He Who Wields the Sword {35}

                                    

                                          
Cw: Mentions of self harm, alcohol poisoning, mild graphic detailing.
A/n
This chapter takes place at the same time as the next one, hope it makes sense when reading. The next chapter will be quite long, so it may be late.


        Travis' legs shook violently from underneath him. He knelt down to the floor, sweeping the bottom of his cloak under his knees to avoid touching the dirty, cold tiles of the temple. With trembling arms, he extended his hands in front of him, clasping his fingers together. Travis tried his best to ignore the whispers on the uncertain cultists surrounding him, and thought back to his father's words. He tilted his head towards the ground, clenching his eyes tightly.
"I kneel before thee, to beg forgiveness and pledge loyalty. I am your humble vessel and am prepared for your bestowal."
His voice was unsteady and clearly nervous, though his words were loud. It managed to hush the indecipherable voices from all around him. A knot began to form in Travis' stomach, as beads of sweat dripped down his brow. Why wasn't anything happening? He shifted on his knees uncomfortably, his arms still outstretched. 
"I-uhm," he cleared his throat, hoping to fill the void of silence. He could already feel Kenneth's cold, spiteful eyes tearing him apart. An orb of bright green light appeared just above his hands, it buzzed softly, as it morphed itself into and elongated blade. Beams of light slipped in-between his tightly interlocked fingers, and down past the bottoms of his palms. Travis waited a few moments after the sounds stopped to open his eyes. A large sword was gripped in his hands, the blade was a pale green colour, with a hilt formed out of gold. He was shocked at the lightness of the sword, it felt as though he wasn't holding anything at all. Travis glanced up to his father, who was standing across the room. His facial expression wasn't discernable behind his mask, but he nodded towards Travis, a sign of gratification. 


        "How did you do that?" 
"I don't even know what I did, let alone how." Travis sighed, flipping his hood down. He sat down against the wall of the small room. It was dark and the smell was palpable, but it was somewhat secluded. It was the only place he could properly speak to the only other cultist he was acquainted with other than his father, Kingston.
The other cloaked figure slumped down next to him, "have you never heard of the Blade of Evelyn?"
"Never mind that, did you get to do any of your diploma exams?"
Kingston scoffed, "no, can't say I'm upset about it though."
"Really?" Travis raised an eyebrow, "what are you gonna do with the rest of your life when you get out of here?"
"You're dreaming if you think we're ever getting out of here."
Travis let the silence hang in the air for a moment, unwilling to believe his words. "I have something else I need to ask you about."
"Hm?" He replied, turning his shadowed face in Travis' direction.
"Okay, so this really weird thing's been happening to me ever since the ritual." He started, scratching forearm, wincing every time his nails would drag over a scabbed over cut. "It's like having a dream, but when I'm awake. I see the same horrible thing each time. Sal, covered in blood and holding a knife. He keeps on repeating one sentence over and over again, and I'm starting to think it's real."
Kingston reached his hand into the back of his hood, drawing a few stray strands of hair long, brown into the front of the robe. "I'm assuming you're also unfamiliar with the Grey tribe then? It's an ancient religion, the one that this cult is based off of. It's rumoured that there's a rare ability passed down through families of future vision."

"That's just a rumour, right?" Travis' eyes widened.