The Black Altar

 by Rowan Sinclair 

In the shadowed valleys of Gothic Europe, where the fog wove through ancient forests like a weeping veil, there lay a town known as Cinderfell. It was a settlement ensnared in an endless twilight, with stone cottages that leaned in whispering conspiracies and a church whose steeple seemed to touch the sky’s melancholy.

Father Alaric, a Catholic priest of indeterminate age and unknown origins, arrived in Cinderfell one mist-shrouded evening. He was an enigmatic figure, with a robe as dark as the forest surrounding the town and eyes like hollow wells that seemed to hold secrets of the cosmos. The townsfolk spoke of him in hushed tones, not out of fear but reverence, as if he were an ancient relic from times long forgotten.

Cinderfell had always been a place of strange omens. The villagers were superstitious, their lives dictated by the waxing and waning of the moon, and their prayers often spoke of shadows and portents. The current predicament, however, was of a more tangible and troubling nature. For years a malign presence had plagued them, a god of dreadful power who demanded worship with a fervor that bred madness.

This god, whom they called Itharion, was no ordinary deity. According to the villagers Itharion had once been a protector, a guardian spirit of the land. But as decades passed the god's visage had twisted into something grotesque and alien. It was no longer a figure of celestial grace but a thing of malevolence, whose eyes, they claimed, were like black pits from which nothing returned.

Each year the townsfolk would place offerings on a black altar in the woods, where Itharion was said to dwell. But these sacrifices, of livestock, precious heirlooms, even loved ones, never seemed to appease the deity. Instead the town fell deeper into despair, with each ritual seeming to pull them closer to the brink of madness.

Father Alaric, upon his arrival, was met with a somber procession. The town’s leader, an elderly man named Oswald, led him to the church, where the priest was given the modest quarters of a visitor. The air was thick with a tension that spoke of centuries-old fears, and Father Alaric’s presence was like a sudden storm breaking over a calm sea.

That very night Father Alaric was visited by a strange dream. In it he wandered through an endless labyrinth of mirrors, each reflection distorting into monstrous shapes. His footsteps echoed hollowly, and he felt an unnameable terror pursuing him, a presence that clung to the edges of his vision like a shadow. As he reached the center of the labyrinth he saw Itharion’s true form, an entity composed of writhing darkness, its many eyes blinking with an unnatural rhythm.

He awoke with fervor, but the dream was more than a mere nightmare. It was a revelation, a glimpse into the true nature of the abomination that had ensnared Cinderfell. Father Alaric knew then that he had to act, but the path to salvation was murky and fraught with peril.

The next day he visited the black altar in the woods. The altar was a grotesque structure, a block of dark stone covered in crude, eldritch carvings that seemed to writhe when viewed from the corner of one’s eye. It was here that the sacrifices had been made, and the air around it was thick with an oppressive aura that spoke of centuries of darkness.

Father Alaric began his investigation by asking the townsfolk about the rituals and the history of their god. They spoke of a time when Itharion had been benevolent, a protector of the land. But as the centuries passed something had changed, something that the villagers could not explain, only feel in their bones. The god’s demands had grown increasingly insatiable, its wrath more unrelenting.

Armed with this knowledge Father Alaric began to prepare for what he knew would be a grim confrontation. He spent hours in the church, pouring over ancient texts and performing rites that seemed to weave a tapestry of defiance against the encroaching darkness. He summoned his resolve and his faith, knowing that to confront Itharion, he would need more than mere courage, he would need a purity of purpose and a clarity of vision that went beyond human understanding.

On the eve of the next full moon the townsfolk gathered for what they feared would be the final offering. The atmosphere was laden with a sense of resignation and dread. Father Alaric, however, was not among them. Instead he ventured alone into the woods, carrying with him a tome bound in black leather and a silver crucifix that seemed to glow with an inner light.

The altar stood silent, waiting for the ritual that had become a grotesque parody of reverence. Father Alaric approached it with a sense of solemn purpose, placing the book upon its surface. He began to recite a prayer in Latin, and as he chanted the darkness around the altar seemed to stir. Shadows lengthened and writhed, coalescing into a form that was unmistakably Itharion. The god appeared as a vast, undulating mass of blackness, its many eyes blinking in a rhythm that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the universe. The air grew cold and the very fabric of reality seemed to warp and tremble under the weight of its presence.

Itharion spoke, but its voice was not heard by ears, it was felt. It was a cacophony of despair and malice, a sound that reverberated through the bones and the soul. 

“Why do you defy me?” it demanded, its voice like the darkened soil of a grave 

Father Alaric did not falter. “You are not a god,” he declared, his voice firm despite the encroaching dread. “You are a shadow, a remnant of a forgotten terror. Your reign ends here.”

With that he raised the silver crucifix high, its light cutting through the darkness like a beacon. The crucifix’s glow grew brighter and the air around it seemed to vibrate with an ancient energy. Father Alaric continued his chant, his words weaving a barrier of light and faith that stood against the false god’s malevolent gaze.

The darkness of Itharion recoiled, the many eyes blinking rapidly as if caught in a storm. The air crackled with a fierce, electric energy as the god’s form began to unravel, its essence breaking apart like a shadow under the sun. The altar trembled and groaned, as if the very earth itself was rejecting the abomination.

In a final, desperate surge, Itharion tried to lash out, its darkness swirling with a frenzy of anger. But Father Alaric’s chant grew more intense, the light from the crucifix flaring with a blinding brilliance. The god’s form began to collapse, its monstrous visage dissolving into a void that seemed to swallow itself.

With a shuddering cry that echoed through the woods, Itharion was no more. The darkness dissipated and the air grew still and quiet. Father Alaric fell to his knees, exhausted but triumphant. The altar, once a symbol of dread, now lay silent and forsaken.

The next morning the townsfolk found the black altar empty, the oppressive aura that had clung to it gone. Father Alaric, though weary, was met with gratitude and awe. The curse that had hung over Cinderfell had been lifted and the townsfolk began to rebuild their lives free from the shadow of their false god.

Father Alaric left the town as quietly as he had arrived, his purpose fulfilled. Cinderfell would remember him not as a savior, but as a fleeting figure of hope in their darkest hour. The forest and the fog returned to their eternal vigil and the tales of Itharion became a distant whisper, a reminder of the darkness that had once threatened to consume them. 

And as Father Alaric wandered away the skies above seemed to clear, and the stars began to twinkle with a renewed sense of wonder. For in the battle between light and shadow he had given them a glimpse of the profound truth, that even in the deepest abyss there remained a flicker of hope.