《Prayers to Hear in the Dark》 Prologue - The House It was a cold place. A lorn space surrounded by a vast nothingness, forsaken by Time like an unwanted child. In such a place, little by little, something was born. Lost things with no desire or destination, they met one another and, piece by piece, found comfort in each other. Solace. The wood. The glass. The rock. As moments passed¡ªas Time allowed¡ªthey became a house. Yet the place was still cold.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The house; forlorn. However, from their bleakness and isolation came an idea. One that was not warm or content, yet one that brought purpose. The house found comfort in the idea, aching with desperate needs it could not name or fully comprehend. Needs begging to be tended. And as the idea embraced the house, it made so that such place was not as lorn anymore. It gave Time reasons to pay attention and listen, to allow Its flow within that space. And as Time passed, as the idea grew and matured, so did the house. So did its new owner. And its owner knew how to tend to its needs¡ªunderstood the house and the idea behind it all too well. So whenever the front door opened, everything was in its place. It was a cold place. A forgotten space. Yet time and time again, the door would open and its bell would ring. The sound would echo within the house, making its wood, windows, and stones shiver. And as soon as the door closed, steps would be heard. A chair would be pulled. And the owner would smile. ¡°Hello. How can I serve you today?¡± There Were Nine They were nine. Nine faceless shadows; nine empty beings. When the ninth crossed the door¡¯s threshold, it thought the house had an uncanny warmth. More like a welcome, yet barely a solace. Its light was bright, yet the colors were bleak. Dead. The door closed on its own, yet the new shadow found itself staring at a pair of crystal-white eyes. They shone as if they had their own glow¡ªtheir own warmth¡ªyet their gaze was still cold. ¡°Hello. How may I be of service today?¡± The voice was serene, cultured. Soft. It echoed through the wide room, reaching the shadow from all directions. The shadow did not move. The person smiled, ever so subtly, finishing wiping an empty glass. ¡°It must have been difficult¡ªto find your way here. Not many do. Today has been unexpectedly busy.¡± As Ninth turned, it soon found others. Eight faceless figures sat on their chairs, staring at nowhere. Some shifted their gazes, meeting the newcomer¡¯s. In those brief seconds they spared to recognize Ninth¡¯s presence, that person¡¯s voice echoed again. The sound was luring, almost melodic. ¡°Since you arrived, why won¡¯t you sit with the others? I will bring something for you soon.¡±This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The person wore a simple bistro, black apron alongside a white shirt with an elegant bow tie, with three bows on top of each other, held together by a white flower clip. Behind the person, there were numerous bottles filled with the most varied liquids and colors. Spread around the space, the candlelights provided just enough light to make the space inviting, the long poseur table promising many things the shadow had long since forgotten their meaning. Ninth made its way to an empty chair, soundless, sitting with reluctance. The nine shadows faced each other, all sat in a circle. They stood there, motionless. Silent. But then they all turned in the same direction, all at once, when the sounds began to echo. Ice. Glass. Small metal tools. Pouring liquids. Each shadow watched that person grab things and mix them. Assemble them. At times there were bursts of fire, at others smoke and sparks. Yet before long, the person came to them at a slow pace. Carrying one single drink in a small tray. As the person stopped right beside Ninth, it extended the tray to the shadow on its left. Smiling. ¡°This one was prepared just for you¡ªI am certain you will find it to your taste.¡± The shadow continued to stare at the person for long seconds before its gaze lowered, falling to the drink. Ninth also changed its focus, eying the new creation with a new found curiosity. The glass was tall and curvy, and it was as if whenever the ice cubes touched and tilted against each other, they played musical notes. Like a song. The drink started with a dark liquid, getting lighter and lighter until it became a vivid and deep red, with hints of gold sparkling from within. The shadow finally reached out for the drink, leaning closer so it could smell it. The shadow¡¯s body shook and oscillated, the sudden movements making all the others freeze in within their stilled nature. When the shadow took the first sips, a red glow spread in its body. Changing its form, if ever so slightly. The shadows took in a sharp breath, its eyes became more alert, wide, and shocked. They all heard a voice then, one accompanied by a long, tired sigh. ¡°I¡­ Remember¡­¡± Ninth stared at the speaking shadow with an aching desire. One it could not name or understand. Yet Ninth knew, somehow, it would understand things more if it listened to those words. To the notes being sung by the small ice cubes. The Last Symphony [1st Drink] He had once been the greatest musician of all time. There was something in the notes he played, other would say, something