Many things burdened Kieran, but he could withstand them. He could not, however, withstand losing himself because of what he discovered.
Grisly battle was the only way to ignite the Flames of War.
It was indeed a bizarre fire, somehow capable of supporting life through incurred savagery—a death-defying feat that Kieran didn't think possible. Not because immortality, reincarnation, or resurrection was an unattainable myth and unrealizable legend… but because of the Flames' properties.
Kieran possessed firsthand knowledge of it. He could attest to and recount the Flame in all its glory. Whereas the methods to arouse the Flame were wicked and cruel, the fire was remarkably pure and pleasant, offering power and presence.
The irony in that was… hilarious and disconcerting. Really, the thought made Kieran laugh or at least attempt to, forcing him to guffaw in his mind. The mental laughter grew maniacal and continued for quite some time before Kieran recovered a piece of his corroding sanity.
That morsel of clear thinking in the darkness provided a severe and critical line of thought. It was possible but also frightening to consider.
'Maybe the Flame is responsible for the continued survival of this faith… and its birth. Yes, this Flame is pure! Pure corruption!'
The Flame's purity and remarkable convenience dampened the victim's suspicions. It used insidious cunning to subvert any attention drawn to its intent to corrupt and parasitize. By the time the victim became aware, it'd be too late from the buried intention to rise from the depths of feigned irrelevance.
It would become the victim's reality.
But Kieran could feel its nefarious influence burrowing deep into him, attempting to drive him mad. He would not budge. He vowed not to!
Vows, however, could be broken… for vows were not oaths. They were not tied to crippling Significance and bore no weight. That meant Kieran was free to renege on that vow.
And he already was.
Kieran's lip quivered as he lay in bed, immobile and hurting.
The exquisite ecstasy the Flame provided was too attractive, too addicting. It could intoxicate with its matchless purity, leaving its euphoric victim in an aroused and manic condition. The Flame was a demon, an enrapturing demon.
Kieran cursed it. But he wanted it, too. The demon's influence was power; it was salvation.
'…I need the Flame. But that Flame is the Devil!"
His grasp of the Flame's corrupting influence might have been lacking, austere, and just being brought to bear, but that didn't detract from Kieran's understanding of the inevitable.
After all, he had resigned himself moments ago. The Flame was powerful, and he was pitiful. Without the assistance of this peculiar fire, there was no path forward for him. His future was incredibly bleak alone. That was the fact of the matter.
'Condemned…'
The echo of that word and kernel of understanding sprouting in his mind angered Kieran, making him want to revile the Flame of War entirely. But he couldn't. He was utterly powerless. Due to that powerlessness, he had sipped from the fountain of the Flame's power, which was exquisite.
There was a saying that power tasted sweetest to those who were deprived of it. A droplet was enough to form an addiction because its intoxication was irresistible. Kieran could reason with that thought now.
The sentiment resonated with his situation and depicted it with alarming clarity.
'It's too enthralling. I want to look away from it, but I can't.'
Kieran clenched his jaw.
Sparks of fury flickered in his dark, somber eyes.
To the powerless, attaining power was a heavenly windfall. They could ask for no better blessing. Power was the gateway to freedom and the ladder to a higher station the powerless could only dream about.
That included Kieran. He was amongst the powerless, and he was amongst the tempted.
'It's too attractive… I can't turn away from it.'
His hands bawled into tightly clenched fists. If he was any stronger, Kieran would have drawn blood with the tightness of his grip. The ambivalence of his thoughts was tearing him in half.
He desired and despised, welcomed and shunned… pushed and pulled. The opposite forces drove him mad, ripped him up inside, and made him yearn for the calming his Mystic Gate supplied.
After some time, Kieran returned to working out the puzzle of his soul, primarily searching for the disparate pieces that bore the markings of his Mystic Gate. Realigning them to piece together his Mystic Gate was an elephantine task and a two-step process of growing difficulty.
First came the gathering, then came the sorting. The fact Kieran could only do this in small bursts before tiring, feeling weakened, and feeling susceptible was unfortunate.
And it was elucidating.
Kieran learned things about his soul, or maybe souls in general, that he had no business understanding this early on.
The soul had built-in defenses that guarded against incursion. He didn't know how those defenses came to be or what determined them, but he did know they were there.
Those defenses had tried to expel Kieran from the Realm of Self several times. But he learned those defenses only activated when he left vacancies in his soul, and he did that frequently. What he was doing with his soul was akin to performing surgery in the dark and doing it without a medical license.
One fuck up was all he could bear, but that, too, was questionable. He'd be crippling the utility and perhaps the viability of his soul if he damaged an integral part.
Luckily, he was only collecting the pieces touched, soaked, or drenched in mystical essence. Those were the only pieces with the potential to recreate his Mystic Gate.
After making some progress, he ran into a wall and stopped completely. A few immovable pieces were held in place by what he believed to be Significance. Not his own and not what the Imprints had embedded within his soul.
This Significance felt pure, but there was something eerie and perverse about that purity.
'I knew it! The Flame is the Devil. Look at what it's doing to me. Unhand me! Unhand my soul!'
At this moment, Kieran prayed for the Fifth Syllable. He wasn't religious, but he prayed to the Gods for them to stop insidiously tormenting him. This went beyond reason. His every escape was being taken from him, and he was powerless to stop it.
If he wanted power… it would come at the cost of the Flame corrupting him, intoxicating and enrapturing his mind with serpentine allure.
What was he to do? If he couldn't wrest control of his mind, thoughts, and reason by the time he healed… the Flame would consume more of his soul with the next Culling.
Brainwashing suddenly seemed far more mild in comparison. He was wrong about the Order of War and Flame. It wasn't the followers that were unreasonably mad—it was the Flame!
'Actually… they're probably to blame too. The Flame can only take what is given willingly. They're insane for letting it in.'
From what Kieran gathered, the Flame was parasitic but innately inactive. It was significant but also dormant, only flaring during bouts of crazed battle. The destructive glee and War's aftermath were its fuel. It fed on Death… it fed on Destruction… and thrived in Blood.
Kieran gazed at the parts of his soul corrupted by the Flame and squinted.
'What are you, Flame? My undoing? No… no. I'm yours.'
As if answering back, the dormant corruption was aroused and vibrating with a taunting frequency, encouraging Kieran to act irrationally.
Kieran didn't fall victim to it, but his thoughts were tinged with petulant vitriol. He intended to see this flame burn. If it could.
'Not burn. I'll drown it… in blood.'
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