4. Moros
4
MOROS
Finnian
The Present
The executioner led Finnian down the corridor by the end of his chains with Shivani in front, her long ponytail swaying between her shoulders. Withered ivy painted the stone walls without a remnant of green life amongst its perished vines. Smothered by the atmosphere of Moros, no doubt. Smoke hung thickly in the air. The smoldering heat stuck to his skin, damp and crusted with blood.
The pain of Cassian’s mark did not last. It traveled as quickly as a fork of lightning and then the pain vanished—suspiciously so.
Afterwards, Cassian left, and an hour passed with Finnian refusing to acknowledge the obsidian brush strokes poking through the torn fabric of his shirt collar. In the end, he could not resist.
Dark tendrils ran over his pec and onto his collarbone and coiled at the base of his neck, like one of the tails of Cassian’s serpents. Finnian wanted to peel the engraving of the curse from his skin before it could sink deeper beneath the surface, but it was much too late for that.
A dull pain prodded behind his eyes—what mortals often referred to as a headache . A pain he was familiar with. His head had throbbed for months after losing his hearing in his right ear. Once his brain had adjusted to the loss, the pain would find him after long periods of time wearing his hearing aid.
He assumed the symptom was from the curse excavating into his brain.
Since, he’d been hyper-analyzing the reflex of his wit, the storage of his memory, the operation of his cognitive abilities. He tested himself by mentally reciting recipes for potions, or by recalling as far back as he could of his and Naia’s jungle escapades in Kaimana.
It starts as a quiet hum.
Finnian sighed, exasperated by the anxious tingling underneath his skin.
Focus.
He could worry about breaking the curse later.
Right now, he had to be vigilant.
He analyzed the executioner leading him by the chain. Its folded wings stuck out from the hem of its robe, dragging its curled talons against the stone. Shivani’s cargo pants were full of knives, absent from their sheaths.
They traveled beside a row of cells. Every few feet, executioners were stationed—towering figures encased in a layer of dark robes, scarlet blotches on the smooth ashen-bone surface of their masks that glinted in the firelight.
As they passed the inferno, Finnian peered into the velocity of the flames. It was birthed from a dense, bottomless pit of churning lava.
Where was it coming from? Were there souls within it? Prisoners of Moros?
He didn’t trust his hearing without his hearing aid to rule out distant cries buried in its blaze.
“Tell me,” Finnian said as they rounded a corner. A hot gust blew across his face. The pyre in the mountain’s core roared in a vertical whorl at the compound’s center. Stone railings boarded it off from the rest of the floor. “Exactly how long have I been in that dungeon?” He angled his head and listened closely with his left ear in preparation for her reply.
Shivani turned to look back at him over her shoulder, the edge of her smirk twisting his insides with annoyance. “Five years.”
Finnian’s nostrils flared at the information.
She gave a velvety laugh at his silence, looking ahead as she walked. “Time—Land of the Dead.”
Finnian’s eyes jumped over the new corridor they crossed into, searching for traces of his father. “You don’t track time here.”
“Correct,” she twisted her head, giving Finnian a clear view of her lips. “In Moros, time is altered to amplify the prisoner’s suffering. In the Land, time does not exist. The sun rises and may stay that way for days. Nightfall may come after, or you may experience a delightful dawn.”
“How creative,” he drawled, his eyes jumping back to the walls. The veil of smoke thinned, clearing Finnian’s view of the pale gray grout between the creases of stone.
As they rounded another corner, a river of plush moss caught his eye.
His pulse flickered.
He glanced between the executioner’s backside, Shivani, and the green trail.
Another turn and the moss disappeared.
Finnian twisted his head to look behind him, fighting against the slight tilt of his equilibrium without his hearing aid. The arteries of moss continued in the opposite direction of the corridor between the stones.
A giddy sensation lit like tinder in his stomach. A hope he often smothered to avoid the detrimental disappointment that accompanied it.
If he followed the moss, he was sure it would lead to Father.
They crossed through an iron-gated threshold to another corridor full of more concrete enclosures. One held a woman rocking back and forth in the far corner. She muttered incoherent words that Finnian couldn’t understand. Her nail beds were red, like ripened fruit, with her nails missing.
A weeping man knelt in the adjacent cell, his face buried in his hands. He lifted his head at the sound of their footsteps, his face normal and human. In an instant, it transformed into something grotesque, baring stained, jagged teeth and piss-yellow eyes.