in the way his fingers moved across a violin¡¯s strings, the way they touched a piano¡¯s key, how he held a cello¡¯s bow¡ªonce witnessed, it would never again be forgotten. It¡¯s as if the music enters one¡¯s soul and listens to its deepest desires. To its fears, hopes, and dreams, bringing them to light. Making them come alive. People would often say. He always listened to what others said, and he was proud. Satisfied. Not by his accomplishments or notoriety, but by his audience¡¯s obliviousness. For they were too unaware of the veracity of their words, while still being far away from the truth. A truth that was coarse and bare, staying concealed by nothing but his greatness. How is a person able to create such music? To play with such proficiency, produce notes so raw and profound? The answer was the audience themselves. ¡¸Thou shalt seek and reach out to scarred hearts ¡¹ ¡¸Rip out every bone and flesh who stand on thy path¡¹ For at one point, the greatest musician of all time had been the most miserable man of all. Yet he had always known his fate was not one bound by scarcity and pettiness, but one born from grandeur and riches. So the man did what he must. ¡¸Whenever thou desires to rely on thy unspoken arts¡¹ ¡¸Thou shalt feast on every sorrow, despair, and wrath¡¹ He formed a bond with something that would give him the fate he had always deserved, a pact formed through his own blood and tears. And he feasted. Every scar and every wound a person¡¯s heart had ever endured, had it been from their own pathetic insecurities and weaknesses to their most horrendous fears and sorrows. His music reached out to their hearts¡ª And fed. A thirst that could never be quenched, a hunger that could never be satiated¡ªevery note his fingers made crawled out from his instruments with the sole desire to consume. To enter the audiences¡¯ cores and tear them wide open, feasting and playing with those emotions. Becoming stronger. Vaster. Grander. Concert after concert, the musician would fill entire theaters and houses. Watching others beg on their knees for a chance to hear him play¡ªfor the chance to see him. And whenever he played entire symphonies, watching his music make people break apart¡­ The musician would smile. For how could he not enjoy, how could he not feel pleased, to watch his own magnanimity grow so much? To witness all those who had belittled him and insulted him, cry until their eyes dried out of tears, scratch their own skin, or collapse on their knees whenever he played two notes? Soon enough, the musician could no longer call himself a human. He was a superior being¡ªmystical, marvelous, almighty. Yes, why should he stop with music? Why not aim for total control and subjugation?Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. There is no soul alive who will ever be able to stop me, was what the musician thought. And truer words had never been spoken. It was a night when the wind blew colder and the stars shone darker, a being who did not belong in anyplace while being present everywhere. The windows cracked and the night howled, yet no sound came from the being who entered the musician¡¯s house. He knew what the being was with but a single glance. That being raised its finger at him, a vicious grin ripping its face wide, as the shadows that covered it brought forth the stench of rot. The stench of Death. ¡°Thou were warned, human, of the taint and corruption of the unspoken arts. Of the lure sung from within the shadows, the price your own blood paid.¡± The being¡¯s grin got wider as it stepped closer, a crackle leaving its lips mimicking the sound of a laugh. ¡°Thou leeched and fed until thy vessel could contain no more. And now¡­ Thy soul belongs to the living no more.¡± The musician fell on his knees, trembling. Shaking. Desperate. He could feel Death¡¯s grip on his soul already, a frigid touch clawing and sinking its sharp nails around him as if to take ownership of everything he was. He clasped his hands together, the sentences leaving his mouth broken and uneven as his teeth chattered and the sweat dripped from his chin. ¡°O grand being, Herald of All Beings, Master of Darkness, I beg you to hear my plea. Gi-give me one last chance to prove my worth to thee. I swear with my own heart and soul, thy wish shall be my command, no matter its cost, no matter its nature.¡± The musician could not yet leave his creations and possessions behind. All the power he had achieved, all his music, throbbed inside him. Yarning to be used. The being¡¯s voice made cold shivers crawl in the man¡¯s spine, entering his flesh, his bones, his very being. ¡°Thy end is nigh, yet I extend to thee the prospect of mercy. Play for me with thy own tune. Please me so and thy soul shalt never be coveted again.