Excerpt: The Book of Shaitan

Shaitan did not even have the capability to think about death, much less wish for it. He simply laid upon the brimstone, staring at the black iron gridwork above him as he lie there, soaked in his own blood. What little thought he had right now was lost in the pattern of the gridwork. He stared at it, nearly thoughtless, feeling little more than his life fading from him. As he stared at the iron, though, it started to fade from his sight, as such repetitive patterns tend to do when stared at for long periods of time. The brimstone behind it became more prevalent in his mind, as he subconsciously started to note the cracks and indentations upon it, visible behind the gridwork to any that might look too closely for too long.

Slowly, though, even that faded; it became clouded by a mist. Shaitan began to welcome the coming death it no doubt signified, for even his eyes must be failing now. He watched the mist as it slowly moved about, without shape nor form, without any pattern to the movement. It was utterly chaotic.

Shaitan started, with his consciousness returning so quickly that he was almost immediately overcome once again with the pain he felt from his battered body. But that didn’t matter anymore. He had seen the Chaos, and in his deepest thoughts, he knew this was exactly what the Archdevil Mitor had intended.

Even through his screams, he felt joy, and it was good.