VIII. The Livian Nave

Above himself, Soren saw a dim, amber light pouring through a hole at the top of the elevator, now coming into view from the darkness below.

He had recalled the woman in armor who wore red and gold as the elevator dragged them up. He thought it likely that she was related to him in some way, yet no matter how much he strained his mind, he could not make anything of her in particular. He wondered also how it came to be that his memories would suddenly blossom within him, through no conscious act of his own.

Perhaps, he thought, they are not all lost. Perhaps they are all still within me, somewhere. But…

How can I know they are all my own?

“We have arrived,” said Maria.

The elevator came to a tumbling halt.

“Sometimes I wonder if this thing will ever give way,” said Sophia, grinning mischievously as she stepped off the rotting wood. Her eyes had been white before turning black again in a blink.

“Perhaps that would be a blessing, too,” said Soren dryly, who heard Cybele chuckle quietly behind him as they themselves stepped off. Maria followed behind them.

The light in Sophia’s hand vanished as she closed her palm. They walked through a small corridor toward the amber light at the end, smothered yet bright enough to illuminate the space beyond it, which seemed no less astonishing from where Soren was walking.

“Oh, this place I do sorely miss,” said Maria. “We’ve held such wonderful services here.”

“That was a very long time ago,” said Sophia, somewhat plaintively.

“Is that so? Goodness, me, I…”

Maria’s voice trailed off. Her eyes had turned black, too.

Soren turned to Cybele, who now walked at his side. They looked at each other briefly before seeing that Sophia and Maria had already exited the corridor.

“What is it this time?” asked Cybele, almost whispering.

“Another hellish hall of some sort,” replied Soren in kind.

Cybele sighed before her own eyes opened wide in awe. Soren turned away from her as they both exited the corridor.

“Welcome,” said Sophia, with a bright smile, “to the Livian Nave.”

Soren thought he had seen enough strange interior design to weather his expectations, yet he could not help joining Cybele in her awe. The corridor had opened at the back and center of the nave, which gave them an impressive view of its entirety. The ceiling above them was vaulted, as a nave should be, but much lower in height than the Hall of Life; Soren estimated it could be no more than several stories high. The amber light emanated from crevices within the center of each vaulted bay across the ceiling, but it was not clear how or where this light had come, for the crevices seemed too thin to allow flames, and much too high to reasonably maintain them as such.

Looking through the side aisles on either side of the center, he saw that there were several wooden doors along the outer wall of each aisle. The arcades along both aisles were supported by smooth, white, polished piers thinning from plain columns into needle-like points that reached and set into the floor. Soren feared that if he touched them, the aisles would crash down upon him, but if they haven’t already, well, of what use is reason now?

Above both side aisles, a mass of unbroken stone rose toward the ceiling leaving a gap at the very top, which Soren quickly turned away from, tired as he was of seeing strange shadows out of reach. And like the Hall, the stone was smooth, plain, unadorned, though as Soren looked closer at the arcade closest to him, he saw faded reliefs at the apex of all its arches. There was something like—a lion’s head, its mouth open in a roar, its tongue having taken the form of a serpent. The arches themselves were speckled with tiny shards of some black stone, which yet glittered in the amber light.

And across the smooth, gray floor, yet cracked in various places, he saw the long central aisle terminating at a choir screen. Parallel to the screen on both sides rose several spindly columns crowded together and reaching the ceiling, out of which depictions of both men and women were carved, seemingly flowing up the columns in harmony, reaching above themselves—yet, on occasion, he would see a figure appearing to be flailing in the air, as if falling, or drowning, or choking, while the figures around them paid no heed at all.

The screen itself was made of carved gray stone yet with no openings besides the set of closed golden metal doors at its very center; there should be windows, Soren thought, and beyond them there should be a continuous procession of the aisle, a grand organ suspended from the ceiling just after the screen itself. Surely. It was also too high to scale without tools, and beyond it still, the dim amber light which filled the entire room did not penetrate a thick, tar-black veil of darkness beyond the screen.

“Sophie, this… isn’t quite how I remember the Nave.” Maria fiddled with her hands, rubbing them repetitiously.

“Is it not?” asked Sophia in a high pitch, turning on her heels as she gazed upon the Nave’s innards. Her smile faded quickly. “I suppose you’re right. You must have visited more recently than I.“

“I don’t like this place,” said Cybele, on the verge of a quivering voice. “Not at all. We must leave.”

“Nonsense. You are my lamb, Cybele, and this is a place of worship,” said Sophia, taking Cybele’s hand in her own. Cybele was just beneath Sophia in height.

“I wonder if… if Mother has been here recently,” said Maria, having walked toward one of the piers, staring intently at one of the lion’s head reliefs. “I don’t recall these reliefs. Or this amber light. It should be white, as it has always been.”

“But—” Sophia turned to the arcade opposite of Maria, walking up, glaring at the reliefs.

“What is this game you’re playing now?” asked Soren, brow furrowed. “Are you all not supposed to be our ‘shepherds’?”

“Quiet,” said Sophia, who appeared to be studying the reliefs. “Arrogance is among the worst qualities a man can have.”

Soren’s hands balled into tight fists as he reached for a response.

“‘Mother.’ I had almost forgotten to ask again—”

“Be quiet!” Sophia’s voice thundered through the air, nearly causing Soren to lose his balance. It took all his might to stop himself from shivering.

“I’ve had enough. This is but one of many places you must visit on your journey, and we will proceed according to my judgment. Do you understand?”

Soren said nothing. His fists loosened, and he turned his furrowed brow toward the wall of darkness behind the choir screen, and the more he did, the more he felt something foreboding take hold of his heart, and squeeze. He turned and saw Cybele staring at the darkness, too.

Maria cleared her throat. “Soren… remember. You must trust us. And Sophie is quite unpleasant when she’s angry.”

Sophia chuckled dryly, still gazing at the reliefs. “That is something I hope no one ever forgets, should they have seen it.”

“What is that?” asked Cybele, as she stepped closer to Soren, who narrowed his eyes to see the choir screen’s doors opening steadily, gently, inaudibly.

Maria’s attention now turned to the screen. She blinked, eyes turning white, as her face shrank in abject fear.

“Sophia—”

A high-pitched moan reverberated throughout the nave, turning into a screeching laugh before a moan again, then descending into a low, mocking tone.

The foreboding presence tightened its squeeze on Soren, petrifying him in place. He was shivering. From his periphery he saw a bright light, blinding, brilliant, then heard a sharp whistling noise from its direction. He could turn his head just enough to see a spear of pure white light, almost painful to look upon, floating above Sophia’s open palm, and she glared at the darkness with wide, black eyes, and her face flashed between fierce lines of extraordinary age and supple youth in the shrill chaotic light.

Then a dark, low voice whispered thoughts into Soren’s mind. All around him was silent but the voice, and the voice said,

Thou hast been forsaken.

Soren saw its face beyond the darkness of the choir screen’s doors in his mind’s eye, as if standing next to it—bulging black eyes on a round, humanoid head, a gaping dark hole where the mouth should be, wrinkled, calloused, gray skin folds across the entirety of its face, a faint wisp of gray hair adorning the top of its otherwise bald head—

It smiled.

All at once the face receded from Soren’s mind as a long, gray, gangly, rotting arm flew across the center aisle of the nave. All at once—

He saw the arm had stopped, saw the hand at the end and its long, gangly, rotting fingers extended, its thin, pointed fingernails piercing Cybele, who stood agape at the sight of her wounds, and of her own blood.

Soren began to move.