They thought he was insane.

They never said so in front of him, but it was there in the way They looked at him, looks partly of pity and partly of fear. In the way Their voices lowered around him, and became slow and cautious when addressing him. In the taste of fear around Them when they were near him. In the way They never let children close to him. Not that he would want Their children around him, snotty-nosed brats that they were.

His lip curled. They said They did this for him, that They kept him isolated for his own good, but he knew the truth. They were jealous, afraid of him because he –

--Remembered blood on his hands, dying his sleeves a deep crimson red.--

– Because he was powerful, because he could do things that They couldn’t. They didn’t care about him. No one did. The only time They even pretended was when They wanted something from him.

We don’t need them, that voice whispered, and he clung to the words as eagerly as to a drug. The Voice was the only thing that liked him; it was why They both feared and envied him. The Voice gave him powers, powers far beyond those of any other the Others. These powers let him know when They were going to attack him, like that time –

--Rage, anger, knife punching through leather, through cloth, sinking into skin and muscle, tearing veins.--

Now he always checked his food and drink, making sure that They weren’t trying to poison him, so that the voice would come to Them, and give Them the powers, give Them the skills. They wanted that power; he could see it in Their eyes, mixed with Their loathing of the one who could wield that power. And he would never, never let Them have the powers.

The Voice had no name. It had no face. It was neither masculine nor feminine, young nor old. It lacked any accent. It was bland, emotionless, with no undertones or overtones or any other sort of tone, no matter how much he strained his mental ‘ears’ through which he heard the Voice.

Except for one.

Power.

That powers swept through everything the Voice said, an intense, awe-inspiring force, the sheer magnitude of which told him why They wanted to kill him. With this power, once They learned to channel it, They could do anything They wanted, and no one, nothing, could stand against Them. He had yet to master that magic, but he knew that someday he would. Though the Voice had never told him so, he knew that it had to be something powerful. A Great Mage that had been locked away, perhaps, or an Avatar. Maybe even one of the Elder Gods, the ones that had been locked away millennia ago by the Gods that now ruled.

And wouldn’t a God be happy if he were to free it? Grateful enough, even, to help him destroy Them?

--Screaming voices, shouting. Kicks, slamming him into this cell. Burning all of the papers and items he had collected under the voice’s instruction.--

They come.

Be ready.

He hadn’t been ready one time, hadn’t heeded the Voice’s warning. But he wouldn’t be caught unawares again.

He scrabbled through the dirt and mildew-coated straw with broken, filthy fingernails, gaining another layer of dirt on the series of rags that passed as his clothing. There were dark spots on it, old blood, some of it his, and some of it another’s. Only one of those was supposed to have been spilled…

He came up with a jagged rock that he had gotten the last time he’d attempted to escape from this prison. It had tripped him, enabling Them to catch him again. Now the same tool that had caught him would free him. There had been something almost smug in the Voice when it had noted the rock, as though it was better than it would have expected.

He hefted the rock in one hand, getting used to the balance and weight. Then he walked over to the door, hoping, praying that there would only be one of Them. If there were more, if They were able to shout for Their friends, all would be undone. He would lose the rock, lose his chance at escape.

And if that happened, he couldn’t be sure that the Voice would stay with him. He had failed so often before, one more failure could mean the difference between godly power and abandonment.

Footsteps outside made him tense, wary, ready to attack. The bolt of the barn door was eased up, and then dropped to the ground. It didn’t hit Them, disappointingly, but at least he now knew that there was only one of Them. The door cracked open, and then wider yet, as the Guard walked in the small dish of bread and cup of water.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, not certain if the Guard was one of the ones who had caught him, who were responsible for his capture. First he saw the knife, the mark of all of Them, They who had found him. Then he saw the rip in the leather shirt, saw how the arms swung awkwardly, as though the shoulder had been recently injured.

His arm whipped forwards with the force of rage behind it, smashing into the startled Guard’s skull, and his lips pulled back from his teeth with satisfaction. He dragged the body inside the barn, closed the door behind him so that no one would see the body. Then he took the Guard’s knife, held it in his hand for a moment as he stared down at the face.

That face… he had seen that face two weeks ago, two weeks ago when he had been taken away from what was rightfully his. That face belonged to the Guard that had stopped him, belonged to the Guard who had shattered his world. The Guard who had stopped him from finally freeing the voice, letting him see the body behind the power, the Elder God who he knew was there.

Still angry, he pulled the knife from its sheath, listened for a moment to the ring that it left in the air. Then he slashed it across the Guard’s throat, cutting through the windpipe and assuring the kill. The deep red blood spread across the packed earth floor, slowly seeping into the dirt and turning it a deep, dark brown. Old blood brown. He stared at it, fascinated, remembering.

--Different, lighter blood, spilling onto a carpet rather than into dirt. Blood coming from a lighter, slimmer throat. Touching his hands, staining them murderer’s red, and the voice hissing, almost eagerly, Yess.--

Do it! Do it now! This was the closest to emotion the Voice had ever come, inches away from eager anticipation, and yet somehow still bland. But he wasn’t a fool. This was important to the Voice. Which meant that it could save him from Them.

