A Funeral, A Temple, A Chant, A War

Science-Fiction / 3300 words

PREFACE: Our friend Silius, riddled with even more questions than previously, must face the lunacy of fanatics while he continues to struggle with the secrets that burden him. BTW, if you haven’t read any of his stories yet and want to start from the beginning (which I recommend), you can do so right here. Each installment can however be read (more or less) as a standalone.

XXV.

We stood in the room, watching the child with awe.

She has been asleep as long as we have been awake. Before that, there is evidence that she had lived alone. What a horrid life that must have been—worse even than our fate. We believe she remembers things from earlier days. That she may hold the answers to many of our most haunting questions: Who are we? How long have we been here? Why are we so cursed? Is there a cure for our predicament?

It has been thousands of years now, and still Agra sleeps. She does not age, nor does she require feeding. There are no machines here to keep her alive—her body does all the work. She simply lies there, on a comfortable bed, looking peaceful.

Oh, how I envy her!

I rubbed my eyes and heard Maxius’ voice next to me.

“Still having trouble sleeping?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.”

“It’s alright, I promise. I just—”

“—need to sleep more?”

I grimaced. “One could always hope, but sleep too often eludes me.”

“You have too much on your mind, my friend.”

“Don’t we all?”

We went back to observing the girl in silence for a moment.

“How do you suppose Quintillus found out?” asked Maxius, pulling me out of my reverie.

I glanced at my friend.

“Have you ever brought anyone here?”

“Of course not! Have you?”

I shook my head as I looked back at the girl. Agra must have been ten, possibly twelve, when her aging process froze. I have never seen anyone so young. That is not true, of course—I am sure I must have seen many children in my past, but I remember none of them. She is the only one for me—and for Maxius as well.

“Maybe he has a camera in here,” mused the consul.

“How would he have gotten it in?” I asked.

He remained quiet for a moment. “Perhaps it has been here all along.”

I stared at him. “You can’t mean that.”

“How would we know?” He waved around the room. “We remember nothing of this place, from before our awakening. Or any other place, for that matter. What secrets hide in these walls?”

“If we don’t know about them, it is unlikely he would.”

“Unlikely, but not impossible.”

Many decades ago—possibly centuries, it is easy to lose count—my friend found a hidden door in the wall of his basement. I was with him when he forced it open. It led into a tunnel that lit up as we walked. At its end was this room, and the sleeping girl lay in the bed, looking as peaceful then as she does now.

I was about to tell him that if there were cameras, we would have found them by now, when a signal in my ear beeped, informing me of an incoming message. Even as I yawned, I brought up the halo screen and saw the familiar face of Eseus Taris.

Eseus had served as censor before me; and though he had retired, he still sometimes reached out—more often than not to report an incident.

“Good day, domus Taris. How may I help you?”

“It is I who shall help you, eddo.”

“Another problem?”

“A funeral is underway.”

Anger pulsed through me. “Again?”

“I fear it will never stop,” he said sadly before giving me the coordinates.

I thanked him for the information, then turned to Maxius.

“You must leave, I take it?” he asked before I spoke.

“Some thrill-seeking idiots are breaking the law.”

“Aren’t they always?”

I sighed as I headed for the door. “If only we had better dissuasion techniques.”

XXVI.

What need do our people have for funerals?

These were an old custom, from before our awakening—a time when death was known to us and, oddly, feared. The memory of those deceased was honored through rituals and prayers before their physical remains were buried.

Now that we can no longer die, this tradition seems absurd and moot. And yet, some have turned it into an unhealthy practice. Had it been a harmless one—as others are—nothing would have come of it. But our minds are not meant to be shut out from the world, to be left indefinitely to fester and rot as we desperately claw the earth for air.

To think that some would want to be buried alive... I do not comprehend this. Where would the thrill be? Suffocating forever does not sound so appealing. Not much more than drowning, I thought as I remembered my experience in the water and shuddered. It had not been so long ago, and yet I had purposefully shuttered that memory off and resented that it had come back to the surface.