¡± The man stood up with a shaken breath, tripping on his way to fetch his violin. It was his finest; del Patimento. His fingers trembled and his vision blurred, yet still, he played. With no audience or soul to be seen, the man performed the same way he always would. For he had never once stopped loving music. So his fingers ran across the strings, the bow moving furiously as the notes slithered their way out from the instrument. Music filled the house and cursed through the night, making the wind howl louder and the windows shudder. And the notes still hungered. With no audience, the man¡¯s music was not strong enough. It lacked its usual power¡ªits usual lure and intensity. He knew no mighty being would ever be pleased by a performance so lacking. So empty, so petty. He knew. If he played like a mortal man, he would perish. He would be forced to witness his own demise. The man continued to play, yet the notes came for his own heart¡ªhis very own core. They tore it open and laid bare his own desperation, his shaken mortality. And he played. As the notes pulled his terror and anguish, his pain and woes, the man played. Faster and faster, the music pulled whatever came from his heart to feed and grow its power. Every touch on the violin was like a tear in his core. Every escaped melody from its chords, a scream from his soul. Yet just like he had done a million times before, he played. Again and again. Faster, frantic, maddening¡ªthe sensation of Death¡¯s cruel grasp sinking deeper, getting tighter with each passing second. And Death never stopped grinning. Soon, the music was consuming him. Amidst so much pain, while drowning in so much terror and anguish, the man¡¯s mind started to lose itself. He was blind, surrounded but nothing but darkness, yet he could still hear the music. He could still feel the notes¡¯ hunger, gorging themselves as the dreadful melody pierced its way into his heart and insanity. The man continued to play. His fingers continued to move. And he realized he could no longer stop. For what he had once been was already lost. The crackled noise echoed within the music, Death¡¯s laughter making the notes bleed as it blended with the notes. The man¡¯s eyes and fingers bled, his symphony bringing nothing more but darkness. Madness. At some point, the man thought he was laughing as well. He was unaware of what was his own music, what had been stolen, what belonged to Death. And on that cold night, a night where the world was quieter and the darkness more relentless, the man played until there was no more music to be listened to, no more notes to be played, no more strings to be touched. Or man. There Were Eight They were eight. Eight shadows stilled, frozen. For the First was no longer faceless or hollow; no longer empty and lost. The shadows that made its body shaped, changing more and more into something that belonged to a person. A man. ¡°¡­yes¡­I¡­remember¡­I¡­recall¡­¡± As First spoke, his voice was strained and distant, one who struggled to put the pieces together. Yet the person holding the tray did not wait for First to finish his drink. ¡°I¡¯m glad you liked it, sir.¡± Instead, that person glanced at another shadow. Stared at it, for long seconds, before walking back with the empty tray. The sounds started again. One by one, they started echoing in the room. The glass. The ice. The mixing and pouring. ¡°You will have to forgive me for taking so much of your time. I rarely receive so many visits at once. Yet rest assured, I shall tend to each one of you.¡± The voice was so sweet, so caring. It pulled the shadows¡¯ attention, even First. ¡°ah¡­music¡­I can hear¡­the notes. My dear notes¡­¡± The formless man still held his drink with both hands¡ªhis grip firm, almost desperate¡ªas he stared at the ceiling. The red glow pulsed from within his shadows in a lethargic rhythm, accompanied by his own moans and baseless sounds. Sounds that kept trying to mimic something.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Something lyrical. Melodic. Something Ninth could not recall. His head fell to the side, his eyes shooting up to look at Ninth, his mouth opening and closing every few seconds as the voice came out of his form. ¡°Would you¡­like¡­to hear me play? I can¡­play for you. Let me play. Let me¡­let you hear¡­my music.¡± Ninth stared at the formless man, with one eye staring at its face and the other staring at Ninth¡¯s form. The other shadows seemed to be little interested in First¡¯s new form¡ªas lacking and shapeless as it was. They kept gazing at that person, and the sounds coming out of the glasses and tools. Soon enough Ninth also stopped paying attention to the man and his sounds, watching that person prepare something new. Something that glowed its own glow, and shone its own shine. Moments passed until that person put a new drink on the tray, walking with no rush toward the shadow right across from First. The novel creation was nothing like the first. Its glass was shorter and rough, uneven at all sides and corners as if made of stone. The ice was not small, much less many, as a single sphere kept spinning again and again¡ªslowly¡ªas if it was dancing to its own song. And its liquid, it was bright and fierce, a gold so beautiful it sparkled the curiosity of the shadows as it shone. However, Ninth¡¯s gaze fell not on the pretty liquid but on the crystal sphere. One that had no color, yet the one which seemed to be the drink¡¯s genuine source of light. The gold glow that made the creation so mesmerizing and unique. And the more Ninth stared, the more it absorbed. The more it saw. Grayish powder sprinkled at the top, falling into the bottom as the sphere spun. The faint vibrations in the air, echoing weakly as the ice moved in a constant rhythm. Vibrations that carried metallic sounds, unafraid to be heard and recognized. When the shadow reached for the golden drink and took the first sip, the air vibrated again. Stronger. Fiercer. A sound that combined with the shadow¡¯s spasm as it took in what looked like its first breath¡ªthe glow spreading within its form. One more time, what was once a faceless shadow began to change and take the shape of another thing. Another being. Something that had a voice. A past. ¡°Yes¡­I recall..it was¡­mine.