The Day of Doom

Bran

It started raining in London. Not the quiet gentle drumming of the mist like rain you get out in nature, but a noisy pelting that violently rattled the roofs and windows. The streets were emptying as an eerie crack of thunder reactivated the primal urge of people to run to shelter. The rain picked up all grime and dust, and by the time it trickled on the Queen’s Head roof it had turned into a fast stream of filth that was then carried into the Thames.

In a dark corner huddled between Putney’s docks and the bridge that leads to Fulham, the door of a pub opened, and a stream of people hurried to find refuge from the storm in the warm venue. For a moment everything seemed too quiet, as if everyone was frozen in a reverential silence. This didn’t last long though. Once inside the cosiness of the Victorian pub, with its mahogany wall panelling and the dark green velvety seatings, everyone found a sense of renewed safety amongst the whispered conversations happening under the locale’s beamed ceiling. The torrential rain drowned out conversations, and everyone seemed to speak just a bit louder to make up for nature’s wrath that was being unleashed on the city.

If someone had taken a moment to really observe the interior, they would have noticed that in a corner of the room there was a table with a lone man sat in it. Both this dark corner and the men sat there seemed to exist in a pocket dimension of their own. Every shadow in the pub appeared to slowly bleed in this lightless pool of dusky silence. The man’s posture and countenance mirrored the gloom of his sitting place. Huddled in his long overcoat, he didn’t move when the rain started, didn’t react to the incessant hammering of the storm on the large pub windows, didn’t look up when people stormed the venue. His dark grey eyes and messy prematurely white hair gave him an almost wolf-ish look as if he was ready to pounce in action in a split second. He sat too straight, hands clenching his ale mug, gaze focused on a corner between the beams on the ceiling and the big, panelled windows where a spark of blue-purple lights flickered in life out of thin air. As it settled in existence, the lights began to orbit around a see-through animated entity adrift in a realm it shouldn’t exist. No-one apart him seem to notice the other-worldly happenings. The occasional pub-goer would at times spare a quick glance towards the strange purple hue that reflected on his white hair and light blue eyes, but in London you learn to take in odd sights quickly and move on even quicker.

The substance of the apparition buzzed with a silent song of impossibility. The mysterious man seemed more concerned with checking his clock every so often than with this manifestation of improbability. As the rain kept pouring on the cemented grounds and poisoned waters of the city, the entity seemed to whirl faster; it’s mass swelling until its wispy tendrils breached the confines of the pub reaching for the outside world through the glass. Ethereal tendrils formed a circle, contracting and relaxing in a repeated sequence that seemed to draw in air and release it to propel itself forward. As tenuous strings of delicate threads trailed off inside the pub as the creature slowly made its way of into the storm, two consecutive strikes of lightning hit the ground just outside. In their wake, a small shape flew outside of the smoke. It went right through the window creating a small ripple in the glass and landed in front of the lone man.

A small, plump round ephemeral bird-like apparition ruffled its ghostly feathers and looked up to him. The short legs disappeared under its ephemeral plumage as the long neck stretched forward and dropped a tiny parchment.

Bran, meet me at Hammersmith Bridge not later than 8pm. Our time has finally come.

Love, A.

Bran sat up, smiled at the undead creature, downed his drink, and while leaving the pub slowly murmured under his breath:

‘The prefix of doom is seen when existence turns itself inside out and the procession of the damned takes their revenge on the cruelty of misguided life’.

Alecto

It wasn’t often that Alecto wished she didn’t have the sight. Making Bran come to terms with his awakening had reenforced her own beliefs, and she loved seeing that added layer of mystique to this magicless world. Today though, as she made her way through a much greener and less urbanised part of the city, disregarding the rain while slowly walking down the Thames path, Alecto wished she could filter out the pain and grief, the immeasurable despair that came from the realisation that every square inch of London is contended between a hundred, one thousand, or probably more likely ten-thousand poor lost souls. A heavy black coat drowned Alecto’s thin frame; a large hood awning her dark hair and face and wholly shielding her from the downpour. Strands of hair carried by the wind out of the hood made her look like a vengeful ghost in the gloomy approaching evening. The only thing of colour were her big green eyes which seemed to almost glow in the gloominess of the stormy day. Her measured pace and looks set a barrier between the tumultuous surroundings and the sense of serene purpose that radiated from her composed stride. Unhurriedly, she walked from Barnes bridge down L’onsdale Road staring in the river and trying her best at avoiding looking at the row of houses framing the right side of the road.

