Sands of Sacrifice

The man stood, scanning the ember ocean below from atop the dune. Slowly turning from west to east, and began again when he stopped. There, off in the horizon emerging from the burning ground, piercing the clouds and disappearing into the sky. The jagged, crimson spire that marked his goal. He returned his goggles, tightened the strap on his leather satchel, and went to descend, stumbling and sliding down, a cloud of sand behind him.

Groaning in pain, he slowly stood, inspecting his right leg. The bone still pierced the skin and his makeshift bandages had soaked clear through. Grunting, he slowly sat, redressing the wound while taking the time to check over the others. His hand moved before he could think, passing over the ancient mark on his side. The first, when he was still Samael before he knew of the Spire. He looked down at the grim reminder of his purpose, the only keepsake he had from his father, then proceeded to look at the rest. The cut on his left arm now a scar, the burn on his stomach now a minor sting. The toes on his left foot were black and gangrenous. His eyes drifting once more to the Spire and with a curse, he brought his blade down on the useless digits, never looking away from the foul thing on the horizon.

“No sense traveling further,” muttering to himself while taking the small pieces of wood he had gathered in his travels. In a practiced manner, he lit the makeshift campfire. For a long time, the man sat in mesmerization by the dancing flames. A stick turned in his hand as he dragged it through the flame, before eventually replacing it into the fire. “It’s too late for the coward’s way. Just another atonement.” He prodded where his toes once were and withheld a yelp of pain. “I wonder how many more?”

His rugged leather duster lay next to him, the cloth usually tied around his throat being used to wipe the sweat from his face. He broke from the fire to take stock of his clothing: a torn and stained cloth shirt that may have once been white, weathered denim jeans, and the same black rawhide boots that have carried him since the beginning. He pulled a small needle and a spool of black thread and began work on his shirt, watching the flames dance and shift. The sparks displayed brilliant constellations of figures and shapes, slowly transforming into a form he recognized. A woman’s face, filled with hurt and anger, glared at him as he worked. Her eyes the same embers they were on that day.

"Like father, like son, huh Samael? How many times have you told me you'd never end up like him? Now, look at you, chasing after the same damn story! Fine then, leave us and find whatever it is you're looking for. Maybe you'll find your spine along the way!” The flames lashed out at that last declaration, striking at the man’s right eye. The man stifled the cry of pain and tied the cloth around his now ruined eye. “I’m sorry it happened this way Amara, but I had to go. One day you’ll understand.” He looked down as he spoke, knowing only the sand could hear his words. He lifted his head to meet the burning spirit, but the flame had died out. It would not light again. The man finished his work in silence. Once satisfied, he laid on his side and drifted off into a dreamless sleep, finding his only comfort anymore in the infinite darkness. He awoke to the sun burning away at him, forcing him to sit and drink greedily from his waterskin. He realized the bitter truth too late, as his last waterskin hit the ground. Empty. He chewed angrily at the dried jerky that had been sustaining him for too long. The man reached for another piece and found nothing. His eyes darted once more to his destination and he sighed, “You won't be satisfied until you take everything, will you?”. He went to stand, fell on his knee, and stood for good this time. He gathered up his belongings and continued forward.

Always forward.

The sun bore down at him like an angry God, the blazing heat wearing him down minute by minute, second by second. Sweat worked itself behind the goggles, blinding his only working eye. He felt himself slow to a crawl, each step a monumental task. On the verge of passing out, he fell flat on the warm ground below. Before the calming, infinite darkness could take him, he heard familiar laughter.

“Sam my boy, sit a spell with yer father. We have much to discuss.” The words a drunken slur.

The man looked up to see a haggard-looking older man. Greasy gray hair that fell to his shoulders, green eyes that seemed to shine, rosy cheeks above a tangled mess of a beard. Worn and dirty clothes that made the traveler look like royalty. The familiar stench was almost unbearable, but the man welcomed any reprieve from the loneliness that had been his constant companion. A bottle of dark liquid sloshed in the old man’s grip.

“I’ve told you many times now Father, it’s Samael, not Sam.” He reached for the bottle but his hand passed straight through.

“Oh you’re grown now are ye? So yous are ain’t cha” The old man lolled from side to side, seemingly catching sight of the Spire. ”How long have ye been at it?”

The man was silent for a long time, staring out at the twisted and jagged thing that he had made his goal. “A few years now I’d have to say. The longest out of our line from the way you spoke.”

The older man laughed now, a great big, humorless laughter. “He’d be walking by now don’t ya think? First words and all. Probably wasn’t daddy.” Another hideous laugh. “Could be spire for all ye know Sam. Tell me, has it been worth the sacrifices?”

Another stretch of silence, this time used to look at all the wounds. The scars that would never fade. Again the hand reached for his side, the traveler’s eyes narrowed at the drunken man, “I can’t answer that yet. I haven’t reached the end.”

“Mayhaps you have Sam. Call it off, you’ve gotten the closest out of us all. Cry off this foolhardy journey now and go home. See your child. Your Amara. Hold them close. Be what I couldn’t.”

The man looked at the drunken visage of his father and thought he saw compassion and sincerity.” He looked up from his father to his goal, “Another trick of yours?” A dry chuckled escaped his lips. “He never would have shown compassion.”

He stood up, no trouble this time around, and kicked sand at the mirage. The man continued towards the Spire, anger replacing the feelings of sadness and loneliness.

