Ah. Yes. The crucifixions in the street. Something of a notable 
feature of the city’s temple district, along with the sacred prostitutes 
of the Mother, the fried vegetable sellers, and the arthritic donkey 
that had been pissing everywhere for the last sixty years. 


“The Sarkists claim they’re factors of the Crucible who tried 
desecrating the Flesh Sanctuary. The Crucible claims they’re rogue 
unionists and denies any connection.” 


“War is sooning?” 


“| don’t know.” Tokos redoubled his current isolation technique. It 
was a total lie, of course. Lapsed in his practice as he was for the 
last two decades, he had to work in the shadows of the gods ona 
regular basis. 


There was going to be war. Tensions had been high for months. The 
theological situation in the Empire was a cosmic wargame, a tangled 
cannibalistic orgy, a nest of vipers tied in knots. The Scarlet King sat 
on his throne above a court of squabbling kings and queens and 
princes. Alliances and rivalries shifted constantly, bubbled up and 
boiled away, and anyone could see that the temples were hiring out 
more guards than usual... 


The Buried Giants, Tokos’ once-patrons in that ancient retreat on 
the steppes, had gone quiet. The Flesh and the Mother had formed 
a tentative alliance, allowing the Flesh to focus on the Crucible and 
Ana. The Prince of Many Faces appeared on a near-weekly basis to 
stir up old grudges. The Hanged King had isolated himself in 
Alagadda and had called together his dwindling demesne to plot. 
Moloch was ascendant, and his furnaces grew bright on the bones 
of children. The devotionaries of the First Sword had revived 
alongside the Butcher's campaigns with a strength not seen in 
generations, and looked to grow even stronger with the planned 
march to the west. Minor gods scrambled over each other for 
scraps. 


"lam thoughting that war be quick,” the pilgrim said. “Many such on 
the road, | be eyeing. Some even thoughting that the King rises.” 


The worst of all possible outcomes, that. The Scarlet King was not 
worshipped for boon or blessing — it was only to keep his gaze 
pointed elsewhere. Only the high daevas would dare draw the King’s 
attention or siphon off his power — all of his temples, save the great 
temple in Daevon, were devoted to one of the King’s minor titles, so 
as to not to draw up notice. 


Tokos couldn’t really think of what that would be like. He didn’t want 
to think about it, and got along with his life not thinking that it would 
ever happen. The consideration was exceedingly uncomfortable. 


“More likely that Moloch and Ab-Leshal will go at it, or the Flesh start 
a war.” 


“Fleshly Yaldabaoth hungrying always for blood. Good blood with 
the Butcher.” 


“Ana will step in, | suppose.” 
“No. Outside the fleshing and fat, Ana is.” 


The skull made a sort of awkward rumbling sound, which meant 
either progress or a trap going off. 


“So she won't do anything? 


“The doings are left to us bones.” The pilgrim stood up, her dress 
swishing against twiglike legs. “Again and again, | am gratefuling to 
yun. Be not prisoning in yuns fleshly cage for longlike.” 


She left, and Tokos watched her leave. Curious, curious, all of this. 
But he was still alive, and the awkward rumbling had in fact been 
progress. 


Sometime later, when the sun was setting, and its last beams were 
trapped in the thousand mirrors, Tokos was roused from his stupor 
by screams from outside. 


He stepped out of the temple to see that up the street, the tumorous 
bulbs of the Flesh Sanctuary were caving in on themselves as if they 
had been starved, their meat turned to flakes like ash floating in the 
air. 


11:02 AM 


12:29 PM 


human figures are visible 
hanging from nooses. 
Notably, SCP-753 appears 
to be absent from the 
painting. 

Image of a forest. Indistinct 
human figures are no longer 
hanging, but are on the 
ground, looking directly 
forward. One is holding a 
crushed SCP-753 in its fist. 
Image of an indistinct 
human face, holding 
SCP-753 forward. Indistinct 
human face appears to be 
registering anger. 


« SCP-752 | SCP-753 | SCP-754 » 


When We Came Home 


In the days when the Flood receded, and magic once 
again flourished in the world, it came to be that man 
discovered the Chronicle of the Daevas, that ancient 
compact. Hands misled by doubts and dark whispers 
took it from its dusty tomb, and cast it into the sea. 


In a forest, there was a small lake of cool, clear water. In the center 
of the lake was a small, rocky island, upon which was built an 
ancient stone watchtower. The trees of the forest were old and 
strong, their heavy roots buried deep, and their broad branches 
seemed to hold up the sky itself. The dappled sunlight shifted as the 
breeze moved through the leaves high above. Great boulders, 
draped in moss, sat amongst the roots and trunks of the trees. The 
air was both cool and warm, and the world was quiet, save the 
shifting of leaves. 


There was a scraping sound, the sound of metal upon metal. Then 
came the rustle of underbrush being pushed away, and the sound of 
something being dragged through the dirt. 


