but his feet moved of their own accord, dragging him deeper into the suffocating blackness. The air thickened with dread.
“Embrace the darkness in your soul…”
He could feel it now, crawling under his skin, threading its way through the marrow of his bones. The whispers clawed at his thoughts, relentless, insistent.
Give in.
The red around his irises flared, a violent eruption of bloodlust, swallowing the last vestiges of silver, as though his very soul was being consumed, dissolving into the hunger of something ancient, something eternal.
His voice, hoarse and broken, spilled out as though the words were not his own.
“I shall follow you, my lord.”
The door creaked open, followed by the heavy thud of footsteps that echoed in the silence of the room.
A figure loomed in the doorway, his face half-shadowed in the dim light.
“Raziel,” his father’s voice was rough, grating, as he reached out, shaking his son from the nightmare’s grip. “Wake up, boy. It’s just a dream.”
But it wasn’t. The air around Raziel felt too thick, too oppressive. The nightmare had seeped into the real world, bringing its weight with it. His screams tore through the room, jagged and desperate.
A raw echo of terror that rattled the walls. His body drenched in sweat, his chest heaving, a slick panic clawing at his throat. But then, as his eyes snapped open, they locked onto his father.
For a moment, everything stopped. Time itself held its breath.
Isaac froze.
Raziel’s eyes were no longer the silver orbs they once were. They were widened, wild, but it wasn’t just fear that flickered within them.
A crimson halo now circled the edges of his pupils, a pulsing, living thing that oozed like blood under skin. It was unnatural…wrong.
“Aether?” Fear shimmered in Issac’s silver eyes.
The boy’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, as if he were savoring a secret far darker than any mortal could fathom.
“He is mine now.” A disembodied voice from his son. Isaac’s blood ran cold. The words struck him like a death sentence.
“Like hell he is!” Isaac spat, his voice trembling with fury and fear. His heart thundered in his chest as he turned and bolted from the room.
Isaac’s fingers trembled as he fumbled through his dresser, searching with frantic urgency, his breath ragged. The room was suffocating. The very walls pressing in on him. Time itself was unraveling.
His hand brushed against the familiar cool surface of a small box buried deep within the drawer. Thank Goddess.
The box felt heavy in his hands as he tore it open, his eyes catching the glint of a small pendant.
A silver dragon coiled around a glowing orb, faintly pulsing with light. Without hesitation, he rushed back to his son’s side.
The room was dark, the air thick with a putrid, suffocating stench that clung to the walls. Raziel stood there, his body shaking, his eyes wide and unseeing, the red already spreading, consuming him.
The irises had bled away completely, leaving nothing but a glowing abyss of crimson. His face was twisted in agony, as though every inch of him was being torn apart from the inside.
“Aether,” Raziel whispered, his voice hollow, a chant that was no longer his own. “Aether… I… belong… to him.”
Isaac’s heart shattered at the sound. “Diaglo, please… help me,”
Isaac begged, his voice trembling. The pendant still clenched in his hand. The red in Raziel’s eyes flared, a terrible, burning fire.
Isaac could feel the weight of something ancient, something wrong pressing down on him, trying to drown him in its suffocating embrace.
The shadows in the room seemed to stretch, to reach for him, to claw at his very soul.
Isaac didn’t hesitate any longer.
With trembling hands, he fastened the pendant around Raziel’s neck, the cold metal biting into his son’s skin. The moment the clasp clicked shut, a blinding flash of light erupted from the orb.
For a split second, Isaac saw it, Aether’s twisted, mocking grin. The darkness that coiled like a serpent, clawing its way through Raziel’s body.
But the light, the light. It grew brighter, brighter still, until it overpowered everything.
A scream filled the air. A terrible, guttural sound that came from Raziel’s very core, a cry of pain and loss.
The red in his eyes began to recede, slowly at first, and then faster, as if it were being burned away by the pure light flooding the room.
Raziel staggered back, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His eyes flickered, silver now. His eyes rolled to the back of his head.
Issac caught him just before his head hit the wall. With a heavy heart he lifted his son. His heart thumped hard, his breath’s ragged as he placed his son in his bed.
Raziel woke up with a start. His mind raced with thoughts and visions he did not understand. Haunting red eyes lingered in his vision, like burning embers in the dark.