The sprawl of the verminous industry has transfigured the once elegant buildings into a row of patchwork monstrosities. Half-timbered houses morphed into a cold modern monstrosity which then transformed into an ugly amalgamation of the worst that can come from cultures clashing and the past being erased by the flashiness of modern commerce and mindset. At least, the flood of humans which usually crowded the street had taken refuge from the rain, allowing her to walk down the street feeling only mild distaste.

The grey road merged with the grey sky and the slate surface of the Thames, broken only by the occasional plastic bottle or bag carried in the surge of the river or the occasional bird trying to fly out of the rain. When entering the wooden area at the end of the docks which connected Barnes to Hammersmith, and Hammersmith to central London, she turned slightly right following the less walked route that cut through the Leg o’ Mutton Reservoir.

The noise of her activity was swallowed by the rain. At least it’s washing away the cage of dust that had imprisoned the trees in its ugly clutches. If tonight succeeds, people will be reminded of the forgotten reverence they owe nature. In the heavy downpour, trees looked like they were imbued with new life, branches standing straighter, and their green canopies for once not weighted by the curse of greyness that afflicted this city. Alecto imagined that if you could slow down time, you would see the dust trickling down from every leaf, every knot, every branch. Drip by drip the filth and grime would fall on the butchered land then slowly flowing into the Thames and all the riverways of London, poisoning them even further.

Her eyes now mirrored the storm in her soul that seemed to have manifested in the city. This cadaver of once a beautiful land is dying at best, if not long dead. It’s a good mirror which reflects the empty vain existence that people are so proud of. It has had so many chances to improve itself but every time the seething torrent of vermin are too shortsighted, too selfish, too cruel to care about anything that’s not them.

She gracefully manoeuvred through the small plants and grasses that concealed the mud pools that took over the path every time it rained. Once in the greener part of the Thames path, the tree branches reaching for each other over this rare bit of untouched land, offered her some protection from the rain. When she stepped away from the concrete pavement to the dirt of the trail, the anger-fuelled hammering of the blood in her ears changed to an icy silence. She stopped dead in her tracks and looked up from the leaden river to the ashen sky. She could feel her senses sharpening, broken strings of reality being pulled towards her, their unheard plea like a whispered prayer.

‘It is almost time, I must hurry,’ she said as she picked up her pace. In an hour, everything must be ready for the second stage of the plan. I better pick up my pace. The anticipation of tonight’s events combined with the anxiety and delight she felt heightened her emotions. And as always, her emotions opened up her sense to the nether. As if aware of her renewed urgency, the trail seemed to fill up with the lost souls that were the unheard, unseen, and un-mourned victims of the city. One by one these poor remnants of lost life piled on top of each other trying in vain to find a place to exist. The shimmering ghostly apparitions were so twisted and melted into one another that they seemed to take on new terrifying forms. I have the grimoire, the sacrifice is being taken care of; I will make it, we will make it, she silently went through what had become her mantra when scared or unsure. Look at the end goal, don’t let misery and pain drag you down again.

As she walked ahead, more and more ghostly shades appeared everywhere around her. They were in the water, they lined the path, and even the air felt overcrowded with apparitions climbing on top of each other in a desperate attempt for freedom. These wretched lost souls’ phantom echoes lingered in the earthly realm. Unnoticed in life, and unseen in death, they wander eternity trapped by the grey poisonous cage of urbanisation. Lacking warmth in life, and robbed of dignity in death, these pitiful beings confusedly roam the city stuck in a familiar routine as if nothing happened. Alecto looked in pain over the incorporeal shadow-like forms that didn’t seem to realise they were dead. She’d seen them haunting the unmarked graves of those who passed away before them, and her heart broke every time she witnessed the hardships they had to go through. The starved, frozen, malnourished shapes that crawled the streets of London seen but disregarded by everyone, lingered there even after death.

