Darkshine

Andy Martinez || Fall 2025

The heavens had dimmed as if the Sun had sighed, wearied of watching. Silence had swept the earth, but in between its stillness, one could feel its pulse—still beating, still breathing, its essence not yet suppressed. 

The old man looked above with focused eyes, basking in the nothingness. The sky was a shade of charcoal, blackened to the core. And no matter how hard one looked, they could find only an infinite void of darkness. No life, no love. No feeling present at all. 

A somber chill swept through the air, hitting the man’s skin. It was inflamed with passion, or was it conviction? His heart pounded against his chest like a war drum, melding into the rhythm of his heavy breaths. His body surged, coated with wounds, both fresh and aged. The fresh ones opened, and blood ran down alongside his sweat, harmonized. He dug his nails into one along his arm, for no reason other than to feel it. Feel it burn within, until his whole body was on fire. 

The old man reached for the wooden chest, crouching towards it. He removed its rusted padlock, lifting up the cover to reveal his suit, his dutiful armor. Its iron-wrought shell reflected in his eyes, as memories of war flashed before them. Awakening demons. Igniting fear. The violence of the past, made immortal by the scars along his body. The old man lifted up his suit and began strapping it over himself. The metal clung to his ripened skin, hanging heavily on his fatigue. The emblem of his army appeared weathered on the chest piece. The cross of the Templars. The symbol of the Lord. 

The old man stretched out for his final remnant, glimmering divinely in this darkened chamber. His armed sword. His second guardian. How gently it lay within his tightened grip, the old man thought. It was gentle to the touch, nostalgic in its structure. Something that bestowed him comfort. Reassurance. And what triumphed over all…freedom. 

His ritual was complete. The hunt can now commence. 

— 

The old man exited his solemn quarters, striding into the forest beyond. It was quiet, still, as if nature itself was holding its breath. The trees stood tall, towering above like restless giants. Their branches danced as a slithering gust swept through the shadows, interrupting the silence. The old man did not break his pace, even when he heard what sounded like whispers, hidden in the wind. Speaking to him. Mocking him. Amused by his resolve.

He spoke to himself, chanting tenderly. “Veni, Creator Spiritus, mentes tuorum visita, imple superna gratia quae tu creasti pectora.” His gaze did not shatter upon the weight of nature’s judgment, but he felt his person being looked upon by unseen eyes. “Qui diceris Paraclitus, altissimi donum Dei, fons vivus, ignis, caritas, et spiritalis unctio.” He continued as he pondered. What lay in wait behind this veil of darkness? Were they creatures, or were they demons? A question the old man hoped to answer very soon. 

His grip tightened further upon his sword as he ventured deeper. Dry leaves crunched beneath his boots, betraying his every step. As he kept walking, the trees grew higher. The shadows stretched as if elasticized, and the whispers soon became tangible words. 

Run…run…run… 

The old man was not threatened, nor taken aback by the absurdity of what he was hearing. Run? He never did, in battle or in his dreams. He stood his ground, even as the wounds ran crimson along his torso. He looked up to the branches. Hung upon them were bodies. The nooses so tight they could sever the neck. The skin of these corpses were pale, an unsightly shade of blue. A foul stench emitted from them, invading the air rancidly. Their eyes were empty, hollowed…blackened voids that felt as endless as the sky above. The old man recognized their faces as those he had served with. Those he battled with. His brothers, his fellow disciples. His steps became heavier as his heart sped faster. Fear it could not be, but what if it was? What has the Devil wrought upon him? Would he dare disrupt his holy mission? 

More questions, and far fewer answers, but the old man carried on, maintaining his stride as the branches suddenly became vacant and the bodies disappeared. 

— 

Further and further he went, the weight of his suit becoming burdensome. He didn’t know how long his journey would last, as the Sun would be rising soon. Yet he continued, through the stark corners, through the depths of an endless pathway. 

His gaze was interrupted, suddenly, by an ethereal glow. Humming lowly, blending in the whispers of the wind. The old man approached this newfound distraction when the darkness surrounding him ignited into a reddened haze. Leaves began glowing like fireflies. The branches stretched into bone, protruding in a grotesque, almost artistic display. Before the old man stood a strange figure. Its eyes burned like fire. Its limbs were coated in charred leather. Nails elongated with sharp, jagged ends. If the Devil were Hell’s patron saint, this creature was its devout shadow.