It slammed itself against the bars, reaching through for Finnian. Its rot-black talons scuffed his arm as the cell bars reconstructed into teeth and tore into the beast.
The executioner and Shivani did not spare a glance in its direction. While it was hardly the goriest thing Finnian had seen in his vast lifetime, it still unnerved him.
He refocused his gaze ahead.
They ascended a flight of stairs and entered a curved corridor with iron bars lined parallel on either side. The view at the end was familiar. He recognized the horrid moans of the creature with horns, as he had been forced to listen to them during the first day of his arrival while he was stuck inside his cell.
Their journey from the dungeon differed from when they first escorted him to it. Back then, they’d climbed eight stairways and had walked nowhere near the inferno of Moros’ core.
The corridors shift around.
Finnian rolled his eyes.
What a grand fucking inconvenience.
He counted five executioners stationed at each cell, still, stonelike.
Shivani held open the door to the last cell at the end of the corridor.
Finnian stepped up to its entrance. The executioner unlatched the chain connected to the manacles around his wrist and shoved him inside.
Finnian staggered on his feet before steadying himself. His nostrils flared to get a grip on his frustration before turning to meet Shivani as the door to the cell creaked closed.
On the other side, she stared at him, her gaze glittering pompously. The executioner maneuvered behind her, like her personal bodyguard.
Face blank, Finnian stared back. “Do you have something you wish to say, or are you simply marveling at the view?”
She huffed out a laugh. “Your pretty face has seen better days. And with that dreadful haircut, it is a pity you cannot use your glamor to grow it back.”
His insides knotted at the reminder of his short hair.
Despite his discomfort, he grinned as he crept closer to the cell bars. He had a few inches over her in height, and while he rarely asserted dominance using his physicality by hovering , of all things, he knew it would jab her pride. “I will not be confined in this cell forever.”
She maintained an amused expression. “Be a good boy, Finny. I’ll return soon. I have a brand-new cleaver that needs dulling.”
He noticed how her eyes briefly flickered to the manacles on his wrist before she turned to leave. Almost like she needed reassurance.
Solid and unmoving, the executioner twisted its head at Finnian, as if it had sensed something skeptical. Its mask covered the top region of its face, the end of it arched above its mouth, edges curled and crusted with blood. It had two slits carved into the place of its eyes, and every so often, he caught the flicker of its pupils dilating.
Finnian gave it a cheeky smile.
A low growl sounded from it before turning to follow Shivani.
Across from Finnian’s cell, the horned creature lay flat in its cage, motionless. Its silhouette resembled a transfigured monster—naked, indigo body, fingers that trailed to sharp points, meant for ripping apart. Scattered around it were many of its own severed limbs, like logs from a fallen tree.
Finnian sucked in a breath through his nose, inhaling the pungent odor of its blood—metallic and sour, braided with mint and citrus, dripping with one of Cassian’s curses.
He was grateful for its determination in trying to free itself, only to be met with the iron bar’s ensnaring bite. From day one in this cell, he meticulously observed and documented every instance. Those twenty-four hours had taught him something about the bars. Something that would prove to be useful now.
Finnian curled both fists around the steel bars of his own cell. Their power hummed in his knuckles, accelerating the stride of his pulse.
One.
Despite Finnian’s careful silence, the executioner trailing Shivani paused and glanced back.
Two.
Blood surged in Finnian’s temples, quelling the sound waves in his left ear. The solid molecules of the bars shifted under his palms into something squishy and smooth.
The executioner’s mouth parted in what Finnian could only assume was another growl as it pushed off its feet towards him.
Three.
The bars morphed into large, oily black serpents. Their heads protruded out. Fangs elongated from their open mouths, and they lunged.
Shivani whipped around, her shoes scuffing on the stone. “Why are you—?” Her eyes went round.
The sensation was a sweet, painful one of teeth latching into the meat of his forearms. He waited until their bite secured around bone and ripped backwards off his heels.
Adrenaline numbed the agony of the serpents’ teeth fracturing through his bones. The snap echoed up his elbows as both of his wrists detached from his body. Along with his hands, the serpents swallowed up the Chains of Confinement.
Like the bursting of a dam, Finnian’s power rushed back into his veins.
Blood gushed from his severed wounds, splattering onto the tops of his shoes. Speckles littered his vision, and his head felt light. The serpents’ glossy, scaled bodies solidified back into iron bars.
Finnian raced against his lethargy and channeled all his energy into regenerating his hands.
One.
The executioner’s long arm reached for his cell door, but against Finnian’s divine speed, it was not fast enough.