He touched his hands to the blood, dipping his fingers into the wound like a painter might dip his brushes into a paint pot. His paint. Paint still warm from the source.

--Meyra’s blood pooling in his hands as he stared into the glassy eyes of his brother’s young daughter. A young daughter who had so trustingly come to her uncle. Her uncle, a man who only answered to one thing, one set of morals, one code of laws.

The laws of the Voice.

And the Voice said; Kill, take this life. Do this, for I have said so, and what I say is right and good.

And since the Voice said it, it was so, at least for him.--

He stared at the face that slowly paled from lack of blood, at skin and muscles that tightened and relaxed in death. Smelt the offal from suddenly relaxed bowels, tasted the tang of blood in the air. Slowly he brought his fingers against his lips, painting them crimson red like a street woman’s. Stared at the Guard.

--His brother, seeing his head bent down next to Meyra’s throat. Coming next to him, concerned for his daughter. Him, lashing out, scared, frightened, knowing he was going to be taken away from what he had killed, from what was his. His brother, jumping back even as the blade dug deeply into his shoulder, embedding itself into bone. Rushing forward, teeth bared, ready to make it a dual kill if that was what it took.--

He shook himself loose from the shock of seeing the man he’d once tried to kill finally fall under his blade.

Hurry! the Voice shouted, impatient with him. Hurry before the blood cools!

Yes, that was right. The blood couldn’t cool, or then he would have to find another, and a way to hide the body. The Voice had repeated that many times, The blood is to be hot!

He put his fingers back into the wound, took them out and walked over to the wall. Blood dripped down, making a dotted line on the ground. With his brother’s blood, he began to paint the shape that the voice put into his mind onto the wall. It reminded him of an archway, at least, the basic design did. But there were so many embellishments, many tiny letters and symbols that he didn’t understand, and the voice assured him that all of it was necessary. So he drew.

--The wall he had cleared of all decoration in preparation of painting on it. His brother’s fists slamming him into it, his large hands reaching for his throat.--

He finished a last star on top of the arch, and stared at it. Higher than he was, although he didn’t recall ever using a stool or something to step up on, the arch was just that, a huge gateway for some supernatural being. Not quite worthy of a God, especially not one of the Elder Gods, he thought, but it would do.

Perhaps it was for the best that he had been unable to use Meyra’s blood. There wouldn’t have been enough of it to finish the job.

Now he took the cup that had once contained water, and carefully wiped it out, making certain that no trace of water remained within it. He put a little of the dead man’s blood into it, carefully, and then slit the palm of his hand, letting the red gash weep blood into the cup.

Their blood had come for the same woman. It was fitting that it be joined again.

“Eshitar,” he whispered as he poured the cup’s contents at the base of the gateway where it met the ground. “I’si’la, Kaycho, Vyi.” And other names, other, secret names. Names that the voice whispered through his mouth that burned in the air and then disappeared forever from his mind. Words that tore through his throat and made him feel like something was clawing its way out through him. Words that made him want to hide.

The archway glowed with a beautiful, brilliant light then, a light that caught the eye and sucked it in. He stared, completely forgetting about the blood on his hands and lips, about his dead brother next to him, about his paranoia and fear of the voice being taken away from him. This was the moment everything had led up to. This was the moment he had been born for.

The light slowly began to fade, and he peered eagerly into it, waiting, excited, to see the Elder God. His eyes focused on the being within, and he shrank back once more.

“No!” he screamed, holding the dagger in pathetic defense before himself.

Yess!

--

Karashdion sat back on his heels, enjoying the feel of flesh after those long centuries trapped in the Void. With one long talon, he delicately began picking morsels of flesh from between his razor-sharp teeth, and removed a small fragment of bone. After regarding it for a moment and finally popping it into his mouth, he stood up once more, shifting his shape to take on the form of the first man he had consumed. The one whose blood had freed him. Rather tasty, too.

The second man, his tool, had been a little harder. Certain that Karashdion had been an Elder God, and absolutely horrified at what he had truly conjured; he had put up quite a struggle. But not enough to cause problems for a hungry demon.

It was a shame that his tool hadn’t succeeded the first time, with that young girl. There had been so much magical potential there, and the added bonus of the father was nothing to sneeze at. Not that demons could sneeze – they were beyond that. And he had been so frustrating, hesitating, not quite sure if he should be doing it.

Well, the man had been easier to control than Karashdion had expected. Already on the border between sanity and madness, being mentally contacted by an inhuman creature had surely pushed him over the edge. It had never occurred to his tool to get help from a priest, or a mage, for which he was grateful. If that had happened, the call would have gone out, that he struggled at the bonds that locked him in the Void. But instead, one insane man had freed him.

He smiled, getting used the way this new skin stretched and flexed. He would return to the village, using the man’s memories to know which of the people he should speak to first, and tell them that his tool had run away and fallen into the river. No one would bother looking for him; he hadn’t been well liked since the death of the girl. His meal hadn’t left any remains behind.

Then he would take the father’s place in the village, never letting them suspect anything. Not until he was ready. He would intigrate himself into their society, blending, watching, waiting…

But when that time came…

The demon Karashdion would stalk the world again.

And he had debts to collect.