My already foul mood fouled further.

By the time I reached the temple, I was incensed.

I jumped out of my motorum and called out to the gathered crowd.

“What do you people think you’re doing?”

Several of them panicked when they saw me and ran, though most remained. One, in particular, turned and eyed me with a placid demeanor.

“Eddo Silius. It is so good of you to come pay your respects. We are honored.”

I squinted at him while I approached. “Are you mocking me?”

“That is not our way.”

“Do you not know that what you are doing is illegal?” Without looking at it, I pointed at the grave they had dug up. “Funerals were intended to bury the dead, not the living.”

“Ah. But are we truly living?”

“What?”

The augur—for that was what he was—motioned to the assembled men and women, including me in his gesture.

“Have we not all been dead ever since our awakening? Is this life not but a mimicry of true life? Where is the joy? Where are the challenges? Where—”

“Oh, because you are an expert in the life from before, is that it? Tell me, augur, how much of your past do you remember that you feel so certain of what you know?”

His whole body stiffened. A small, cold smile formed on his lips.

“You may be the law of men, censor, but there is one law that supersedes yours, and that is the law of the gods.”

“What do the gods have to do with this?”

“Everything.”

Before I could respond, another man fell to his knees before me.

“Please, eddo! I beg of you! Let me be buried with my brothers. I cannot bear the thought of staying here one moment longer.”

I stared at him. “Do you not know what this would do to you? Do you not realize how it would shatter your sanity?” The full meaning of his words suddenly hit me, and I gaped at him. “Wait. Are you saying there are others buried here?”

The augur stared daggers at the kneeling man as he responded in his stead. “There are, but that is none of your concern, eddo. They requested to remain in harmony with the earth for a month, and we intend to respect their wish.”

“A month? Are you out of your mind? This... You know what? I’m done talking to you.” I turned and grabbed the kneeling man by the arm, pulling him to his feet. “You’re coming with me.”

“But, eddo—”

“There is no but!”

I dragged him to the motorum and forced him into the back seat. The door once closed, I initiated a call.

“Mantus. I need you to send some of your men to my location.”

The head of the Vigilēs wrote down the address I gave him.

“They should be there shortly, eddo,” he said before I shut down the call.

I turned to look at the augur. He was talking in a low voice with those followers who had remained. After a few minutes, they started to disperse.

The priest came toward me.

“Still here?” he asked.

I leaned against the vehicle and crossed my arms.

“Reinforcements are on the way.”

He quirked a brow. “You plan to arrest me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The augur shrugged. “I only did my duty. There is nothing wrong, or illegal, in dispensing comfort to those who request it.”

“Comfort? Is that what you call it?”

He glanced at the man in the back of the motorum before returning his attention to me. “People find comfort in the oddest places, eddo. You should know this.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Why do you serve?”

I frowned. “What?”

“You were once a consul. You earned a good living, have money set aside. Some even say you are one of the wealthiest men in San Sanea. So why do you still serve, why not retire as others have?”

Those questions were tapping into my private life, and I did not feel comfortable answering them. He must have sensed it, as he gave me a taut smile.

“Perhaps you don’t know yourself,” he suggested. “And yet, it is quite simple. You do so because it is comforting. It gives you purpose, and some value in the eyes of others. It is better than wasting away for all of eternity, is it not?”

I pointed at the ground behind him.

“How is being buried alive any better?”

“As I said, people find comfort in different places. For you, it is work. For others, it is retirement. For those who come to me, it is burial.”

“Did you ever get buried? That would explain a lot.”

“Do not mock me, eddo.”

“That is not my way,” I said coolly.

The tight smile returned. But two motorums arrived before he could respond. Men poured out of the vehicles and approached us.

“How can we help, eddo?”

I recognized the voice of Faustus Felius, who had assisted me before, though I did not look at him. While holding the augur’s gaze, I pointed to the open grave.