Finnian wiggled his newly formed fingers to revive his nerves, smiled, and then latched onto the once-again solid bars and drove them apart. The iron gave way as easy as plastic to the return of his divine strength.
Two.
In perfect timing, Finnian stepped out of the cell and shot his blood-soaked arm out, meeting the executioner with a hand around its throat. He squeezed, crushing its windpipe and the cartilage between his fingers. Its body crashed onto the floor.
Finnian discarded its severed head over his shoulder before pinning his focus on the blurred figures of the other executioners racing down the corridor straight for him.
Shivani snatched her blades from her stocky, beige pants.
Be a good boy, Finny.
He fixed on the beads of energy dwelling in Moros’ stones, the mountain clay, and drew it out like a magnet. Using the movement of his fingers, he molded the particles into five thick icicles, each the size of Finnian’s arm. They floated, arcing in front of him like a hand of cards. With a forward slice of his hand, he speared them towards Shivani and the charging executioners.
She sent a flash of kunai from both hands. The icicles met their steely points directly, shattering into peppercorn.
Finnian bent his neck sideways to dodge the sailing edge of a knife. It drove into the cement of the stone behind him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noted an executioner closing in on him. His index finger and middle finger came together, and he took aim like a pistol. “ Mens tua est mea .” The incantation left his lips swiftly.
Magic tingled the tip of his finger and the hex shot forth, nailing through the executioner’s mask. The material shattered into chipped bones. A hex burnt into the executioner’s forehead, a mahogany star with small, runic characters at each point, an ouroboros in its center. The creature immediately came to a stop.
Finnian clenched his hand into a fist and reared it up, ordering the energy in the stone beneath Shivani’s feet to heave. Within the pulse of a heartbeat, spikes tore up and plunged into her legs. Their dagger-like ends jutted in a swirling blossom through her.
She cried out as crimson blotched her pants.
Finnian aimed his finger at the four other executioners that zoomed past Shivani for him.
The spell was instant, stopping them in their tracks.
They each twisted their heads in Shivani’s direction with a predatory glint glazed in their eyes, watching her squirm and trying to rip her legs free from the magical pikes that fastened her in place.
One by one, they each turned and stalked towards her.
She stiffened and lifted her head.
A sick satisfaction swelled in Finnian as he watched the panic consume her—the subtle parting of her lips, her movements turning frantic and clumsy, pushing and pulling her limbs.
“Seize him !” she shouted, an audible tremble underneath the boldness of her tone. Hands wrapped around the crook of her knee, she tugged, flinging her gaze from her trapped leg to the executioners closing in on her. “I said seize him !”
An executioner locked onto her arm. Another onto her neck. The others encircled around her, like wolves waiting for their turn. Her shrieks filled the corridor in a deep, cavernous echo.
Finnian hurried past them and turned the corner. The stone beneath his feet thundered, and the surrounding walls flickered.
He skidded to a stop seconds before smashing into a wall that hadn’t been there earlier, blinking and examining his new surroundings.
To his left was a narrow staircase. Before the walls could shift again, he jogged down the steps, dragging his fingers along the grout of the stone to feel for the moss. It didn’t matter if Moros rearranged itself a hundred times. The moss would show itself and lead the way.
Finnian emerged from the top of the stairs. The heat in the air swelled as he came onto the compounded floor circling the inferno. He barely had enough time to register the eldritch mask appearing before him.
Instinct had his arms ripping up to catch the executioner’s talons before it could bury them into his chest. He gripped its wrist and slung it into the inferno. Its wings expanded from its back, black and leathered. With a few powerful slaps, the executioner stunted its speed and avoided a fiery death.
Finnian ducked before another executioner could grip his neck. He speared his fingers through another’s chest cavity, shuddering at the lack of bones in the executioner’s rib cage. It choked on a wail as Finnian lurched his hand back. Rotted, berry-blue blood stained his fingers.
He spun and swerved, cocking his elbow back to land a hit on one’s mask. The solid plate cracked, and the executioner bared its teeth, snapping for Finnian’s forearm.
There were too many. He took one out for two to fabricate in its place.
Doubt crept into his mind. What in the world had convinced him he could successfully fight off hundreds of executioners?
In between blows, his eyes searched for a way to escape.
He squeezed the rubbery forearm in his grip, crushing muscle and blood, and kicked the executioner back by its gut. The force sent it barreling, taking out those in its path. It gave Finnian the time he needed to fixate on an open entrance a few yards to the right.
