as above, so below ✞ andal &̴. josefa

ANDAL    S E A R L E Y.

There is a bad moon rising.

Not on the horizon, but rather in the pit of his stomach as he shifts on a moldy chair with a teacup on his lap, counting down the minutes until his mother returns from sermon. He could hear it faintly, like a faraway choir of equally farfetched words.

The tea has gone cold. Dusk bruises the sky purple-blue, and for what would be an ordinary view on any other day, seeing it through the tiny aperture of the window in this small room grants the sight an illusion of majesty and liberation. Freedom lies beyond glass — if you could break your way out. Freedom demands a price. Cracked knuckles and glass shards are proof of that. In his case, though, it is an insufferable itch under his skin.

He uses a gloved finger to scratch his wrist absently. The itch is not debilitating by any means, but it does not go away. He could always feel it like an invisible scar tissue under the skin, tingling and twitching, quivering and waiting. An aftereffect of the serum, the doctors explained. He believes it fully, except for the after part.

He hadn’t noticed it had gone quiet until the door creaks open.

Shoulders bunching up, Andal sets the tea cup aside and draws on a smile as the face of Alban Garcia enters, half-lit by dusky night, half-shadowed by the room’s darkened interior.

“Father,” he greets. “How was sermon?”

“Splendid as always,” he replies, tone like silk on sand, velvety with a hidden rasp. How many disciples had heeded that voice and fallen to their knees? How many more would?

“It’s a great commune you have built. I heard it’s been flourishing nicely.”

“You heard? From who, I wonder?”

My mother, he wants to say, but settles instead, with a smile, for: “the public.” No need for the man to know his mother’s secret, which is that she is desperate for a thing to devote herself to.

Alban smiles back in a way that does not quite reach the eyes. “The public has many misconceptions of our faith, Mr. Searley. You do understand who we worship, correct?”

“Yes,” he says. “Ansgar is…”

“No.” Alban raises a hand. “We do not use the Chosen’s name lightly here. Please refrain.”

He gulps the rest of the sentence down. Something about Alban Garcia’s easy grace that could harden into absolute command flares the itch under his skin.

“Well, I should get going. My mother must be waiting for me. It’s been a pleasure, really.”

“No, no, please. Allow me a proper conversation with the newest victor of ten, would you? Can I help you to another drink?” He nods towards his teacup, pulling out a flask from his robes. The metal glints as he uncaps it. “ Communion wine.” Red liquid flows from the mouth into the teacup. Andal fights the urge to wince. “It is our richest brew. Blood wine, we prefer to call it.”

“No, I should—“ run, leave, get out. Something about this place and its walls, its shadows and its atmosphere, unnerves him in a way that only the memories of a tall and twisted castle could. The itch crawls up to his jaw, makes him clench it as he goes for his coat.

But Father hands him the tea cup.

Ever polite, it is an instinct when he accepts it with a gloved hand.

“You know you caused quite an uproar. A victor from Ten since …” Father trails off, making him fill the rest of the sentence by himself.

“People in Ten needed some victory. I did what I could, and I did what I should.” That is the lie he has begun telling himself. Is it completely a falsehood, though? Is it wrong to want to live?

“But you have yet to properly seek redemption,” Father says. That word digs into his core. Redemption. Penance. His body nearly keens at even the barest prospect of both that he has to take a steadying breath for a moment, shoulders tensing up as air fills his chest. “No,” he agrees.

The itch grows stronger. He could feel it now like invisible insects crawling the length of his skin, summer bees making a hive upon flesh, buzzing low yet steady. He should not have come here. He would not have come here if his mother hadn’t demanded it, if she hadn’t looked at him without fear for once and asked his company.

They’ll help you, she told him. What a fool he is to have believed it. Ever since he stepped foot in his place, all he has been reminded of is all the sins he committed in the past, all the souls he had damned by playing false executioner, and what a beast he carries along like a devil’s mark. All he has been feeling is shame, guilt, fear, anger, and — shame. White-hot shame in his chest that brands the flesh with a horrifying sizzle.

He has not redeemed himself. To make things worse, he has broken the sacred vow he made to Isabella of building a better tomorrow by letting Elm and Autumn die. There should have been more. He should have done more. He should have played the game with more finesse, dealt better cards, used all of his strength and power, he should have, he should have, he should have.

Dusk has vanished. It is now dark, shadows within shadows, all except for the bright, angelic glow of the rising moon on Father’s face. He looks sharp. Too sharp.

“Let us help you with that, Mr. Searley,” Father implores. “We specialize in it. Forgiveness is plenty in our faith, if you only know how to ask for it. We shall teach you that as well.”

The room grows smaller. Or rather, he can feel himself growing larger, rising up to a span that makes his shadow stretch and enlarge. He sees it happen. The shadow lengthens like spilled ink across the floor, inch by torturous inch, until he feels his shirt strain to hold himself in. Until his gloves are so tight against his hands, struggling to contain the growth and proceeding to shred instead.

As his claws unsheathe themselves, Father’s smile stretches wider.

He drinks from the flask, and caps it back. The wine smells sickly sweet, like flesh before the rot settles in. Father nods, sagely almost, before delivering one final sermon for the day:

“Yes, yes. A hound ought to be taught a few lessons .”

Something wraps around his throat. He tries to scream, call for help, but all that escapes him is a soft grunt as his feet turn to stone, his arms go heavy, and eventually, even as he fights it off as best as he can, his eyes close into a forbidding and endless darkness he knows all too well.