“Oh Fallen One, hear my pleas,
Make me a pawn of the powerful no longer,
I shall give you my soul and my blood,
But please, Fallen One, make me a man.”
Castor finishes his prayer, and rises from his kneeling position, and goes about snuffing out the darkness candles - which were supposed to spread dark flames, but the damned bootleg uses regular bright fire. Having cleaned up most of the mess he made, he lies down on his bed and decides to play music.
“Olexa, play a song from my playlist,” he commands the small pillar on his desk, and the obedient machine puts on one of his favorite songs - a fine little ditty that starts with twenty seconds of drumming followed by three minutes of screaming - and reaches under his bed, looking for the crumpled sheet of paper that he distinctly remembers tossing there. After a few moments, Castor finds the paper, which he promptly straightens out and reads.
“My Last Love,” Castor reads the title to himself. He clears his throat and recites the poem.
Forgiveness,
Our time has come; darkness descends,
Tear stained, soulless,
Sordid,
My last love.
Shedding a tear at the sheer beauty of this masterpiece, Castor reaches into the drawer of his bedside table, pulling out an old crusted blade to his father’s razor, never mind the fact that it was probably used to shave his balls countless times. Determined to save this work of art to his memory, he aims the blade at his wrist and recites the poem to himself as the warm blood flows.
“Castor, what happened to your wrists?!” Castor’s mother screams upon seeing her son’s wrists. She fumbles for her phone, seemingly ready to call either the emergency line or the local shrinks, if not both.
“My god, you worry way too much,” Castor scoffs. “I did an escape room with my friends, but the place was so fuckin’ bootleg, and the cuffs they had us put on were ragged and sharp. They caught on my wrists some, but they’re okay.” Castor lies, fabricating a story to explain the memory-boosting bloodletting that has occurred earlier. Unfortunately, he has forgotten that he has used the same story the other four times he was caught, and his mother has had enough.
“If this was able to happen five times in a row to my baby, then they do not need to be in business,” Castor’s mother declares, and starts punching in a completely different number - the number that belongs to the most successful prosecutor in the Western Hemisphere. SHIT! Castor thinks to himself, Now I am fucked!
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Theto relaxes in his office, his feet propped up on his desk. After busting an accounting hotshot for money laundering, he has received, a promotion - and the raise that comes with it - and a lot of public attention. In other words, he’s a legend among prosecutors. Even the most energetic of lawyers will find that they can’t object to his reasoning. Of course, all good times must come to an end. In Theto’s case, the end came in a phone call.
“Hello, am I speaking to Mr. Theto?” an angry-sounding lady demands in the phone, seemingly a civilian. Who the hell forwarded a civilian call to him - he doesn’t even work with the public sector! Regardless, he answers the phone.
“Yes, I am Prosecutor Theto. I work only in criminal cases, so I’m afraid that I will not be able to help you,” Theto drones. He attempts to hang up, but she quickly begins to ramble about an escape room and their unsafe handcuffs. Theto wasn’t too terribly annoyed given that law is a very difficult subject, but he knew even before beginning law school that lawsuits are civil affairs, not criminal, and begins to tell her just as much.
“Look, madam,” Theto attempts to explain, “Lawsuits are not held in criminal court, and prosecutors do not pursue any lawsuit cases - that’s what lawyers are for. Now, I can redirect you to several reputable-”
Theto was interrupted, though this time by a different voice - a young voice, maybe a teen. “Look, we have the wrong number, sorry!” the voice practically shouts into the phone, but Theto was relieved by the words. Now he can hang up…
“But, can I ask you a question?” the voice asks after a few seconds. Theto curses to himself, but he allows the man to ask his question.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
“Okay, Theto, can you tell me… how to summon the… Fallen One?” Castor reluctantly asks. According to many of the conspiracy theories Castor has seen, it was said that the hotshot Theto was able to obtain the success he achieved with the help of the Fallen One, and if that is true, then maybe Theto can help him summon the Fallen One!
Listening intently into the phone, he hears one single answer.
“There is one poem, you’ll know it when you see it,” Theto quietly answers, “You need to apply a drop of blood to 5 darkness candles - otherwise they will provide light, which simply won’t do. Make a pentagram - I’m sure you know how to - and read the poem loudly. That will summon him.” Castor stares at the phone, shocked. It turns out the conspiracy theories were true after all!
Wasting no time, Castor runs back into the kitchen, gives the phone back to his very angry mother - he’ll deal with that issue later - and sprints upstairs into his room. With renewed vigor, he makes some customizations to the pentagram he already made earlier. Squeezing some blood out of his still fresh cuts, he applies it to the candles - and to his utmost surprise, the room becomes darker than pitch dark.
Wasting no time grabbing the paper - not that he could read it in this darkness - he recites the masterpiece he read earlier.
“Forgiveness,” he loudly says in the darkness,
“Our time has come; darkness descends,” the darkness threatens to choke Castor, who finds himself scared for the first time.
“Tear stained, soulless,” his voice rises as the darkness grows even darker. At this point, Castor wonders if he is still on Earth - or even if he is still alive.
“Sordid,” he nearly shouts, tears running down his cheeks. The pressure, the pressure. The room around him starts to shake.
“MY LAST LOVE!” he screams the last line at the top of his lungs, and the room ceases shaking.
Unable to see, Castor stands there, hoping beyond anything else that he was safe. The room stopped shaking, but he is still completely blind. There is no way of knowing if the ritual worked - but more than that, he wants all this to end. Castor never thought it would come to this.
Of course, fate had other plans for him. A large, rough hand settles on Castor’s shoulder - who quickly turns to look at the hand, although it is too dark to see it. Shivering, Castor asks into the darkness, “A-Are you the f-f-fallen one?” unable to cease his shivering.
Only a deep chuckle resonated in response. After a few moments, the voice spoke. “Ah, young one - Castor, is it? You have offered to me your blood and your soul, and I will not lie, they look… suitable. I shall take that, but of course, I will take something else as well.”
Castor, unable to stop the tears, regretting all of this, asks the Fallen One, “W-what else d-do you w-want from me?” Castor, looking up at where the roof should be, sees only darkness.
Alas, the Fallen One is one mean bastard. “You wanted me to make you a man, did you not,”? The Fallen One asks, and Castor can feel another hand resting on his posterior. “I will take your blood and soul, and as a bonus, I will help you shed your pesky innocence. By performing this ritual, you have promised me more than your blood and soul - you have also agreed to serve me. Ah, I do want you to serve me, and in exchange, oh, I will make you a man all right.”
With that, the darkness fades, leaving the room nearly untouched - only the inhabitant of the room missing.