¡± And when the person who held the tray turned to face First again, Ninth realized how that person, as well, had a form it recognized. The form First had started to take, the one Second was starting to take¡ªa man¡¯s. ¡°Don¡¯t forget to drink it all, sir. Waste is the one thing we do not tolerate here.¡± As the person with the empty tray smiled, Ninth thought how they looked like a man with flesh and bones. And how they resembled everything but one. The Shimmer of Darkness [2nd Drink] The shimmer of gold. It had always been far too beautiful for mortal eyes. For the fragile, sinful, and erroneous human gaze. It was too alluring. Too deceitful. For its shine and glow promised too many things. Things of beauty, of worth, of riches. It promised a life almost as beautiful and mesmerizing as its shimmering color, and more often than not¡­it would bring nothing but void dreams and corroded lies. Like many before him, he had been a man who fell in love with the promises sung by the charming, pretty shimmer. He heard the tales, he was shown the ores, and the whispers he heard vowing to change his life¡ªto transform it, evolve it, shape it¡ªwere too sweet. Especially when all he had tasted from life was a sour, bitter frustration. Yet the man, he was not foolish nor was he incompetent. He knew how to gamble and how to place his bets, and so he sold whatever he had to, borrowed how much he could, cheated whoever fell for his honey-covered words, and got the money he needed. All so he could have his own workers to find the gold for him. The company was his. The men were his. The equipment and tools were his. The rights to the mine were his. The gold was his. Once, he had been a miner himself. A miner who always smelt like coal and wore dark smudges on his face and clothes as if they were his second skin. A miner who had been hopeless once, yet who crawled his way out of the bottom. Because everything shined brighter from the top. Yet he was not arrogant. The former miner knew how to honor and recall his humble beginnings¡ªhe, too, knew how to recognize the role others had in his success. So the man thanked not only his own competence but also Luck. A real fool is one who cannot see the true value of Luck. And I am no fool. Luck could very well be its own entity¡ªa sacred being humans should worship and celebrate. Their ancestors had it right. They knew how important luck was, they knew its implications, and how it should be taken seriously. That¡¯s why they had a name for it. The Fortuna. A divine being who oversaw mortals¡¯ fate. For this is what luck was about; a person¡¯s fate. And he was a man who knew how to recognize the importance of Luck, and how to worship with its true worth. It¡¯s how, after so many years, he finally found the golden ticket for a new life¡ªone that shimmered and sang within the entrails of that cold mine. He was only a miner, yet that gold was his. He had been the one to find it when no soul was even searching for it. So shouldn¡¯t the rightful ownership fall to him? Without a shadow of a doubt. It took him a few years, of course. He had to plan it right, bid his time. For only fools acted with haste. And I am no fool. Furthermore¡ª He had Luck on his side. Many told him he was insane; ludicrous, even. To bet everything on a single mine because of some silly dreams. To hire men who were bound to betray him the first chance they got. To forget his origins as a miner and attempt to climb higher than he could. Everyone has their place in this world. If you spend too much time looking down, you will be too afraid to fall. And if you waste too much of your time gazing above, eventually you will try to climb. And you will fall. Yes, it was what people would say to him. Because he had been a miner once. Because they would never see him without the dark smudges; without the pungent¡ªsometimes bitter, sometimes rotten¡ªscent of coal. Yet they couldn¡¯t understand. They couldn¡¯t see what he saw. When he first laid eyes on that gold shimmer, he was not looking up¡ªhe was looking straight ahead. At his future. At his Luck.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. However, unlucky days became weeks. And unfortunate weeks turned into desperate months. Months where no profit was made, where bills piled up, when rumors brewed and grew. Whispers that told the tales of a foolish man who was wasting away the little fortune he had trying to chase a ridiculous dream. The former miner knew all he could lose, yet he was certain of all the things he would accomplish. The beauty of each promise shimmering within the golden ore. It was all about time; he was sure of it. Sooner than later, Luck would be with him again. Because he was no fool. Because he knew its worth and value. Yet as time passed, what came sooner were the warnings. The distress. The frustration. And the promise about to be fulfilled was the one carrying failure, bankruptcy, bleakness. It