The hooded man treaded past the double doors to the museum's Hall of Uncategorized Relics, walking by artefact after artefact until he finally found the one he'd been looking for. The IstuiVitae; or as his brotherhood called it—The Chalice of Calamity.

It was near closing hours and the museum was mostly empty with the guards and the rest of the staff busy locking up the Halls. He'd have to hurry before they came round to this room, for the Blood Moon's fourth eclipse was almost reaching its totality; the last eclipse of a tetrad—each spaced six full moons apart, coming around once a hundred millennia—was ascending unto completion. The timing was perfect; nothing to distract him as he performed the rituals, the air inundated with omens of the Prophecy, the moon shone an eerie scarlet and painted the sky a murky red. Tonight, he would fulfil his noble destiny and earn a place in the Supreme Creator's lap; he'd be hailed as a redeemer of the human race—not by the common, plebian humans for they lacked gratitude and failed to recognize true greatness, but definitely by the elevated humans of his sacred brotherhood, called Sospes Superii. An occult society whose sole goal of existence was the fact that they'd be the ones to bring about a chance of redemption every time humans became corrupt beings. This was one such time—a prosperous occasion indeed; a new beginning in the making.

Tonight is the night, Apollo. The night of rebirth, he told himself as he overstepped the railing and opened the glass case. Thankfully, the IstuiVitae being uncategorized, its age, importance, and value unknown, the security around it was pretty loose hence making his job easier. Apollo walked to the middle of the large chamber and bent down to the floor. Reaching into his coat pockets, he brought out the items necessary for performing the summoning ritual—a red marker, a sprig of thyme, the offshoot of a two century old birch, a block of hematite, the skull of a baby born dead, and the bone marrow harvested from a black cat sacrificed under a poplar in the eve of the winter solstice. With the marker, he drew the ceremonial altar; three circles on the vertices of a triangle and a fourth one in the middle touching its trio of surrounding compatriots. He kept the Chalice at the center of the triangle and put in the marrow, the herb and the branch occupied the western circle, the rock and cranium sat on the east corner, whereas the north vertex remained empty.

Without sparing another second, the male brought out a small volume bound in black velvet, on the front cover of which was an embossment; two S's of silver, the tail of the first one curling around the head of the second—the Sospes Superii's insignia. He turned the pages of the book, pausing on the subpoena mantra, glancing it through before beginning the sacramental chanting. First two stanzas of Latin words spoken in a low baritone, nothing happened. Then came the third intonation coupled with a complication in the ritual. Apollo procured the small dagger he kept strapped around his right calf, and with it he sliced open his left wrist, taking care not to dig in too deep. The only sign of the pain he felt was a slight waver in his hymning voice. The maroon fluid gushing out of the laceration in rivulets was fed into the IstuiVitae while the Latin incantations kept flowing from his lips.

The atmosphere crackled with electricity and the room turned dark as the lightbulbs flickered a little, then completely went out; it was time. Apollo felt the air around him change and involute, the objects and walls of the room became part of a warped dimension as the space-time continuum twisted and bent like a vehicle that had gone through a metal compressor; and then again, everything expanded out of shape, everything moved vertiginously—relevance of any logic of material existence was made peccadillo. The altar floated up, thyme and skull and everything, with the red marks becoming glowing lines, and Apollo's sanguine essence in the Chalice of Calamity began effervescing like bog water on a humid, summer night. The beginning of the end, leading forth to yet another epoch of creation and novel life; the hour was here.

Suddenly, the warping space stopped, then with a rush everything returned to normal. There were lights again, the ozone odor of the air had dissipated, the altar and the ceremonial items had completely vanished. Outside, the eclipse had passed and the moon was pale yellow in color, the sky had reverted to its polluted, brown-ish purple state dotted with minimal stars twinkling away. It was as though nothing had happened...

Did I fail? Apollo asked himself, glancing around the room as his right hand clutched a kerchief around his slashed and bleeding left wrist. No, no, nonono... I couldn't have. I did everything right... I did—

He felt dizziness wash over him in a gigantic surge, and he fell to his knees. The blood loss was too much; he felt was going to breathe his last by squandering body fluids till he ran dry, like one of those pathetic whores they bought from harems and sacrificed every now and then to thank the gods and monsters upon whom they consigned their beliefs. Apollo didn't deserve to pass away like that, he was supposed to die a hero. Vestiges of trepidation crept into his subconciousness, growing into a lethal disquieting commixed with the shame of failure. I failed, his mind screamed, I failed in the one thing that I had to do... I have let every human down! There is no hope—