At times, she could make out the vague shapes that the apparitions must have had when alive. A small wing would for a moment flash outside of an amalgamation of limbs contorting in eternity. These discarded remnants had to share their space with every single living creature that had died and couldn’t find release. They would resemble their mortal forms if not for having to overlap and share their hauntings with countless other beings morphing into the twisted creatures from our nightmares. Our collective sin is their collective doom, thought Alecto as she climbed the stairs to Hammersmith Bridge which was probably the only human made structure she liked in this city. I made it just in time.

Seeing it brought back memories of when she had just moved to London from Woodbridge. Initially, when new to London, seeing these apparitions had frightened them. But fear is short-lived when hearing the unending wailing of the lost and unwanted. Soon, fear turned into anger, and anger in a resolution to help these lost souls find peace or die trying. So, when the storm came, they both headed out on a mission to change reality. Death is a long process but nonetheless, it needs its completion.

As she made her way through the spectral procession, she recalled the time when she was innocent and as blind as anyone else. Before moving to London with her father, she’d never seen death. Everyone in her life had escaped silently; one by one: her grandmother, then her aunt, and before them both her mother had died giving birth to her. Her father’s love had cushioned her from sorrow. It seemed kind of poetic that it would be his death that would open the flood gates to her new life’s reality.

Bran

The renewed cold spell he felt every time a tendril of the apparitions wisped near his body fed into the sense of increasing dread that was making Bran almost unable to breathe. He tried to tame his welling anxiety, but his senses were paralysed. He kept walking around the streets of Fulham, but his mind seemed to have opened up even further to the vortex of sounds and impressions that painted confused pictures of a scene split between the here, now, and beyond. He saw the blurred outlines of All Saints Church hidden in the rain, surrounded by the undiscernible darkness where he knew the park should be, and the faint clouding traces of the Putney Bridge disappearing in the distance. The rain had picked up again, forming a veil between things, making distances bigger, and adding a supernatural feel to the usually crowded London streets.

He had always felt alone in London, even when surrounded by the swarming crowds trampling over the dirty city streets. For years he had haunted the libraries of London attempting to find a connection he didn’t have in the present in the remote past. Alecto had saved him in so many ways. Now, without her, he felt his loneliness more intensively. It wasn’t as much reality breaking under the weight of the torrential rain that bothered him as it was being away from her even. As he made his way across the street, his surroundings shifted into unrecognisable sceneries of fog-like glowing mist which swirled violently until condensing into cloud-like formations mimicking life. A bluish hue morphed into a denser shape trailing around street corners, chimneys, showing half formed through windows. It was as if the storm had initiated a mystical frenzy by imbuing a strange otherworldly energy into buildings, air, and earth itself.

Bran could almost see something blink into existence in front of him, only for it to disappear when he focused his eyes on the apparition. The reality that wasn’t so easily observable was running rampant in his peripheral vision. Blue-green mist like tentacles reached out from outside his field of visions assailed his view. Crawling and snaking around him, freezing his very soul when making contact. The conflicting overlapping of what he knew was his every day cursed city, to what he was warned would happen tonight, were fuelling his dread to an almost panic attack.