He shook his head and sat up, his breath quick and shallow. The stone walls of his room felt cool and imposing, yet familiar.
A heavy tapestry of deep crimson hung over the eastern wall, depicting the family crest, a proud dragon standing upon a cliff face.
Its edges were embroidered with threads of gold that caught the faint morning light filtering through the large, leaded windows.
Shifting his weight in the grand four-poster bed, his feet hit the cold, polished stone floor.
The bed’s posts were adorned with intricate carvings of knights and beasts, their faces shadowed in the early light.
Despite his station as a commoner, the room felt more suited to a nobleman.
Raziel rubbed his head, his thoughts still tangled in the dream’s fragments, and looked around the large chamber. The bed was not the only lavish thing about the room.
Ornate furniture adorned the room. To his right an oak dresser with brass fittings. On Raizel’s left is a large wardrobe carved with delicate floral designs.
The room was vast, its high ceilings supported by exposed beams, each one decorated with dark wood carvings of mythical creatures
His journal sat upon the nightstand, next to a brass candle holder. He reached for it, and as he picked it up, a sketch fell out. One he’d drawn of the mushrooms from his forest patch.
His eyes lingered on the morels, each cap carefully detailed in his drawing, the texture of the mushrooms almost tangible in the sketch.
A memory flooded back. He had to hurry! He just remembered that his patch of mushrooms, the ones he had carefully tended to over the past weeks, should be ready today. The thought of them sent a rush of excitement through him.
Without thinking, he grabbed his green tunic and brown pants, quickly throwing them on. In fluid movements he donned his socks and worn leather boots. He slung his sheep skin satchel over his shoulder and darted toward the door.
He took the stairs two at a time, the sound of his feet thudding heavily against the old stone. The manor seemed to hum with life. The scent of aged wood and the faint warmth of a fire still lingered from the hearth below.
The staircase opened up to the grand living room, where Issac sat at a massive workbench carved from a single slab of dark oak.
The room was adorned with intricate tapestries and shields mounted along the stone walls.
Above the hearth, an elaborate wooden mantle bore an inscription in an ancient tongue, which none but Issac could truly decipher. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering light across the room.
Issac, tall and sturdy, sat in his worn leather apron, his focus on a freshly repaired bow.
The wood gleamed in the light, a new string tightly wound into place. Raziel’s excitement faltered as he looked at his father, who now glanced up with a knowing look.
“Raziel,” Issac called, his voice calm but firm. “Where are you going, son?”
Raziel grinned, adjusting his satchel. “I’m going to get my mushrooms for dinner, Dad.”
Issac’s silver eyes softened for a moment, but his gaze sharpened as he studied his son. “Are you feeling better? You had a bit of a bad dream last night.”
Raziel rubbed his temple, the ache still lingering. “I… I think so, Father. I don’t remember much of the dream.” His voice trailed off as he felt the pressure behind his eyes. “I just have a bit of a headache. I’m hoping to find some aspen out with the mushrooms.”
Issac’s expression, the glimmer in his silver eyes became unreadable, though a shadow of concern lingered. “Be careful, boy. Remember what I said about badgers. They love your morels.”
Raziel smiled and nodded. “I know, I know, Dad. I’ll be fine. The patch is close to the garden, so it won’t take long.”
Issac relaxed, though he still studied his son with careful eyes. “Alright, Raziel. When you get back, I’ll help you clean them. They’ll pair nicely with the chicken we butchered a few days ago.”
Raziel’s hand rested on the heavy oak door, its intricate carvings of dragons and sorcerers. He was about to step outside when Issac’s voice stopped him.
“Wait. Are you forgetting something?” Issac chuckled, his hand resting on the polished bow beside him.
Raziel turned back, his heart sinking as he saw the bow. “No?” he asked, trying to feign innocence.
Issac laughed softly, shaking his head. “I think you are. Come get your bow. I’ve fixed it for you. I have no idea how you keep ‘accidentally’ breaking it. I’m starting to think you don’t like it?”
Raziel sighed, his shoulders slumping. “It’s not that I don’t like it, Dad. It’s a beautiful weapon. I just… I’m not any good with it.”