Pages scattered upon the water, and like a mighty wave 
the Daevites clawed out of the black leaves of history, 
with their armies and their cities and all their empire. The 
Flesh too, emerged, crawling from its ark deep beneath 
the frozen earth. Together they made great sacrifice and 
horror. They called out to their master, and their master 
answered them. 


The Scarlet King rose up from the Pit of Megiddo, with all 
his Leviathans and demon lords. Creation trembled, for 
its extinction was at hand. 


A soldier walked out of the forest, onto the bank of the pool. Its 
armor, dent and torn and punctured, was caked and crusted with 
brown and red and burnt with black. The soldier's skin was burned 


and dirty. An eye socket, and the temple above it, had collapsed 
under a blow. The scalp had been torn away, the hair had burned to 
ash. Flaps of skin exposed a jaw of cracked teeth. An arm flopped 
limply, its bones broken. The soldier looked as if a corpse, rather 
than a human, and the heavy stench of hell was upon it. The soldier 
dragged a pitted, nicked broadsword behind it, carving a little trench 
in the loam. 


The soldier walked along the bank until it came to one of the great 
boulders draped in moss. Here, the soldier lifted the sword high, and 
then drove it deep into the ground. There was no need for the sword 
anymore. A long and winding journey had ended. 


But mankind, in this late hour, did not go quietly into the 
dark night. No, it was as if a great final flame burned 
brightly. With mankind stood the ancient guardians: 
Hakhama, broken no longer, with her fleets of 
dreadnaught-angels vast enough to blot out the sky. 
Nahash, returned from his exile at last, his plumage 
bright and fire upon his mouth. 


For the briefest of moments, brother and sister were 
united, and with them mankind fought and died against 
the King and his servants. 


The hand that once held the sword began to unfasten the armor's 
buckles and belts. Each piece fell to the mud and was still. There 
was no need for the armor anymore. The soldier began with the 
armor on the arms, and then the armor of the legs, and then 
unfastened the cuirass it wore. After this, it removed the mail shirt, 
and then the ruined vest and breeches. When all of this was done, 
the soldier arranged the armor in the shape of a human next to 
where the sword had been driven into the mud. There would be no 
burial, for the grave would not be disturbed. There was no need for 
swords or armor anymore. It would rest on the bank, by the great 
boulder draped in moss, and be still. 


The Brothers Three, marking that the time was at hand, 
gave the command for the doors of the Silent Halls to be 
opened. The dead streamed out, an army uncountable. 
They stormed the King’s Court and freed the six Brides 


who remained and all the countless souls imprisoned in 
torment there. 


The soldier, now wearing nothing but blood and dirt and grime and 
ash and salt and scars, knelt by the stream and reached a hand into 
the water. The current washed away the filth on the hand, and 
underneath the coating of grime there was clean skin, smooth and 
pink and healthy. The soldier cupped water in its clean hand and 
drank. Rivulets ran down its chin, staining it with mud. 


Three brothers in black rode upon three white horses. 
Behind them marched every being who has ever died, 
from every world, from every facet, from every sphere, 
each mortal and god and stray soul. The sum of all the 
dead in exodus. A song rose as the column passed 
through the shattered obsidian gates of hell. A song of 
joy. The dead marched, to strike down the King. 


With the clean hand, the soldier reached over to the shattered arm. 
With yanks and tugs, it shifted the bones back into place. Mangled 
fingers twitched, and then bent, and then the arm moved. The 
soldier flexed its once-broken arm, saw that it moved as it should, 
and was satisfied. 


Thus the final battle was met. The gods and all their 
hosts descended from the heavens and rose from the 
abyss, to make war with each other. The Stars burned 
with hate. Creation crumbled under the terrible strain. No 
world was spared, no sphere passed over. The Ways 
were torn up. The Library burned. Gods were cast down 
from their thrones, and the earth was laid to ruin. A 
million, million warfronts poured torrents of blood down 
the branches of Creation. The King made Yesod his 
throne, and all things were reduced to ash. 


The soldier stood up, and waded into the pond. When it reached a 
point where the water was up to its waist, the soldier began to bathe. 
Layers of burnt flesh and dried blood peeled away, revealing healthy 
skin beneath. 


Far below that vast and terrible mountain, two sons of 


Adam met for the last time, and died at each other’s 
hands. Nahash was torn in two, and Hakhama shattered 
a second time. The flame of mankind, of all thinking 
beings, dimmed, sputtered, and went out. Stars were 
eaten alive. The dead were reduced to dust. The 
heavens went dark, choked with smoke and ash. The 
abyss was fattened with blood. All lights had been 
extinguished, across a billion, billion worlds. 