‘Past and Present, Day and Night, Matter and Anima are all mirror reflections of each other. Alecto said this would happen. I have heard the cries, felt the pain, seen the sorrow… And yet…,’ he shook his head as if to get rid of any doubt and fear. When blessed, or some might say cursed, with seeing echoes of what was, is, and might be, how could you not hate the blind, cruel humans who stole the land, water, and air from everything else? Every time him and Alecto had to go out, their day soured by the sight of human negligence. A series of scenes flashed before his eyes of unwanted bodies trampled or butchered. Seeing dead animals, and maybe the occasional deceased human, was a common sight in London. As memories of the last three years played in his head, he thought he could spot the distinct shape of a pigeon, a fox, and a robin melted together in the entity that was emerging in the crossing ahead of him. When finding an unfortunate creature, they would bury the lucky ones and offer a prayer for their souls finding peace. However, in London, finding soil or a green space is no easy task. So, more often than not they had to walk away leaving unburied the dead birds, cats, foxes, discarded for the city’s municipal workers to collect. Living in the city was not unlike walking purgatory while alive.

What was happening now was just the expected convergence of past and present into a state of flux that had long needed resolution. The thin veil of reality had been on the verge of rupture for centuries, what they were doing was just making sure that when time, reality, and the continuum broke they would vindicate and free all the tortured souls stuck in this living purgatory.

It was then that what felt like a chorus of a myriad voices whispered in unison, a spine-chilling primal scream that for a moment froze reality. As the veil tore between realms, an echo of a distant howling crossed the water and land; a primal energy resonated on this meeting of humans. It shook the land making the surge of the Thames flow even more violently as it started spilling in the city the poison it was force fed for generations. He thought he could see the air coalescing and the mist of the river joining it in forming what resembles a bearded old men covered in seaweed crawling out of the river. But as soon as he saw it, the vision shifted. An ethereal aura lit the clouds with a white mist, and the timid apparitions seemed to take a positive resolve from these last happenings since they multiplied in number exponentially.

Everything that had slowly but incessantly eaten away at the border of reality seemed to have crossed over. Every element of consistency or permanence had vanished. The tiles of the roofs merged together, what used to be straight lines curved into mesmerising twists and loops that combined into forms he had no words to describe. This uncanny sight overwhelmed him. Bran fell on his knees, closed his eyes, and tried to recollect himself. I thought I was ready. I have pushed Alecto for months now to speed up the ritual but nothing I thought I knew could have prepared me for the reality of this…Shaking his head, he slowly moaned:

‘I am so glad she can’t see my weakness right now. Get up, you can do it! This is the point where fates converge, I cannot fall short on my destiny! I cannot let her down, not after everything she’s been through, not after she saved me.’ Repeating the mantra gave him a momentary peace which was suddenly broken by an all too real nearby scream.

‘Someone please help! Anyone…’ came the renewed plea from somewhere near his right.

Since leaving the pub Bran hadn’t seen a living soul on the streets. This was the first human voice he’d heard in what felt like a lifetime. Its mortal quality anchored his sanity, making him snap out of the hypnotising spell he’d fallen under. He jumped up from the place he’d been crouching on the floor and sprinted through the empty street running towards the continued plea for help coming from the tall hedge between the main road and All Saint’s Church. The smaller apparitions had retracted formed a circle around a lone bench next to the hedge. A streetlamp cast a weak amber hue upon a figure hidden between the seat and the foliage.

Ignoring the apparitions, he stormed ahead and saw a young woman mostly hid by the bench crouching on the ground. A blood-curdling shrilling plea for help came again from a lone woman cowering behind the bench. She seemed like she would be glad if the hedge could swallow her to safety. Instead, she had closed her tear-stricken eyes, covered her ears with her hands, and bent down on her knees screaming again and again while at the same time trying to push her back even further into the hedge. It was only when closing the distance and entering the circle guarded by the apparitions that he noticed a towering entity twirl itself into existence. The newcomer was at least twice the size of anything he’d seen so far, and when every other apparition was made of a blue or greenish hue, this monstrosity radiated an evil red glow that promised violence and pain.

