The Tale of Canu Baraksson - Conclusion

The room was dimly lit, smoking torches hanging in sconces set in the walls. I remember the smell of acrid sulfurous fumes, thick and heavy, nearly setting me to coughing. Through the thinning soles of my badly-worn sandals I could feel the heat radiating from the stone floor, stones that should have been cold, but somehow were not. And how well I still recall my first sight of His face, Him whom I have come to love and revere above all others.

When first I caught sight of Him, He was seated at ease upon an immense black throne, intricately carved from a single block of obsidian. I noted that something appeared to be wrong with His aura. Though it still shone brightly about him, the edges had begun to darken and turn in upon themselves, almost like a piece of spoiled fruit. He rose and gazed solemnly at me. I was frightened and dropped trembling to my knees, but He came to me and raised me up, called me His son, and by many diverse proofs convinced me that it was so.

"You shall serve me well as a good son serves his father," He intoned, and I found myself nodding in agreement. "I shall make of you a Disciple of Music, and such shall be your power that all who hear you play shall find, however briefly, peace in their souls."

So began my service to the Lord Barak, He who came to be known as Father of Darkness. He never treated me other than well, and I thrived upon the tasks He set me to accomplish. One thing, however I longed to do yet could not; there seemed to be no relief from His melancholy humors. Ever He mourned for Siberlee, and it nearly maddened me that I could provide Him no relief from that sorrow. I even attempted to bring peace to Him through the use of the power
He had bestowed upon me, sometimes playing for Him long into the night. But I could bring no peace to His soul, for He had yielded it up that His beloved Siberlee might have her heart's desire.

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It was not difficult to notice that an atmosphere of tense disagreement existed between the Fathers and the Mothers, and through the season of 665 this grew stronger with each passing day. However, in my youthful ignorance I paid it little mind; in any case the training I was receiving in my father's house occupied nearly all of my time, and many a night I stumbled off late to find my bed, my eyes scarce able to focus and my trembling legs betraying me. Consequently I was taken almost completely by surprise when matters came to a head and open warfare erupted between them. It was a time of great confusion, and I remember little of the details. My attention was immediately caught and held though as it became evident that the Mothers and their followers were engaged in hurling the Fathers forcibly from the heavens. I rushed into the melee, hoping against hope that I could aid my father.

Too late, too late I came to the scene, cursing myself for having paid so little attention to the events leading up to this. Barak, surrounded and overpowered by the throng, was being inexorably pushed out even as I arrived. I saw Him slip; I think I may have screamed. Perhaps if I could reach Him my hand, I thought, I might pull Him back up again. Just as I reached the brink, He plunged into the abyss, His face a tortured mask, and from His mouth came a long drawn howl of denial. I had only time to notice that it was Siberlee in the lead of those who had pushed Him; then I stumbled over my own feet and, following my father, pitched headlong into the depths. Despite my perilous situation I could not help but wonder: had She actually pushed him? It seemed so unlikely, yet clearly my father thought it so.

How long we fell I never could say with certainty...a day?...a week?...a minute? All time seemed to be one time, the same. Yet I knew well when I had stopped falling, and my landing upon the Underworld floor was no gentle one. The rock was adamant, unforgiving, and the impact was brutal. I felt as though every bone in my body had been pulverized instantly, that my body itself was turned to jelly.

Blackness took me and I lay for a time unseeing, unhearing, almost uncaring. At length though I sensed somehow that Barak was standing over me. I forced my eyes to open; no mean task for they were already encrusted with blood. My blood. My sight was dimming swiftly, but I heard my father's words.

"Come back to me, my son. I shall not allow you to go into the great darkness yet. There is much work to be done, and I will not lose so good a son and servant. Come back!" I know not what He did, but as He spoke I began to feel stronger, more whole, and a strange tingling raced through me as my body rapidly mended itself of its damage. "Now, my son, come back," came His voice again. "Arise!"

I found that I could rise, and did so. I had known my father to be exceptionally powerful, but did He control even Death? It was then that I realized that although I was standing, seeing, hearing, I was no longer breathing, nor could I feel the familiar beating of my heart. Not living then...nor dead. Undead, I pondered, fitting the word to my mouth. An Undead.

As time passed and I grew accustomed to my new form of being, I discovered that the gift Barak had given me also had changed. I could still bring peace to the souls of those who heard me play. I could just as easily bring about such sickness of the soul that any listener would fall into a decline and perish.

It was, my father told me, as fate would have it. There is never any real choice, merely the illusion of choice. And if choice should be reality? Already I had made mine.

Here ends the Tale of Canu Baraksson, who serves the Father of Darkness faithfully to this day.