was then the man realized¡ªthe miners. They were the ones stealing his gold. Just like he had done once, the workers were taking everything for themselves. Of course they would. Who would not be allured by the shimmer of gold? By its vows of riches and glory? So he did what had to be done. Every single day, without fail, he would enter the mines with them. He would watch them work, inspect their pockets, their socks, smell their breaths¡ªevery nook and cranny of their bodies. Because no man would step a foot outside that mine with what was his. Day after day, the miners grew even more distressed. They would call him delirious, unreasonable. Time and time again they would raise their voices at him, trying to convince him the reason why there was no gold was because no gold had been found. That the fault lied with the mine itself. The man knew them all to be liars. Deceivers¡ªaiming to get all the gold for themselves. Or perhaps they were spies from other companies, from the people who were praying to see him fall. Making sure he would. He wouldn¡¯t let them, it was what he thought. He was going to prove them all wrong. Every single one of them. The former miner grabbed a pickaxe, its weight rightfully falling into his hands. Then, he began to walk. Deeper and deeper into the mine, he ventured in pursuit of the gold shimmer. Turn after turn, the darkness got thicker. Step by step, the air got heavier. Yet the man could hear them all. The whispers. The tales. Again and again, the words repeated within his ears, echoing through the dark tunnels, being carried by the lifeless air: you shouldn''t have looked up He would point his pickaxe at them¡ªcursing, shouting. you shouldn''t have looked up They were all wrong. you should have stayed put They knew nothing. you shouldn''t have looked up For Luck had chosen him. Because he was no fool. As the former miner coughed, at times his vision would blur. His head would get dizzy. Yet nothing would stop him from witnessing that darkness¡ªthe whispers¡ªgrowing louder, bigger, stronger. A force of Nature to be reckoned with. A darkness who ruled over the shadows, a being who pitied the night and its fading light. A darkness so cold and void, it consumed all it touched. A darkness that could never be tamed, much less controlled, something the whispers used to venture through those tunnels. Yes¡­of course¡­the Darkness¡­ ¡­it was hiding his gold. The former miner raised his tool again and again. The impact sent tremors down his arms¡ªhis very bones¡ªagain and again. And as he shouted and laughed at the mocking whispers, who cowardly hid within the mighty darkness, the man suddenly heard the darkness¡¯ own reply. ¡°Pitiful man, life is abandoning thee. A light thou failed to control has blinded you, making this place thy tomb. Yet not all hope is lost.¡± The darkness moved and took a new form, one that smiled and gazed upon him. A gaze so chilling and perverse, it made the old miner drop his tool. ¡°Pay the proper fee for thy salvation and I shall guide you back to the world of the living.¡± For some reason, the man began to shake. He was afraid¡ªterrified¡ªyet he could not know of what. ¡°Forgive me for my ignorance, o Great Darkness, yet I carry nothing of value with me. My only possession is this tool I now hold and the clothes on my body.¡± The Darkness smiled, its mouth ripping wide as if it was ready to swallow him. A crackling sound echoed within the tunnels, blending with the whispers as it reached the man¡¯s ears. A sound so eerie and uncanny, it forced the tears out of his eyes. ¡°Thou is so blinded by the light, thou even fail to recognize its shine, mortal?¡± Before the old miner could ask, from the corner of his eye, he saw. That beautiful shimmer. He turned toward the wall, the gold ore calling to him. Its light sent the Darkness away, so happy it had been finally found. The man dropped to his knees and caressed the ore with his roughed hands, feeling as it stole his warmth to make its gold shimmer brighter. Even more beautiful. ¡°What thou await for, mortal? Pay the fee, and I shall clean thou from the stench of rot.¡± The old miner used the pickaxe to remove the ore from the one, the shimmer being reflected by his frenzied eyes. And when he shifted his gaze to stare at the smiling Darkness, he began to laugh. More and more, harder and rougher, until his lungs hurt and bled. ¡°You shall not mislead me, Darkness! For I am no fool, and I see through your foul tricks¡ªthis gold is mine.¡± He then raised the shimmering gold with both his hands, sensing as Darkness stretched its arms to reach him. ¡°You go back to where you came from and tell them how mistaken they all were. For I shall claim all that was promised to me, and you will be left with nothing!¡± The miner never ceased his laughter, not even when Darkness kept laughing with him. He did not stop laughing when there was no more air in his lungs, much less when his body succumbed to the rocky ground. And as the Darkness crept into his legs and arms, crawling its way to his face into his eyes and nose and ears and mouth, the man continued to laugh and smile as he stared at the pretty shimmer. A shimmer so gold and beautiful, it vowed to be his forever and ever. Even after there was nothing more for the darkness to consume.