Bran froze in his steps. The evil aura of the red devil froze him in fear. Alecto never mentioned anything like this… What should I do? He noticed a stream of glowing particles fly from the woman towards the entity. A swirl of light danced around him twisting and curving until it morphed into the reddish substance that constituted the essence of this spectre. Bran could sense something was different with this spirit. Even half-manifest, the glowing red mist was transforming into the semblance of a human body. A slender form started taking shape, cascading red-orange hair shimmered with an inner blaze that framed the red glowing eyes which now had turned their attention to weeping woman. Bran knew he had to act now while the creature wasn’t fully in this realm yet. There was no time for careful planning, instead he’d have to let his instinct take over.

He sprinted towards the woman, grabbed her wrist, and shouted:

‘Come with me. Now!’ Not waiting for an answer, he pulled her up and while holding her wrist in an iron grip ran towards the entrance of All Saints Church. The woman didn’t speak, she just followed him limply. Bran didn’t look back, didn’t dare see if the monster had followed them. His lungs were burning, his heart racing in his throat, legs shaking from terror and exhaustion. Still, he ran and ran, until the weight of the woman’s body pulled him back. She had collapsed on the floor and looked ready to faint.

‘Please, I can’t…’. She breathed heavily, crying.

‘We aren’t safe. If we don’t move, we’re both dead. Whatever that was is not going to take long to find us,’ said Bran while secretly welcoming the break.

‘I can’t…’ came the short reply from her. Bran could see her whole body convulse from exertion and fear. While he felt bad for her, he knew better than to risk being caught by that living nightmare.

The park around them which had been relatively empty of apparitions had started filling up with spirits blinking into existence all around them. He tried to think, and his eyes lit up when he remembered something he’d been told not long ago:

‘Do you see that dark bit of land behind the church?’ when she nodded, he continued, ‘That’s All-Saints Cemetery. Three bishops of London are buried there which makes it a consecrated and holy ground. If we make it there, we’ll be safe; if we don’t, we die.’

Bran looked down at the woman trying to make her see how serious he was:

‘I am sorry, but I am not ready to die. Not for you, not tonight. If you don’t want to come, I’m off.’ Saying this he took a step back.

‘Please…okay… don’t leave me.’ The thought of being left alone rekindled a renewed vigour in her tired body. She stood up and with a determined look she said, ‘Let’s go.’

As if to reinforce his point, the red ghost which now had taken the shape of a beautiful woman with cascading hair the colour of burning ember, appeared at the corner of the church. She let out a howling shriek ululating to the dark sky as she launched after them. Looking back to see if they were safe, Bran came down heavy on one foot, something caught his leg and made him stumble.

The array of angry curses he shouted were lost in the chaos.

‘Seven Hells and Damnation,’ were the first words pain did semi-coherently pull out from him.

He resigned himself to the overwhelming physical pain which for a brief but seemingly infinite instant overcaught on his mental terror. More screams followed, but he was too much in pain, and too tired to understand.

While fear had made him blind, pain awoke a shocked awareness of his surroundings.

A contorted and butchered face, full of self-inflicted scars, was yelling too close to his face. A vision almost as monstrous as what was chasing them earlier. Deafened, he put all his will into getting up and pulling the woman in a last dash towards the gate of the cemetery. He jumped and as he hit the ground, he heard a body hit an invisible barrier. They had made it barely inside the graveyard, not a metre away from the rage-twisted faces of their pursuers. He looked back to see the small frame of the woman crashed on the floor crying tears of both fear and relief while gazed in disbelief towards the invisible barrier that proved their salvation.

‘How… did you…know? I can’t believe…’ she managed to say between heavy breaths, ‘Thank you, you saved… my life.’

It took a few moments before he could calm his heartbeat enough to answer:

‘A while back, a friend told me a story. A small village had angered the deceased who on All Hallow’s Eve rose up to seek revenge for the disrespect and scorn the villagers had shown to the dead. While the ghosts hunted down everyone one by one, the local bard remembered an old cautionary tale: when the dead haunt the living, their old abode becomes the safest place. The dead don’t haunt their own, hence a graveyard is the safest refuge from the undead.’

‘I can’t believe you risked our lives based on an old tale.’ She laughed nervously.

‘It worked, did it not? Plus, none of us had any better ideas.’

