The Rancour of Thefis

Peter Crispin was born and educated in Southern Ontario, but currently resides in the Land of the Midnight Sun with his soul mate and his familiar, Taurus. He uses writing and singing to get through the dark, cold winters without submitting to cabin fever. This is his first published work. You can find him on Facebook.

Thefis gazed down from the heights of his obsidian palace. Sunlight blazed down on the inky black surface of the lake. The dark green of the ancient pine forest loomed around it, like an ancient beast, protecting its young.

“Incredible that something so toxic could look so beautiful,” he mused, as he watched his minions gathering the black shells from its shore. One by one they trudged back towards his palace; what they called home.

For decades, the lake had fed on his corruption. None still lived who remembered the crystal clear, blue-green waters for which it had been known, or that pilgrims had travelled thousands of miles to feel it’s cleansing touch. None remembered his one true love, the one the lake couldn’t cure. He would never forget; his pain was still as fresh as the day she died. Though they may not remember his pain, after today, they would never forget him.

His gaze travelled across the massive, tentacled likeness of his patron, carved across the balcony of his chambers. His massive black cauldron bubbled from the depths of the floor a dozen feet below. His excitement began to grow as he watched his minions deposit the fruits of their labor. Thousands of shells, as twisted as the source of his pain; as black as a cloudless night, as beautiful as the poisoned lake had ever been.

As his sparkling creations began to fill the cauldron below, he turned his gaze to the heavens. Arms raised, head thrown back, he evoked the source of his power.

“Mighty Azetl, Bringer of Change, I your servant, ask this boon! As once this world rent my soul, I send forth my pain, my suffering! Hear me now, answer my call!” Thefis boomed as dark clouds began to roll in.

Thunder rumbled distantly as the clouds gathered overhead. He knew Azetl was present. A wind began to howl, stoking the flames below to even greater heights. The thunder echoed through his obsidian walls, as rain began to chill his face. His robes flapped wildly in the wind, as the sky darkened and clouds thickened. With each passing moment, the rain grew in intensity, and the rumble grew louder, growing ever more deafening with each passing moment. He knew this was no natural phenomenon. Reveling in the power he had unleashed, tears streamed down his face, for the first time in untold ages, mixing anonymously with the rain.

A shaft of light shot from the heavens, striking the cauldron, rending its iron husk asunder. The light burst in all directions, blinding those who did not shield their gaze. It coalesced above the lake, a shimmering orb of white light, rippling like a living thing. Watching as it stretched towards the black waters below, Thefis knew it would not refuse his gift.

Like a young boy learning of fire, it stretched its tendrils beneath the inky surface, quickly consuming all that Thefis had worked so long to create. The light took on the semblance of the shimmering waters, gleaming blackly before him. Thefis reveled at the power of his creation.

The blackness approached its creator, ready to collect the price of its summoning. There was a shriek, like a lover lost its mate.

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A clear sky and a shimmering rainbow wreathed the overgrown, black castle, overlooking what had once been a lake. Now only the sand held its memories, the birth of its corruption. Though a malice such as Thefis’ would never fade, its appearance changed with time. If he could witness the pain and sorrow wreaked by his creation, perhaps it would have sated his cold dark heart; perhaps it was worth the price he paid.