“Search the ground all around that. There are people buried here. We need to find them and get them out of there.”

The priest tensed. “You cannot do this, eddo!”

“Watch me.”

The Vigilēs spread out to search the area.

He waved a finger at my face. “You are going against the will of the gods! This shall not end well for you.”

I was too tired to deal with this.

“Tell me something, augur. Is it you who decides what the gods want or don’t want?”

“No,” he conceded. “But the quaestor knows Satlan’s will better than any.”

“And was it he who authorized this folly?”

“You should be more mindful of your words, eddo. To call it folly is to call folly the will of the gods.”

“Is the will of one god the will of all?”

“You play with words, but that shall not shield you from Satlan’s wrath.”

I straightened and shook a finger at him, as he had done to me moments prior.

“What more could he do to me that the gods have not done to us all? Don’t you see that our lives are a curse? The gods care little for us. We are—” I stopped and took a deep breath. How could I have let my guard down like this? It was dangerous to speak such words, all the more so to an augur. I quickly changed the subject. “Where is your quaestor? I will need to speak with him.”

The mounting anger I had sensed in him while I spoke suddenly shifted to an expression of doubt and concern.

“That may prove difficult. We have not seen him in weeks.”

A feeling of unease seized me as I recalled what Nelius Malius had told me about the disappearances that plagued our world.

“I assume you have reported this?”

“He is a servant of our god, eddo. It is not for us to question Satlan’s will.”

These people were mad. We all are, to some extent, truth be told, but augurs are possibly the most insane of all...

No. How can I make such a claim after what I witnessed in those dark tunnels below Mount Vasira? This is nothing compared to that. Well, it is still madness... but of a different, more subdued nature.

XXVII.

I did not wait to meet those the Vigilēs pulled from the earth. I was all too familiar with the wild eyes, the rambling thoughts, and the trembling hands. Instead, I dropped my passenger at the Vigilium—where Mantus and his men would keep an eye on him for a while—then headed for the quaestor’s home. His address was easy to obtain from the archiver.

The man’s name was Mettius Naevius. There was no record of his time before becoming a quaestor, though it was likely he had started as an augur. That was the usual path—one fraught with delusions.

Unsurprisingly, his villa was close to the Temple of Satlan, a mere ten-minute walk. It was in a residential area, though his home had the largest plot of land of them all.

I parked the motorum just outside the gate, then marched through the garden and up the alley to the door.

No one answered my knock, not even after I’d waited ten minutes. It was unusual. The place seemed eerily quiet, as if abandoned.

Could the quaestor have been taken by the Cult of the Emerald God? Had he become one of those fanatics? But where were his servants? It was difficult to believe that they may have been taken as well.

Intrigued, I walked around the house. That was when I heard it—a low, distant humming.

But was I truly hearing it? Sleep deprivation has been known to play sensory tricks on people. I suspected such a case here. Shaking my head, I turned and headed back to my vehicle. Perhaps I should send a message to my colleagues in other cities. If we pulled our resources, there was a chance we might track the man down, wherever he was.

I hadn’t reached the gate yet when the ground beneath my feet began to shake. A small crack appeared before me and I jumped to the side, heart beating fast. What was going on? There were records of the earth trembling, but I’d never experienced it in my lifetime—at least, not that I remembered.

Nor had the shaking stopped. It intensified. The crack widened and, to my horror, a hand sprung out, grasping at my ankle. I jerked away, freeing my leg from its grip, and ran in the opposite direction—back toward the villa.

The ground wasn’t so cracked there and I took a moment to breathe as I stared at the still wiggling hand. It was not one made of flesh and bone, but rather of earth and stone.

By now, the humming had turned to a haunting chant, and I knew I had to investigate it further. It came from within the house, so I tried the door. It swung open. Stepping in, I followed the sound and found stairs leading down to a stone door.

The voice was louder here. It felt as if it was calling me, imploring me to enter, to bask in its beauty, in the purity of its message.