The old man approached it with a smoldering rage. Its presence churned his stomach as he hardened his grip upon the sword’s handle. The demon was facing him, expelling a boiling bile from its body. Its mouth stretched into a foul grin, exposing its misshapen teeth. “What are yer wearing?” It asked mockingly. The old man drew a single, steady breath. Then, with a swift lashing, he severed the demon’s head. A crimson fountain spewed from its stump, spraying upward and raining down on the old man like a wretched baptism. 

He crept down and lifted its head, admiring his handiwork. A stream of smoke emerged from a smoldering fire, a few feet away from them. The old man pulled apart a wire from his suit’s iron coil and tied the demon’s head to his hip, a trophy of his holy work. 

He hunched behind a bush, hiding himself from whatever was ahead of him. The root of the smoke was a bundle of branches, caught ablaze by some crude method. Intangible grumbles emerged as three figures danced around the fire, bludgeoning the silence with their stupor. “When I short have shorn my sow's face and swigged my horny barrel, in an oaken inn I pound my skin, as a suit of gilt apparel…” Drunken, somehow. The old man furrowed his brow, confused by this unsightliness. A feast of fools, or so it seemed. He was not convinced of its perceivable innocence, despite his own flirtation with the cold mead. It had been years since the ale had touched his lips, and he did not miss it. It reminded him of simpleness, a social pleasantry he could no longer cherish. 

They continued with their sordid hymns. “…The moon's my constant mistress, and the lowly owl my marrow; the flaming drake and the night crow make me music to my sorrow.” These demons were dancing, laughing. Reveling in their hellfire. Little did they know it would soon be snuffed out. 

— 

The old man emerged from his hiding and walked towards the fire, ravenous to dispense judgment. He could overhear one of the demons ask, “Where’s old Maddy, eh?” Another one replied, “Emptying the valve, no doubt”, cackling at itself. The reddened haze simmered down as he edged closer, but the demons remained, joyously hopping about like mad rabbits. One of them saw the old man, and their eyes widened in surprise. “What have we here?” It exclaimed, its fellow creatures in awe of what stood before them. Then, they started laughing. 

The old man’s grip tightened. Their amusement was their damnation. He felt the fury of a thousand warriors, a thousand brothers, swell within his body. Blood throbbed within his veins, his body a burning furnace. His rage snarled like a caged animal, scratching for release. This rage was his weapon. God’s weapon, within him. Wielding him. 

The old man locked his eyes upon the demon and looked down towards his trophy. The demon looked and, in its sudden terror, began stepping backwards. “Wha-what have yer done to dear

Maddy?” it asked. Its voice sounded as if it were shaking, fear overcoming its senses. “What the Hell are yer doin, ah?” 

And so the old man replied, “I’ve come to serve the Lord.” 

Within the blink of an eye, the old man rammed his sword through the demon’s throat, before swirling it around and into the neighboring creature’s shoulder, slicing off its arm. Blood spewed violently, and the old man shoved his sword into the demon’s chest, into its vile heart. Its body slumped to the ground with a thud. The first demon clutched its neck, choking, before the old man stabbed the demon through its stomach, its blood dripping off the sharpened metal. He drew it back as the demon fell upon its back, its wretched soul returning to Hell. 

Their cries were a blessed symphony. The demons lay dying in their filth as the old man turned to face the one that remained. It had begun running in the opposite direction, a frivolous attempt at salvation. He flipped the sword on its handle, so it stood horizontally upon his palm. It was shaped like the emblem adorned on his chest. The cross of the Templars. The symbol of the Lord. And so he threw the symbol several feet across into the demon, watching as it stopped in its place. It fell upon its knees, spewing blood from its mouth, before slumping on its face. 

The old man stood before his mighty work, his chest heaving passionately. He stepped forward to retrieve his sword, pulling it out from the corpse. The corpse of not a demon, but a man. And so were the other corpses that now lay upon the campsite invaded by the old man. As well as the head of the drunken wanderer, which now adorned the old man’s hip. 

The old man looked up towards the heavens, silence sweeping the earth once again. Its stillness now renewed, and the Lord’s work upheld. The old man basked in the nothingness, in the endless void of the sky, and saw within it a discernible gimmer. So small, so minuscule, and yet he could see it clearly. A gift from the Lord. A veiled luminance. A dark shine.