FIC: "Doulon (the saddest of kingdoms)" by kethlenda
Title: Doulon (the saddest of kingdoms)
Author: kethlenda
Fandom: Flesh and Spirit by Carol Berg
Pairing: Magrog/Nemelez
Rating: R
Tarot: The Devil
Word Count: ~1700
Warnings: attempted human sacrifice, magical drug use, slight S/M themes
A/N: Sorry this was late--I misplaced the canon and had to find it! Basically, the inspiration for this fic is that, in the novel, there's this magical enchantment/drug that turns pain into pleasure, and there's a little throwaway reference to the spell having been a wedding gift from the god of the dead, Magrog, to his human wife Nemelez. That little reference got me thinking along Hades/Persephone lines, and so here's what I came up with. It's not really spoilery, since it's based on about one sentence early in the book.
"she is the roof of her mother there is no sky but she lies
down and takes it in her it is the saddest of kingdoms we power
the silence underneath is free from us the mines flow with light"
--Robert Kelly, "First Ode to Persephone"
They came for her at the crossroads. She was distracted, intent only upon the rite at hand. Old Melania had always taught her that the Danae must be honored on the old feast-days; the other villagers had abandoned this duty, which made it even more important for Melania and Nemelez to tender them due reverence.
She had not yet taken the precious nivat seeds from her pocket to make the offering when the villagers fell upon her. She writhed, struggled, but found herself held fast. She knew them all. These were women whose babes Nemelez and Melania had brought into the world; these were men who had come to the little cottage at the edge of the woods for poultices for their wounds.
When they had gone, leaving Nemelez chained in a darkness that smelled of sulfur, she reflected bitterly that this would never have befallen her during Melania's lifetime. The townspeople had feared the old woman, yes, but there had been respect there too. Nemelez they feared but did not respect. And so, when the well water came up smelling of rotten eggs and steam wisped from newborn cracks in the earth, it was decided that Magrog, Lord of Torment, desired a propitiatory sacrifice. Perhaps, even, a bride. They had no difficulty selecting the woman who would be so privileged.
Nemelez the uncanny, Nemelez the fey, Nemelez with her books and her herbs and her rumored Danae blood.
There had been some debate over what to do with her once they had her securely fettered. Some had favored slitting her throat like some beast of the field; others had suggested the stake, on the grounds that Magrog was a creature of fire and liked burnt offerings best. It was the smith who prevailed, however, arguing that the Lord of Hell might prefer his bride untouched. The others, realizing she'd be just as dead after a week without food and water as she would be if she were slaughtered or roasted, nodded in agreement.
Nemelez refused to give them the satisfaction of screaming. There would be no use in it. Everyone who might hear her had been party to the sacrifice. She would bear it as best she could, and pray that death came quickly. In her heart she was glad to have escaped the flames, but after a few hours, when thirst burned her throat just as surely as the iron fetters chafed her wrists and ankles, she rather wished they'd chosen the blade.
The moon set, taking with it the last vestiges of light from the cavern. Nemelez realized with disgust that she’d been hoping for a reprieve, for a lone villager to take pity upon her and slip back to the cave in secret to free her or slay her. No one would come; she knew that now.
The scent of sulfur grew stronger, and Nemelez closed her eyes and allowed herself a cruel fantasy. Perhaps Magrog was unhappy with the sacrifice. Perhaps the village would be swallowed in a flood of fire. She had heard of towns, even great cities, that had perished thus.
It would serve them right.
The cuffs at her wrists and ankles seared her skin suddenly, and she opened her eyes and saw that they glowed red-gold in the gloom and then fell away. Nemelez twisted her wrists this way and that, testing her freedom, then wiggled her feet like a little girl at the millpond.
I'd not thought I'd go mad so soon. Still, it is a pleasant madness. Nemelez heard a laugh, a giggle even, escape her lips.
"No madness, my lady," said a voice as deep and fathomless as the night.
Nemelez felt herself lifted from the cave floor. Strong arms enfolded her, and she curled into their circle like a child, letting her head rest against the hot skin of the stranger's chest.
It seemed she slept, drifting from dream to dream, each stranger than the next: a chariot whose horses breathed fire from their nostrils; a silver-grey river and a ferryman whose hood was so deep she could not see his face; a bubbling spring-fed pool where three serpent-haired women bathed her tenderly.
She awoke on a cold, hard surface in a vast cavern. By the dancing light of the torches she could see that she was lying on a woman-sized slab of stone that stood about waist-high. Bed, or altar? The walls of the chamber were made of some black, gleaming stone that reflected Nemelez back to herself over and over. She was wearing some sort of sheer white gown, so transparent she could see two pink shadows at her breasts and a darker one below.