Issac raised an eyebrow, his gaze intense yet understanding. “Come on, let’s go have a quick lesson. Then I’ll let you go get your mushrooms.”
Raziel groaned, his voice tinged with reluctance. “If I must.”
Issac’s gaze was unyielding, the kind of fatherly look that said, this is happening, and there’s no room for debate. His silver eyes, filled with quiet authority, locked with Raziel’s for a moment longer, a silent command that left no room for protest.
Defeated, Raziel shuffled toward the large mirror hanging by the door, its gilded frame reflecting the noble elegance of their home. An imposing structure of stone and wood that spoke of a legacy both proud and heavy.
He gazed into his own reflection. The silver in his eyes seemed dull, lost somewhere between the bright gleam of childhood and the shadows of a darker, unexplained burden.
His brows furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line of displeasure. I hate the bow and arrows, he thought bitterly, the frustration simmering beneath his skin.
He let out a sigh as he reached up and pulled his long silver hair into a knot at the back of his head, his delicate, curved ears exposed as his fingers worked swiftly.
The weight of his silken hair was something he never quite grew accustomed to. As he finished the knot, he glanced at his father’s reflection in the mirror.
Issac’s steady gaze held a quiet warmth, but beneath it, there was always that subtle struggle that seemed to simmer just beneath the surface. Raziel never could understand.
“I’m ready,” Raziel muttered, turning to face him, his smile forced but obedient.
Issac rose from his workbench with a soft, approving smile, his broad shoulders shifting beneath the worn leather of his tunic.
“Alright, let’s go,” he said, a sense of calm authority in his voice, and with a practiced hand, he lifted the finely crafted bow from the table and strode toward the front door.
Raziel, shoulders slumped, opened the heavy oak door, the hinges groaning softly under his touch. His forced smile faltered as he stepped aside, motioning for his father to go first. “After you, Father,” he said, though his words felt hollow.
Issac’s expression softened into something warmer, yet a glint of mischief flickered in his silver eyes as he passed through the door. Raziel couldn’t help but notice it, and despite himself, a small part of him relaxed. His father had a way of making even the most tedious tasks seem less heavy. As though there was always a lesson to be learned in everything.
Together, they walked out onto the grounds, the well-kept cobblestone path leading them away from the stately manor. The scent of dew-laden grass and the faint hum of the forest beyond filled the morning air.
As they reached the archery range. A secluded area behind the house where a weathered target stood firmly against the backdrop of the dense forest. Issac stopped and handed the bow to his son.
The wood was smooth and familiar in Raziel’s hands, yet the weight of it always felt wrong, a constant reminder of the weapon he had no desire to wield. “Father, why must I learn this infernal thing?”
He handed Raziel a small quiver of arrows. “Now, Raziel,” Issac began, his voice low and steady, “the key to hitting the target is a relaxed stance, calm mind, and slow breaths. Focus, and do not rush. It’s okay if you miss. I want you to get your posture right.”
Raziel let out a long, frustrated sigh, the sound carrying through the still morning air.
“I hate this, Dad. I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t get behind it.” His fingers brushed the bowstring nervously, as if the very act of holding the weapon created a dissonance he couldn’t resolve.
Issac remained silent, his gaze unwavering as he studied his son. The quiet patience in his eyes said more than words ever could. He wasn’t going to rush him, wasn’t going to make him feel less for his reluctance. Instead, he let the silence stretch, giving Raziel the space to find his own peace.
Raziel rolled his eyes, his frustration evident as he exhaled sharply. With a heavy heart, he reluctantly accepted the bow, the smooth wood a strange weight in his hands.
He walked over to the marked stick on the ground, which indicated the proper distance from the target. The morning sun filtered through the branches above, casting long, shifting shadows across the archery range. The quiet of the early hours settled over them like a thick blanket, only the occasional chirp of a bird breaking the stillness.
Raziel set his feet in place, trying to center himself. The bow felt awkward in his grip, his posture less than perfect. His mind raced, thoughts of everything but the target swirling around him.
He could hear his father’s soft footsteps behind him, steady and sure. Focus. Calm mind, he reminded himself, though the words felt foreign.