Oh, but you didn't. You did not fail, interjected a rich, velvety voice of a female. Apollo looked up to see the most gorgeous woman that ever existed floating above him. Dressed in a sheer, peach-hued gauze that did nothing to hide her flawless, perfectly proportioned physique; obsidian hair left loose to drift around her head making a dark halo; she was a regal epitome of recherché exquisiteness—she was Istuitia; the goddess of apocalypse and doom, lovechild of Tartarus and Nyx. She glissaded down to him, close enough so that their noses almost touched, and her lips canted in a breathtaking smile. Her intoxicating perfume hit him like a potent aphrodisiac, taking over his very essence of existence—awakening something primal and virile in his loins. Apollo's hazed mind could now only comprehend her splendorous appeal; her immaculately pearl-white skin, her plush, cherry-red lips, her small nose that upturned a little at the tip, and those large doe's eyes with irises that changed colors—black, gray, green, blue, brown, amethyst... Beautiful.

Look at you, so handsome. So devoted... Her mouth didn't move, yet Apollo could hear her lush, saccharine speech quite clearly. He wanted to respond, to convey how much he revered her, but his breath seemed to be caught in his chest, his voice trapped in his throat. Istuitia reached up her hand, clutching his jaw in her slender fingers and lowering her moue to his lips. She kissed him long and deep, letting her hands move down into his coat, meandering inches from his erogenous zone. Just when Apollo thought he'd swoon from her divine ministrations, she stopped and shifted back, deciding, You freed me from my father's pit, you saved me from suffering eternal damnation... I thank you. You will be my consort on Earth.

Discovering he could move and speak again, Apollo blurted one, short phrase, "yes, Goddess."

Good, said she. Apollo stood up, and the blood soaked handkerchief fell to the floor with a wet schlop! drawing his attention to his arm; he had healed. I need you strong and well, Istuitia clarified, I cannot have my consort bleeding like a mere mortal.

"Thank you, Goddess," said Apollo. And he couldn't help but ask, "so... What now?"

Now, we—

At that moment, in came a guard, jangling his bunch of keys and whistling a pleasant tune. He stopped short when his gaze landed upon the duo. For a minute, he remained frozen midstep, mouth dangling open as his eyes roved over the almost naked form of Istuitia. The celestial female beamed at him, making him snap out of his lusty stupor, and he began, "ma'am... uh. I—I'm gonna have to ask you to leave... It's—It's past closing time, I don't know what you—"

His words cut off abruptly as Istuitia worked her spell on him, rendering him immobilized. Her inviting smile turned into a cold, malevolent sneer while she daintily fisted her digits in air.

I hate being interrupted when I'm in the middle of something, said she, odium clear in her enraged tone. The guard's eyes widened in absolute horror, making Apollo wonder just what the deity was doing to him. She pulled her hand back in a yanking motion and he found out what was happening to the poor man. His heart emerged out of his chest, dripping thick, red gore and viscera, shards of his shattered sternum sticking to it. The expression on his face made a transition almost pitiable to Apollo, changing from intense pain to a short fraction of disbelief and agony, and then going lifelessly blank as death claimed him. The guard's literally heartless body dropped heavily to the floor, leaking to create a pool of brackish blood on the once pristine, white tiles—whereas his organ floated to Istuitia's outstretched arm, landing on her open palm. Then, she ate it. Swallowed it whole like a snake does to its victim.

Her small nose wrinkled in repugnance. Such a depressing taste, ugh, she complained, licking her lips clean of the remaining blood. Tasted like failure and regret, topped with that ridiculous emotion you call... Umm, terror? Pivoting to refocus her attention on Apollo, she asked, Now, where exactly was I?

"I—I— you..." Stammered the man, a macabre replaying of the guard biting the dust still clouding his thinking processes. A gradual dread towards the deity made itself known to him. What had he done? Only what he was supposed to do, only what his destiny read. No regrets. It is for the greater good. Taking a deep breath to calm his riveted nerves, he tried again, "my Goddess, you were—"

Ah, right. I'm supposed to have the apocalypse pay this civilization a visit. It's been long overdue, don't you think? Istuitia scowled, venting her utter abhorrence. They've done nothing but destroy their home. I can feel the air pungent with their odor, the smog and fumes from their diabolical inventions... Gods in Olympus, why in the universe would Mother Nyx want to protect this selfish race by locking me up?

Istuitia's span of silence made Apollo feel like he had to say something, and so he did. "I know not, but now that you're here, you can make everything right again..."

Why, yes... There's a lot of work to be done.

"Indeed, Goddess."

The goddess's eyelids slid closed over her daunting, color-changing stare. She lifted both her hands above her head and ominous storm clouds gathered in the night sky outside, obscuring the moon and the stars, casting a menacing shadow over the world.

Let the cleansing begin!

*****

just a little something i had brain-barfed for a writing competition. the words in bold are the ones we had to include in our story. the word limit was 1500-2000. i didn't win but i enjoyed writing this all the same.