A part of my mind wondered what message that might be, as there was none, only this pressing plea—one I found difficult to resist.

My hand grabbed the knob, turned it, and I walked in...

XXVIII.

There is some dispute as to which should be regarded as the god of the earth. Most would point to Dras; however, some believe Satlan is the more logical choice. After all, was our world not named after him?

This claim has been called ludicrous and lacking merit, as no one remembers anything about this minor god, nor is there any evidence allowing to make such a connection. And yet, it is difficult not to see one in the very name of Satlanea.

Not that I believe in such drivel.

Still, what I saw that day—in that room, below the quaestor’s villa—chilled my bones and challenged all of my beliefs.

They were all there. Mettius Naevius and his servants. I counted eight of them—five men and three women. Their bodies were melted into the stone walls, as if they were one with the rock. You could not tell where their flesh started and ended. Even the fabric of their clothes had blended in an odd mix of greens and reds and grays, as if it had always been like this.

But the most terrifying aspect of this mockery was that they still lived—at least, the servants did. I was not so sure about the quaestor at first, for he had his eyes and mouth shut, whereas the others did not.

It was from their throats that rose the now deafening chant, inviting me to embrace their fate, to join them in the bliss of eternal communion with their god.

As I stared at the scene—both repelled and mesmerized—Naevius’ eyes popped open and his voice rang in the small empty room, reverberating against the living walls, covering even the maddening chant.

“You have come, brother! You have heard our call! Praise be Satlan’s name, for his mercy and love. Come, brother! Join us!”

There was a glint of madness in his eyes—one I knew all too well. It is not uncommon among our people, especially among those who have died too many times.

Recognizing this for what it was helped break the spell, pulling me out of my daze.

“What have you done?” I asked in shock.

“My god’s will,” replied the quaestor. “And Satlan will know no peace until all of his children have joined him!”

Even as the words came out of his mouth, branches popped out from the ceiling and roots from the ground, all worming hungrily toward me.

I turned and fled.

XXIX.

We have lost.

What hope is there left to us now?

I sent the Vigilēs to the quaestor’s villa, and they burned it all to the ground. There is nothing left of it now but ash and cinder, much like my own home. Such a cruel twist of fate. The flesh of the servants melted under the heat, their chant morphing to agonizing cries as what little was left of them died.

Though part of me wonders, will they not come back as we all do? Can they truly have died? Have they found the ultimate relief we all so crave for? I do not know—how could I? We have never had a case like this before.

But that is not the most troubling part.

Oh no.

As the Vigilēs were about to leave, they were attacked. From what Felius reported, there were hundreds of them.

The Cultists.

They overwhelmed our men and wrestled their ignisori from them before leaving as quickly as they had come.

It is not so much that they have the flame throwers that troubles me, but the fact that we no longer do. It was a formidable tool. So few are left now.

And then I think back to the Sadin Codex.

We retrieved the book, but where is the copy?

They will use it to pervert the minds of our people.

How can we prevent this?

How can we stop a war that cannot be stopped?

I have no answer to these questions.

All I know is that, today, they made their first move. It will not be their last.

And so it begins.

If you like my writing, please consider buying a copy of my novel, upgrading to a paid subscription, or making a Paypal or Ko-fi donation. As an independent author, any of these would help a lot!

Missed some of the previous Silius installments? No problem. Here are the previous two:

• In This City, Where Firelights Bloom (a pyromaniac is on the loose and must be stopped)

• The Glass Hand of the Emerald God (a 3-part story about madness and manipulation)

If you enjoyed this story, please feel free to forward it to your friends or to share it on social media.

And don’t forget to like by clicking the little heart below this post ;)

Thank you!

—

Text (c) 2025 by Alex S. Garcia.

Header: royalty-free stock image, edited by me.

—

Want to read more free stuff?

Sign up to The Sample for a large selection of nonfiction (and some fiction.)