His fingers itched to put the bow down, to flee into the forest, where he felt more at ease among the trees, where the only target he needed to hit was the pulse of nature.
But his father was watching, patiently waiting, a silent reminder that some lessons, though difficult, were required to learn.
He closed his eyes and followed his father’s instructions. He had tried this so many times he didn’t even have to look at where the bale of hay was.
Raziel stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his body relaxed, but his mind in turmoil. He took a deep breath, letting it fill his chest, pushing away the chaos of his thoughts and the lingering frustration.
Focus.
He reminded himself. He settled into a posture that felt more natural, more grounded. The bow felt familiar in his hands, but his grip was lighter now, more fluid. He aimed, narrowing his blind focus on the target, and let the arrow fly.
It sailed through the air, cutting a quiet path. He lowered the bow and opened his eyes, his breath held in anticipation. The arrow struck the target. Though not in the bullseye. It landed somewhere on the edge of the target stand, but it was still a hit.
For a moment, Raziel stood frozen, staring in disbelief. The arrow had found its mark, but not in the way he’d hoped. The shock was almost tangible, his heart still racing from the tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.
He glanced at his father, unsure whether to feel proud or frustrated. “How is it that I can always hit the target with my eyes closed, but not when they’re open?” he asked, his voice thick with confusion.
Issac’s silver eyes sparkled with pride, a quiet smile playing at the edges of his lips. “Because you lose your patience,” he said gently, his tone both a lesson and a compliment. “Now, see if you can do it again.”
Raziel’s fingers tightened around the bow, the excitement of the first small victory slowly giving way to eagerness. He wanted to prove he could do it, wanted to show his father that he could master this, that he could make the bow work for him.
But in his haste, his stance wavered. He rushed through the motions, his focus scattering like leaves in the wind. The arrow shot wide, missing the target completely.
A frustrated growl escaped Raziel’s throat, and he swung around to face his father.
“Dad, come on. Can I just go get my mushrooms now?” The impatience in his voice was unmistakable. A reflection of the conflict between his desire to please his father and his yearning to be in the forest where he felt most at ease.
Issac chuckled softly, the sound warm and full of understanding. “Fine, fine,” he said with a shake of his head. “But hurry home, so we can start your reading assignments.”
Raziel smiled, a sense of relief flooding him as he dropped the bow to the ground without a second thought. The forest was calling. He was already imagining the cool shade beneath the trees, the familiar scent of damp earth, and the quiet hum of nature that always seemed to settle his restless mind.
He turned to leave, eager to race through the woods and gather his mushrooms before anything, or anyone, could take them from him.
“Raziel.” Issac’s voice stopped him, firm and commanding.
He sighed, rolling his eyes, but there was no mistaking the authority in his father’s tone. “Fine,” Raziel muttered, a reluctant grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He turned back to pick up the bow and quiver, throwing them over his shoulder in one smooth motion.
With a final glance at his father, who stood with a quiet watchfulness, Raziel darted into the forest. His feet moved with purpose, eager to cover the distance as quickly as he could.
He needed to be fast. He knew all too well how the forest creatures had a knack for finding his mushrooms, and if he wasn’t quick enough, they’d be gone in the blink of an eye.
The forest greeted him like an old friend, its towering trees casting long shadows over the underbrush. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the lingering freshness of the morning dew.
Raziel’s steps were light, but quick as he maneuvered through the dense woods. He leapt over a fallen log, the last casualty of a heavy rainstorm that had passed through the night before. The log, slick with moisture, made for a precarious obstacle, but Raziel’s movements were fluid and practiced, his feet never missing a beat.
As he neared his favorite spot, his excitement grew. Raziel squealed with delight, his laughter blending with the sweet songs of hidden birds and the distant rustling of woodland creatures.
His eyes sparkled as he knelt down, his hands gently cupping the delicate mushrooms that dotted the ground in clusters, their honey-colored caps standing out against the rich, loamy soil.
The forest seemed to hold its breath as Raziel moved with careful precision, his fingers gently placing each morel into his wicker basket.
There was a quiet reverence in every motion, as though he were collecting precious treasures rather than simple fungi. Each mushroom was treated with the same care, the same quiet respect, as if the forest itself had entrusted him with its secrets.