The fierce anger carried him for a while, but even that had to pass. He looked up at the Spire hazily. He was closer now, in the shadow of it. He fell on his stomach and tried to fight the urge, but the shadows whispered and sung, lulling him into a deep, restful sleep. Perhaps the last he would take.

The man traveled when he was awake, and even now as he slept he traveled through his memories until he arrived at his happiest, and his worst. The day he learned he would be a father was the happiest he had, back when he was still Samael. The deep pride he felt as he returned to his family’s small cottage to give the news to his father. His mother had already passed, like so many he had known since starting his journey. Sitting and drinking with his father, for once as equals.

“Have you felt its call, Sam? I did when I learned of ye ya know. It’s doleful bale, beckoning to yer very soul. Aye, you feel it. See it in yer eyes, doing ye best to cast it aside. Thought I could, but not a day later I was out the door. 5 more and I came crawling on me hands and knees, begging yer mother to take me back. It’s fallen to a child’s story now, but it ain’t no fairy’s tale. As real as you or I, and all the men in our line have gone after it. Always returning not longer after seeking it out, bruised and broken. It takes a toll on a man, Samael, breaks you down worse than anything ever could. Don’t be like yer old pop and go after it, stay home. Safe.”

After that declaration, the man called Samael, the one who would’ve been a father, died. What came from the corpse was the man who abandoned his wife and unborn child. A man who cared for only one thing: surpassing the man he called Father.

At night the shadow whispered, but during the day it screamed. Taunts the struck true, hidden voices that chided him for being no better than what he came to surpass. The words beat him down worse than the heat, worse than the things he had to do to make it this far. He stumbled, threatening to fall but righted himself. Blood ran from his ears, a trickle of crimson tears from his ruined eye. He was beyond exhaustion, now on the verge of insanity and deafness, but once again he looked at the Spire. “You thought to plague my mind with things I already knew.”

Tenacity and determination had carried the man since the beginning of his journey, but they would carry him no more. So close to the Spire he could now see the slabs that made it, he fell to his knees. The dark red slabs that formed it seemed to drip the blood of those who came before, and even perhaps those who would come after. The jagged and twisted shape that pierced the clouds straight to the Heavens. The man’s head pounded from dehydration, his foot followed the rhythmic pulsing of his heart from when he sacrificed yet another piece of himself. Swaying from exhaustion, staring at the Spire: once just a goal it now was the man. Two large doors that watched him in silence, awaiting the one to open them.

He began crawling, unwilling, or unable to give up, towards the Spire. The pounding in his head grew and grew until it was a drone. He crawled until he could see the individual slab and stared at what was to become his deathbed. The man now saw that they were home to thousands of faces. In one he saw his father, the same drunken smile of that night. Another face of the burning hatred of Amara. Another was the blank stare of a child, his child. He saw dozens more, faces of those who had been affected by his journey, though their names faded from the man’s memory. Just more things lost. He tried to crawl once more but his arms had finally given out, doing all he could with his legs and chin. So close now that he could swear that the faces were speaking, the golden sand of the desert turned white. Pieces of bone littered the field, one sharpened piece of what could have been a rib stabbed his left knee, another piece of him gone. The man could almost touch the Spire when his body stopped. Everything screamed in pain, crying out for rest. All he could do now was look at the Spire. At the faces of its victims. At his family. He knew he only had two choices: Reach it and die, or give up and live. He closed his eyes and thought about it for some time, a stretch of contemplation that felt like a lifetime before he came to his decision.

“No.” The man whispered, speaking at first to himself.

“No more.” This time he glared at the Spire, the dark and evil thing that had already taken too much from him.

“YOU DON’T GET ME!” A roar that was for his father as much as it was for the Spire. He stood as the silence fell over the necropolis. He turned his back to the Spire and began his walk. He did not stagger, nor did he stumble.

The walk as the Man had taken years. The walk as Samael took longer. He passed the spot where he spoke with the Spire in the form of his father. Tears welled up in his eyes, but they did not fall until he came across the cold campfire where he saw Amara for the first time in years. The tears continued to fall as he passed by every grave he made. Every life he touched and ruined. Everything he sacrificed on his way to the Spire. He stopped at each memory and reflected. Never once did Samael seek atonement, for there was none to receive. Eventually, he found himself at a door that was both familiar and foreign to him. From inside he heard a child’s laughter and another, warmer laughter that made his heart hurt. He tapped at the door at first, too terrified to disturb them. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and finally knocked. The door opened to the radiant form of Amara, a young boy behind her. Samael fell to his knees and continued to weep.

The man who had traveled so far, and so long, looked up and saw something more terrible than the twisted structure of the Spire. The look of fear and obliviousness on the face of his beloved. It was as if she was looking at a stranger. Amara stood in front of the child, shielding him. “Go to your room, Sam. Let Mommy handle this.” These words stung worse than those of the fire demon that posed as her. These were no tricks or illusions. Samael laughed as he wept, a choking noise that was awful. “You named him after me. After what I was.” He looked up and saw what he wanted when he first arrived: recognition. Amara fell, she now sobbing as well. She was the first to move, slowly enveloping the man in an embrace. “What happened to you?”

Samael smiled and did not answer. Perhaps later he could answer this question, but now there was nothing he could say. They sat in a silent embrace for what seemed like an eternity, too afraid to let go and lose one another again. Finally, they let go of each other, and Amara asked the final question. The one Samael had been waiting for: “Did you find it?”

“No.”

The End