‘Sorry if I sound ungrateful, I am not I swear, it’s just…I cannot believe all of this…’ She looked down, crying again. ‘Why is this happening? What are these monsters? Why is the city empty?’ Voicing her questions aloud stressed again the insanity of this night. Shivering, she hugged her knees.

‘I am actually surprised someone else could see these apparitions. Earlier at the pub no one could.’ He said as he lowered himself next to her.

‘What do you think they might be? Why are they here?’ She asked in a renewed attempt to make sense of what was pure chaos.

‘I don’t know for sure, but judging from how they look I would assume some type of undead or ghost?’ The colour drained further from her face as she stared at Bran unable to find the words for a retort, ‘I would have said they were quite peaceful for the most, until these last creatures that came after us. Did you notice that while all the other apparitions are blue or green and have animal like shape, these last two were humanoid. Couldn’t you almost taste metal in the emanation of the red mist that surrounded them?’ Speaking of them sent a chill down his spine. He looked back at the cemetery gate, but they weren’t anywhere to be seen. ‘By the way, I am Bran. And you?’ He said while extending his hand.

‘Oh, I completely forgot… My name is Pandora. Thank you so much for saving me, without you…’ She visibly shuddered as if only the recollection of the last hour was enough to send chills down to her bones, ‘I would be dead.’

‘It’s my pleasure. We need to stick together, us cursed with the sight. I haven’t seen anyone else tonight who could see what we do.’

‘Why us though? What are we supposed to do now? We can’t hide here forever.’

‘I don’t know the answer to these questions, but I know someone who might.’ He looked at her, ‘If we manage to make it to Hammersmith Bridge, there’s someone there who will be able to help.’

‘How do you know that? Wont the streets be dangerous? It’s a twenty-minute trek if we’re quick.’

‘The person who told me the story about the cemetery is there tonight, she wrote me saying to go there and that I’d be safe once with her.’ He looked her in the eyes, ‘Do you trust me?’

‘Yes, I do,’ she said taking his offered hand, and making their way into the night.

Alecto

Alecto was sat on the bridge, legs dangling between the hollow rails. A chill wind was blowing the rain drops and misty cloud of the river’s water up to her face. She revelled into this moment of pure raw natural power. The storm had hidden the ugliness of the city, and for the first time she could glance down the Thames seeing it how it might have been for her ancestors and heroes. A stream of the raw primal forces of nature that was unstoppable, unchangeable, a divine manifestation of life and death. She looked over where Fulham was hidden by the storm and pictured how it had been two hundred years ago when William Morris had sat there surrounded by a forest long flattened and cemented over, or how before him Shakespear, Chaucer, everyone who hadn’t given in to life’s surface level aspects would view the city. They would turn in their grave if they could see what was done to London.

She sighed loudly at that thought, and turned around to check the barrier was still in place. On her right, the darkness of the Thames path had been imbued with further gloom. For a moment, one might forget they lived in a metropolis. The only thing between her and the all-encompassing dark was a wall of purple shimmering light at the entrance of the bridge. I wish I could forget…if only it was that easy… Turning her head to the left, a similar barrier divided the murky outline of Hammersmith from the bridge. A vortex of light slowly made its way from her into the two barriers. She had been providing the mana needed for the spell for over an hour now. Even if keeping the framework of a casting active wasn’t that consuming in itself, her energy was endless.

‘Hurry up! What’s taking so long…?’

Bran

As soon as she said that, as if summoned, the two distant silhouettes of Bran and Pandora were running for their life chased by a storm of spectres. They sprinted and jumped the last distance within the safety of Alecto’s protective barriers. The barrier lit up angrily as the apparitions collided with he invisible wall. Finally, I made it. Bran released Pandora’s hand and they both fell breathless on the floor. Gasping for breath, he looked up and smiled at Alecto.

‘Hello there!’ Bran’s voice carried over the distance between them, ‘I made it! And I have company!’

‘At last! I was starting to think something got to you,’ said Alecto walking down towards the newcomers.