Content with his harvest, he straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the quiet expanse of the woods. A sense of satisfaction settled in his chest, and he smiled to himself.
Today had been a good day, nothing had disturbed his gathering, no curious creatures or mischievous hands had taken his mushrooms. The forest had been kind.
As he turned toward home, the sunlight caught the tousled strands of his hair, the soft glow filtering through the trees above. The beams of light danced playfully, casting dappled patterns across the forest floor. It was the signaling of the end of his task till lunch.
The air was still, the forest almost serene as it settled back into its natural rhythm, leaving Raziel to make his way back to the life that awaited beyond the trees.
With each light, swift footfall, the sound of his steps blended seamlessly with the whisper of the wind weaving through the trees. His time in the forest was complete, and now, as he made his way home, the peaceful hum of nature seemed to guide him forward.
Around him, the forest still thrummed with magic, its hidden creatures watching from the shadows. The rustling leaves whispered ancient secrets, while the air itself seemed filled with a melodic hum—a reminder of the forest’s timeless song.
Raziel’s heart swelled with contentment as the familiar embrace of the woods surrounded him. His footsteps slowed as he neared the path leading to his home. A smile tugged at his lips when he saw his father standing in the distance, waiting for him.
The stone manor rose ahead, its tall, ivy-clad walls standing proud against the backdrop of the forest. The steeply pitched roof, shingled in dark cedar, framed the estate like a timeless sentinel. Banners fluttered lightly in the breeze, their colors vivid against the green of the woods.
The wide, arched windows glinted in the sunlight, the leaded glass catching the light and highlighting the intricate carvings along the frames. The manor seemed to breathe with a life of its own, a perfect extension of the land that had nurtured him.
The depictions of gallant knights, mythical beasts, and swirling vines. Raziel never understood what they meant. His father never spoke of any knights.
The front entrance was flanked by towering columns of polished marble. They supported a grand wooden door adorned with bronze handles in the shape of falcons.
Above the door, a large family crest, bearing a dragon perched on a cliff, was etched in stone, a symbol again, Raziel did not understand.
By the hitching post, Issac stood waiting, his tall figure framed by the grandeur of their home. His hair was long, jet black, and pulled into a half bun on the back of his head. Issac’s silver eyes were focused on what he was doing.
Raziel cocked his head to the side. His father was wearing black and gold robes today. Strange, he thought, those colors were for nobles.
Tallia stood ready, a contrast to the refined nobility of the manor, though the simple saddlebags on the mare’s flank added a touch of practicality to the otherwise grand scene.
“Raziel,” Issac called, his voice deep but warm as he reached into the pockets of the noble robes that seemed brand new.
Issac pulled out a handful of coins, the silver pieces gleaming in the light, their smooth surfaces catching the sun as they clinked softly together. He extended them toward his son.
“Take Tallia into the village. I need you to pick up some spices for dinner. Give me your mushrooms, and I’ll clean them while you’re gone.”
“Yes, Father,” he replied, the excitement in his voice barely contained. He handed over the basket of freshly picked mushrooms, the earthy scent still fresh in the air.
With practiced ease, Raziel swung his leg over Tallia’s back, settling into the saddle. The mare shifted beneath him, her eager movements signaling her readiness to be on the move.
“Wait, take this,” Issac called after him,. He reached into his pocket once more, pulling out seventy gold coins. “I want you to buy some new robes. Black and gold ones, be sure to ask for those.”
“Yes, Sir,” he said, though his mind was already a bit confused by the sudden request. Raziel’s eyes lit up at the sight of the gold. His grin was immediate and infectious.
“I’ll be back soon,” Raziel called, his voice light with the thrill of extra gold in his pocket.
Issac gave a small nod, his eyes watching his son with a mixture of pride and affection as he rode off. The sound of Tallia’s hooves drumming rhythmically against the dirt road grew fainter, eventually swallowed up by the distance.
With a soft click of his tongue, he nudged Tallia forward. The road leading into town was familiar, the worn path etched into his memory.
The steady rhythm of the horse’s movements beneath him brought a smile to his face, the kind of smile that only came from the simple joy of a task ahead.
The wind was brisk, carrying the clean scent of pine and earth, mingling with the familiar smells of the forest and the distant town.