Nemelez felt hot breath on the back of her neck, and gasped.
The mirror-walls showed only Nemelez; no one behind her. Yet someone had to be there. Someone was stroking her hair; someone's scorching-hot hand grasped her breast through the thin fabric of her gown. She turned to face her assailant and saw only darkness, a darkness more profound than the gloom of the cave. It was as though the man was made of the darkness itself, shaped from shadows, but with the ability to touch and caress as though formed of flesh.
"Are you afraid, Nemelez?" asked the dark man, whose voice she recognized from the cave. Her savior. Her captor.
"Yes," she said in a high, trembling voice that could not be her own.
A scream echoed through the corridors of this subterranean palace. "What was that?" Nemelez asked.
"A soul in torment," said the shadow.
"Is that what is to happen to me?"
"Not tonight, my bride."
"You…you're Magrog."
"Yes."
"What do you mean by 'not tonight'?"
"We shall have many nights, my Nemelez, between now and the end of days. In time I shall teach you the secrets of pain, and how it can be sweet as honey to one with the knowledge to appreciate it, but for tonight, I will give you but a taste of agony. And I know a way to make even that a pleasure for you."
He held out his hand in a fist, and opened it. Tiny grains of shining black gleamed like insects against Magrog's shadowy hand. "The Kindly Ones found these when they bathed you."
"Nivat seeds, my lord," said Nemelez, still shaking, wondering why the seeds mattered to Magrog and whether she would be punished for having them. "To make feast-bread for the Danae."
"So, you keep the old ways," said Magrog. "I believe I have divined another use for these seeds, however; one that you may appreciate before the night is over." He poured the seeds out onto the stone slab and drew a knife from somewhere.
Nemelez shivered as Magrog trailed the flat of the blade down her arm, and to her horror, realized that she did not tremble in fear only.
"The things I can show you…ah, but I shall be patient." Magrog ground the seeds with the flat of the blade, releasing a perfume that enticed and repulsed at once; there was spice in it, and the sweet rotting smell of dead things, and the grey scent of dust.
"Now, I shall require three drops of your blood."
"W-why?"
"It is for the spell. You will be glad of it later."
Nemelez, unsure why she was obeying, nonetheless obeyed. She held out her hand and allowed Magrog, King of Hell and torturer of all damned souls, to prick her finger with surprising gentleness. There was a sharp pain as the knife pierced skin. Nemelez bit her lip and let that pain eclipse the other.
Magrog held the knife over the seed-paste until three drops of scarlet fell to mingle with the black. He plucked a stray thread from Nemelez's gown and let the end touch the murky mixture. Nemelez watched, unsure what he was doing, knowing only that he worked magic. This, she could tell by the way the hairs stood up on her arms. The potion erupted into bubbles.
Nemelez's eyes wandered to the black-glass walls, and her mouth fell open in wonder. The bubbling paste released a swirling vapor as it burned, a vapor she could not see when she looked at the mixture itself, but which became visible when reflected. Shapes appeared to writhe in the mist, faces contorting in agony or laughter, and Nemelez watched, rapt.
Nemelez stared until they were gone. When the shades had all gone, she felt a finger probe her lips, and opened her mouth instinctively. Magrog touched her tongue, leaving a thick residue behind. It tasted like nothing.
Magrog tangled his hand in her hair and lowered her so that she lay prone again on the bed, the altar. He was the abyss of the night sky above her and the oblivion of the earth. A flash of pain tore through Nemelez as Magrog took her. Then there was only ecstasy; she felt she was spinning among the stars, falling into the depths, lost in waves of dark water.
***
He allowed her to return to the village for a time every spring. There was respect in the villagers' eyes now; Nemelez had wed the Lord of Hell and returned to tell the tale, and better yet, the feared eruption had never come. This miracle was ascribed to Nemelez's charms.
The path to her cottage was worn bare by the feet of desperate men and women seeking the enchantment she had brought back with her, the spell that transmuted pain into pleasure. Those who found solace in the rite revered Nemelez as a healer. Those whose loved ones inflicted horrific wounds upon themselves in search of greater ecstasy, however, reviled her as a wicked sorceress.
When the latter began to outnumber the former, Nemelez passed her knowledge on to an apprentice and returned to Magrog's realm, never again to leave it. She had done well, teaching the doulon, as it came to be called, to the mortals. Little did they know that every time the vapor twisted and curled in a shard of mirror-glass, a portal was opened that allowed one of Magrog's demons to enter the world of men and women.