Bran got up and ran the rest of the distance to hug her. He clung so hard as if scared she wouldn’t be there if he let go.

‘I am happy to see you made it,’ she smiled at him warmly, ‘and that you brought such interesting company.’

‘My love, are you sure…?’

‘Hush now, it’s going to be alright. It’s too late to turn back. It has already started… and you know once it began not even I can’t stop it.’ She trailed off making her way to Pandora who stood uncomfortably at the beginning of the bridge, not knowing what to do, advance, speak up, or what.

‘Bran has horrible manners; he should have introduced us.’ Said Alecto while opening her arms inviting Pandora in a hug.

‘Hello. I am so glad we made it here. Thank you…’ the woman trailed off while Alecto pulled her in an embrace. Pandora’s initial surprise was overrun by the need for warmth and safety. She welcomed the sheltering embrace.

‘Now now… You are safe from the spectres here.’ Whispered Alecto.

As soon as the woman fully relaxed in the embrace, a sudden sharp pain akin to a cold flame burned in her chest. Pulling back, she saw a blade stick out from her the middle of her chest. ‘Why…’ she asked as her world was overtaken by pain and reality started to fade to black. Falling, the last thing she saw were the faces of Bran and Alecto.

Bran tried to witness the sacrifice with a cool demeanour, however, a part of him regretted the betrayal, and the loss of such a special life. He told himself this couldn’t be helped but the remorse was roving too difficult to overlook.

‘Could we have not done it differently?’ He asked while helping Alecto drag the dying body within the magic circle at the centre of the bridge.

‘You know I don’t like taking a life, be it innocent animals or impure humans.’ She glanced up at this as if asking if he was still with her.

‘I know, I know…Still, I feel bad for sacrificing one of us.’

‘It had to be someone with the sight, I’ve explained this so many times. And there isn’t another of us. It’s you and me and our mission. Are you still with me?’

‘Of course, I am my love, it’s just…’ he trailed off knowing anything he might say would be useless. He believed in her, in their goal. But still, he mourned a lost life. He pushed his hatred to the society that had made them go to such extremes, and that brought him peace and a renewed zest.

He kissed her before they took their places at opposite sides of the circles, and while a storm of mana flew from them into the casting circle, a column of blue-purple light discharged from the sacrifice piercing the sky. The true ritual had just been cast. Bran looked transfixed at the magnificence of a London that was for once completely magical.

‘O! Father Thames, guardian of the doors of hell, please hear my plea!’ Alecto chanted over the drowning noise of the storm and water.

‘Long has your due not been met, too long have your children suffered the abuse of humans.’

Where darkness reigned supreme, now there were two colours.

Where a solitary silence animated nothingness, now Being was multiplied.

Where intangible essence whispered to eternity, now lucency set the heavens ablaze.

Time will be reborn.

Followed by Desire, Dread, and Despair.

Consciousness invaded the dancing shadows, and materiality overcame the silent reign of pure primordial essence.

Eons passed, and death built up its role as the hidden heritage of life.

Hiding behind what’s visible, residing just outside the peripheral field of vision, an ancient shadow hides, an echo of a ghost of primordial absolute power.

Stardust fallen out of creation, envious of light, of life, of being. In the Null, colourless, insipid, inane covetous and jaundiced primeval spirits have shrouded their quintessence from every eye.

Caged in screams, tears, whispers, conspires, of how to extend its reach from the nether. In their solitude they think and think and rethink of how they fell, of what they lost, of the fateful shame.

Let the poor innocent find their blissful release from everlasting torment and pain,

And cast this city into the purgatory it deserves.

Hear our plea! Let this be!’

As they finished chanting their prayer, the waters increased and twisted in the shape Bran had seen earlier. An old man covered in seaweed granted them his blessing:

‘I will not forget your sacrifice, but I refuse to let you die in this unjust war. Hop on this barge sent by my estuary daughter Isis, and sail away into eternity watching this coven of injustice burn.’

[To be continued…]