He did a double take at the object sprouted on the threshold.
Blush petals layered beautifully into a fat blossom. A singular peony.
His breath hitched.
Father.
Peonies were his father’s favorite.
A set of talons dug into the top of his shoulders. Another set shredded deep inside of his abdomen. The pull of organs shoved bile up his throat. He nearly bit the tip of his tongue off as his teeth clenched.
He stumbled backwards, his tailbone meeting something sturdy.
A strong current of intense heat seared his backside.
The railing of the inferno, contained in its invisible sphere. Would it fight back if he dipped his hands into its power? It had to have a purpose.
A set of jaws locked around Finnian’s bicep. He growled through the excruciating tide of pain cresting up his shoulder and into his neck, as if he were caught inside a meat tenderizer.
The executioner ripped away with a mouthful of Finnian’s flesh. Pink meat hung in between its inhuman teeth. Blood drizzled its chin.
Finnian’s chest went light, and tingles nipped at his cheeks. More executioners swarmed around him, but he honed in on the one with a chunk of his arm in its mouth. Fury burned up his nape and tinted his vision.
He raised his arm overhead. His muscles tensed as he grabbed onto the inferno’s energy. Its power comprised a thousand suns, scorching blisters all over Finnian’s hand. He wrestled with its force, guiding its current to bend to his will.
A tremor of euphoria zapped down his spine as the windstorm of its divine power rushed in his blood. It beat viciously behind his eyes, pulsed in his fingertips like individual heartbeats. He could taste it on his tongue, throbbing in his gums—sweet and bitter and calamitous.
The flames spewed out on Finnian’s command, like a fountain from a dragon’s mouth, torching the executioners to dust.
Ripples of the hellish heat stung his eyes. He directed the channel of flames downward, melting the rock to liquid. He believed his father was located in the depths of Moros. If Finnian could not teleport, he would burn his path to Father.
He leaned into the surge of the flames' monstrous strength.
Burn, burn, burn.
An itch scraped in the center of Finnian’s skull, cringing the nerves in his jaw.
His head jerked to the side, desperate to relieve the sensation.
You must right your wrongs.
Something tickled the top of his hand.
He dropped his attention to the two brown moths crawling up the side of his wrist. Yellow markings on their thorax depicted a human skull.
The breath died in Finnian’s lungs.
Death’s-head hawkmoth.
Panic froze in his blood as more floated down and stuck onto the tattered remains of his shirt.
Holding onto the control of the flames, he jostled his shoulders to spook them away. They scurried up his neck and he shivered, his frenzy growing wilder.
The darkening cloud above drowned out the bright glow of the flames.
Fuck.
Finnian’s spine went rigid at the whirlpool of insects swooping down around him. He hauled the inferno upwards, scorching the collective of moths. Embers of their ashes caught in the tailspin of the flames.
Just as the mass of moths separated, they reanimated and banded back together.
Finnian growled, admitting defeat and releasing the inferno. The flames sucked back into the vortex of the mountain.
The moths descended in a swarm, scurrying over his skin, burying in his hair.
He batted and slapped at them. They crawled up his chin and burrowed in the corners of his mouth. He sealed his lips. Their paper-thin wings brushed his eyelashes.
They were everywhere, all at once—his arms, his legs, underneath his clothes, overwhelming his synapses.
The tiny scratching of their legs tunneling into his ear canal, reverberating loudly in his skull. They gouged underneath his eyelids, up the passageways of his nostrils. He pried at his eyes, crushing moths between his fingers. Their fuzzy bodies coated his tongue and cemented down his throat.
He coughed, attempting to force them out of his esophagus. He clawed at his neck, willing to tear apart his flesh to free them.
His knees buckled and his palms bit the hot stone. The prickling of tiny legs on his cheeks numbed. His eyes felt as if they were stuffed with cotton.
Pressure expanded in his chest, up the sides of his neck, building in his skull.
His hands curled into fists against the stone as he clung to the slipping thread of his consciousness.
You must right your wrongs.
Everything went dark. Control over his body gave way, and his side collided with the floor.
You must find Father.
His fingernails scraped against his own skin to rip the moths’ dry bodies away. The wound stung as the air hit it. His vision momentarily cleared, revealing someone crouched down, hovering over him—their face masked with a deer skull, horns twisting out of the top.
Finnian’s heart submerged into his stomach as the image eclipsed with his fading consciousness.
“Welcome to hell,” said the High God of Chaos and Ruin.