It served them right.
Author: kethlenda
Fandom: Flesh and Spirit by Carol Berg
Pairing: Magrog/Nemelez
Rating: R
Tarot: The Devil
Word Count: ~1700
Warnings: attempted human sacrifice, magical drug use, slight S/M themes
A/N: Sorry this was late--I misplaced the canon and had to find it! Basically, the inspiration for this fic is that, in the novel, there's this magical enchantment/drug that turns pain into pleasure, and there's a little throwaway reference to the spell having been a wedding gift from the god of the dead, Magrog, to his human wife Nemelez. That little reference got me thinking along Hades/Persephone lines, and so here's what I came up with. It's not really spoilery, since it's based on about one sentence early in the book.
"she is the roof of her mother there is no sky but she lies
down and takes it in her it is the saddest of kingdoms we power
the silence underneath is free from us the mines flow with light"
--Robert Kelly, "First Ode to Persephone"
They came for her at the crossroads. She was distracted, intent only upon the rite at hand. Old Melania had always taught her that the Danae must be honored on the old feast-days; the other villagers had abandoned this duty, which made it even more important for Melania and Nemelez to tender them due reverence.
She had not yet taken the precious nivat seeds from her pocket to make the offering when the villagers fell upon her. She writhed, struggled, but found herself held fast. She knew them all. These were women whose babes Nemelez and Melania had brought into the world; these were men who had come to the little cottage at the edge of the woods for poultices for their wounds.
When they had gone, leaving Nemelez chained in a darkness that smelled of sulfur, she reflected bitterly that this would never have befallen her during Melania's lifetime. The townspeople had feared the old woman, yes, but there had been respect there too. Nemelez they feared but did not respect. And so, when the well water came up smelling of rotten eggs and steam wisped from newborn cracks in the earth, it was decided that Magrog, Lord of Torment, desired a propitiatory sacrifice. Perhaps, even, a bride. They had no difficulty selecting the woman who would be so privileged.
Nemelez the uncanny, Nemelez the fey, Nemelez with her books and her herbs and her rumored Danae blood.
There had been some debate over what to do with her once they had her securely fettered. Some had favored slitting her throat like some beast of the field; others had suggested the stake, on the grounds that Magrog was a creature of fire and liked burnt offerings best. It was the smith who prevailed, however, arguing that the Lord of Hell might prefer his bride untouched. The others, realizing she'd be just as dead after a week without food and water as she would be if she were slaughtered or roasted, nodded in agreement.
Nemelez refused to give them the satisfaction of screaming. There would be no use in it. Everyone who might hear her had been party to the sacrifice. She would bear it as best she could, and pray that death came quickly. In her heart she was glad to have escaped the flames, but after a few hours, when thirst burned her throat just as surely as the iron fetters chafed her wrists and ankles, she rather wished they'd chosen the blade.
The moon set, taking with it the last vestiges of light from the cavern. Nemelez realized with disgust that she’d been hoping for a reprieve, for a lone villager to take pity upon her and slip back to the cave in secret to free her or slay her. No one would come; she knew that now.
The scent of sulfur grew stronger, and Nemelez closed her eyes and allowed herself a cruel fantasy. Perhaps Magrog was unhappy with the sacrifice. Perhaps the village would be swallowed in a flood of fire. She had heard of towns, even great cities, that had perished thus.
It would serve them right.
The cuffs at her wrists and ankles seared her skin suddenly, and she opened her eyes and saw that they glowed red-gold in the gloom and then fell away. Nemelez twisted her wrists this way and that, testing her freedom, then wiggled her feet like a little girl at the millpond.
I'd not thought I'd go mad so soon. Still, it is a pleasant madness. Nemelez heard a laugh, a giggle even, escape her lips.
"No madness, my lady," said a voice as deep and fathomless as the night.
Nemelez felt herself lifted from the cave floor. Strong arms enfolded her, and she curled into their circle like a child, letting her head rest against the hot skin of the stranger's chest.
It seemed she slept, drifting from dream to dream, each stranger than the next: a chariot whose horses breathed fire from their nostrils; a silver-grey river and a ferryman whose hood was so deep she could not see his face; a bubbling spring-fed pool where three serpent-haired women bathed her tenderly.
She awoke on a cold, hard surface in a vast cavern. By the dancing light of the torches she could see that she was lying on a woman-sized slab of stone that stood about waist-high. Bed, or altar? The walls of the chamber were made of some black, gleaming stone that reflected Nemelez back to herself over and over. She was wearing some sort of sheer white gown, so transparent she could see two pink shadows at her breasts and a darker one below.