The falling clods of filth formed a cloud of pollution around the 
soldier, but this cloud quickly settled at the bottom of the pool. As 
the soldier washed, it grew less like a corpse. Hollow flesh became 
full. Life returned. Muscle stitched back together. Skin mended. Hair 
regrew. Bones rejoined. Gone was the dried sludge of blood and dirt 
and shit. Gone was the grime of salt and smoke. Gone was the cold, 
gone was the stench. The evil time and the evil place passed away. 


One light remained. Thirty-six saints gathered on the 
mountain slope, and together fulfilled their ancient 
destiny. The passing of the world in this cruel and 
horrible fashion could not be helped - they had been 
waylaid by the forces of the world too long to prevent the 
horrors of the King, but they were not without power. 


Creation could not be healed, but the King might be 
made vulnerable. The seals he had placed upon himself, 
all those ancient defenses, were dissolved. 


The soldier dove beneath the surface of the water, and upon rising 
up was no longer a corpse, but a human. A woman, who was solid- 
built and strong, with wet hair the color of straw. She brushed a 
strand hair out of her face and smiled, for she was alive again. 


These were the seven that would destroy the king. The 
little bastard Empress in her veil, her head swollen and 
her tongue mute. Harker, the man who shattered the 
dreamtime with a single strike. The Exile, who long ago 
cheated the Brothers Three. A’habbat the Unbroken, 
seventh Bride no longer. The apostate Fawn astride the 
Saturnian Stag. Set, third son of Adam. Isabel the Maker 
of Wonders. 


The woman’s name was Mary-Ann, and she was no longer a soldier. 
Seven spears pierced the Scarlet King. 
One pierced his right eye - this was Harker’s spear. 


One pierced his left eye anew — this was the Fawn’s 
spear. 


One pierced his liver — this was Set’s spear. 

One pierced his hands — this was the Exile’s spear. 
One pierced his feet — this was the Empress’ spear. 
One pierced his heart — this was A’habbat’s spear. 


The last was driven down through his skull — this was 
Isabel’s spear. 


The Brothers Three thus came to claim the King, as had 
been their right since the beginning. His body was cast 
into the Abyss, and Death hung over the waters. 


Mary-Ann swam about in the pool for a time. She floated on her 
back, and looked up at the trees and their branches, and the sun in 
the sky. The occasional bird would flit through the sphere of her 
senses — she cooed back up at them. She dived underneath the 
surface and rose up, again and again. She would pick up handfuls of 
smooth pebbles and mud only to let go and watch it all fall back to 
the bottom. She swam about, with front stroke, backstroke, 
breaststroke, with the joy that her body might be exercised with 
something other than killing. 


After a time, she rose, and waded back to the shore. She was 
naked, but there was no shame or fear to her nakedness. She found 
a patch of soft grass on the shore, nestled between two mighty 
roots, and here she lay down in the speckled sunlight. 


She slept for a time, and her dreams were of gentle, formless things. 


The seven stood upon the King's empty throne in 


silence. 


When she woke, the shadows had grown long, and the sun now 
burned golden-orange. By her feet lay a stack of neatly-folded 
clothes. A grey shirt, sand-colored pants with many pockets, and 
heavy, strong boots. Mary-Ann dressed herself, and felt like she was 
whole again. Not Mary-Ann the soldier in those legions of the dead. 
Just Mary-Ann. A name, a face, a body, a life. All whole again. 


She wandered into the forest without a direction in mind, her hands 
in her pockets. There were bright flowers of blue and yellow and red 
and pink and purple and orange. There were great mushrooms and 
molds, white and red and dun. There were birds, plain and ornate. 
There were little scurrying and burrowing animals. In distant 
shadowed hollows she could make out the shapes of larger 
creatures. Here and there were crumbling ruins of stone, or the 
mossy bones of giants, or a winding trail of cobbles. The evening 
waxed. 


A leopard, grey like shadowed snow, sat perched upon a vast tree’s 
root, smoking a pipe. Mary-Ann scratched it behind the ears as she 
passed by. The cat flicked its tail and purred, puffing out a ring of 
applewood smoke. 


Shadows grew longer, and the night birds began their calling. The 
path Mary-Ann had been following became more finely made, the 
cobbles younger and more neatly fit together. The ancient forest 
gave way to an expanse of grassy hills. The wide open sky was pink 
and orange and blue with the last remnants of the sun, and the fat 
silver moon had risen. 


A man stood there, on the road where the forest ended. He was old 
and bent over, leaning on a cane, with short grey hair and a clipped 
grey beard. His clothes and air were proper, polite, wise. Gentle 
eyes sat in a dark, wrinkled face. He was feeding birds. 


Mary-Ann ran. Tears welled in her eyes. Time stopped. 
“SALAH!” 


She tripped over her own feet, her momentum nearly carrying her to 


the ground were it not for the wild flailing and pinwheeling of her 
arms. Her boots pounded on cobbles. The birds scattered at her 
voice. 


“SALAH? 
Her arms pumped madly, her legs strained as she urged herself 
faster, faster. A single moment longer would be intolerable, 


unendurable.