Nemelez felt hot breath on the back of her neck, and gasped.
The mirror-walls showed only Nemelez; no one behind her. Yet someone had to be there. Someone was stroking her hair; someone's scorching-hot hand grasped her breast through the thin fabric of her gown. She turned to face her assailant and saw only darkness, a darkness more profound than the gloom of the cave. It was as though the man was made of the darkness itself, shaped from shadows, but with the ability to touch and caress as though formed of flesh.
"Are you afraid, Nemelez?" asked the dark man, whose voice she recognized from the cave. Her savior. Her captor.
"Yes," she said in a high, trembling voice that could not be her own.
A scream echoed through the corridors of this subterranean palace. "What was that?" Nemelez asked.
"A soul in torment," said the shadow.
"Is that what is to happen to me?"
"Not tonight, my bride."
"You…you're Magrog."
"Yes."
"What do you mean by 'not tonight'?"
"We shall have many nights, my Nemelez, between now and the end of days. In time I shall teach you the secrets of pain, and how it can be sweet as honey to one with the knowledge to appreciate it, but for tonight, I will give you but a taste of agony. And I know a way to make even that a pleasure for you."
He held out his hand in a fist, and opened it. Tiny grains of shining black gleamed like insects against Magrog's shadowy hand. "The Kindly Ones found these when they bathed you."
"Nivat seeds, my lord," said Nemelez, still shaking, wondering why the seeds mattered to Magrog and whether she would be punished for having them. "To make feast-bread for the Danae."
"So, you keep the old ways," said Magrog. "I believe I have divined another use for these seeds, however; one that you may appreciate before the night is over." He poured the seeds out onto the stone slab and drew a knife from somewhere.
Nemelez shivered as Magrog trailed the flat of the blade down her arm, and to her horror, realized that she did not tremble in fear only.
"The things I can show you…ah, but I shall be patient." Magrog ground the seeds with the flat of the blade, releasing a perfume that enticed and repulsed at once; there was spice in it, and the sweet rotting smell of dead things, and the grey scent of dust.
"Now, I shall require three drops of your blood."
"W-why?"
"It is for the spell. You will be glad of it later."
Nemelez, unsure why she was obeying, nonetheless obeyed. She held out her hand and allowed Magrog, King of Hell and torturer of all damned souls, to prick her finger with surprising gentleness. There was a sharp pain as the knife pierced skin. Nemelez bit her lip and let that pain eclipse the other.
Magrog held the knife over the seed-paste until three drops of scarlet fell to mingle with the black. He plucked a stray thread from Nemelez's gown and let the end touch the murky mixture. Nemelez watched, unsure what he was doing, knowing only that he worked magic. This, she could tell by the way the hairs stood up on her arms. The potion erupted into bubbles.
Nemelez's eyes wandered to the black-glass walls, and her mouth fell open in wonder. The bubbling paste released a swirling vapor as it burned, a vapor she could not see when she looked at the mixture itself, but which became visible when reflected. Shapes appeared to writhe in the mist, faces contorting in agony or laughter, and Nemelez watched, rapt.
Nemelez stared until they were gone. When the shades had all gone, she felt a finger probe her lips, and opened her mouth instinctively. Magrog touched her tongue, leaving a thick residue behind. It tasted like nothing.
Magrog tangled his hand in her hair and lowered her so that she lay prone again on the bed, the altar. He was the abyss of the night sky above her and the oblivion of the earth. A flash of pain tore through Nemelez as Magrog took her. Then there was only ecstasy; she felt she was spinning among the stars, falling into the depths, lost in waves of dark water.
***
He allowed her to return to the village for a time every spring. There was respect in the villagers' eyes now; Nemelez had wed the Lord of Hell and returned to tell the tale, and better yet, the feared eruption had never come. This miracle was ascribed to Nemelez's charms.
The path to her cottage was worn bare by the feet of desperate men and women seeking the enchantment she had brought back with her, the spell that transmuted pain into pleasure. Those who found solace in the rite revered Nemelez as a healer. Those whose loved ones inflicted horrific wounds upon themselves in search of greater ecstasy, however, reviled her as a wicked sorceress.
When the latter began to outnumber the former, Nemelez passed her knowledge on to an apprentice and returned to Magrog's realm, never again to leave it. She had done well, teaching the doulon, as it came to be called, to the mortals. Little did they know that every time the vapor twisted and curled in a shard of mirror-glass, a portal was opened that allowed one of Magrog's demons to enter the world of men and women.
It served them right.