Deathspell Omega - Our Life Is Your Death

Carrion beetles pouring from his mouth:
I have devised a new light that burns brighter above all others.
I have risen towers, structures of such magnitude
that even the mountains pale with envy.
I have made myself the greatest of all gods
and everything living now bends to my will!

You are indeed the king of kings.
May the greatness of your deeds be bestowed upon you!
You have ploughed the soil and left it poisoned.
Eadem, sed aliter!
So, the fruits of the earth turn to blight in your mouth
and your crops are a slow and tasteless poison.

The air was the sweetest of all earthly delights,
but now the fumes of your creations smother the skies
and the stars are all but forgotten.
So, your breath will serve you pestilence
and turn your lungs into peat.

The bones of the earth you have broken
you melted the marvels of the depths
forging leashes of silver and gold.
So, now your own bones will be broken
and their flesh melted off.

Carrion beetles pouring from his mouth:
But isn’t strife the core of existence?
and progress the arkhè of our lives?
I won this world with sword and fire
and carved it to my image!
My claim to the throne is just!

You have devised a new light and your eyes will see no further.
You have risen towers for a one long fall downwards…

You made a desert and called it peace…
So, rest assured – your claim will be processed justly
and the greatness of your deeds bestowed upon you! Открыть страницу с текстом

There was a time when stars filled the night sky. Stars bespeaking the will of gods as well as the fate of men, nobleman and commoner alike. The rise and fall of empires they foretold, and bold fortunes and terrible misfortunes. But mostly, on the earth of man, the fortunes of the greatest tyrants and the masters of word or sword.

Starlight – beautiful, albeit cold and dim – was always there for all to behold, so in life and so come death. But then, one day, these stars fell onto the earth. Their voices turned silent, and their sheen was forsaken. “Worry not”, said the Multitude, “for we have devised a new light which burns both brighter and wiser. We are the fathers and mothers of the stars of today. And our beloved child, the Machine, shall birth the stars of tomorrow.” And they danced and rejoiced and danced some more.

One lone silhouette does not dance. Having succumbed to gnawing doubt, it turns its back on the throbbing city lights and wanders into the wilderness: a place once worth cathedrals to men but now being engulfed, piece by piece, by the insatiable furnaces of mankind’s stars. Out of sight from cities and beneath an empty sky, with fear as the silhouette’s only companion, the darkness grows overwhelming. But, over time, the dark turns into shades of darkness and fear begins to recede.

The silhouette notices something in the distance – a patch of darkness resembling a forest, but a forest full of trees not made of wood. Trees that bend and whimper. And within their shadow flickers a shimmering black light: ambrosia to some during the days of yore, and ambrosia it will be to some yet unborn.

Down in the dampest and most desperate depths of this dreadful place, Horror slumbers, trembling, on a bed of crimson moss. Feared more than feral beasts and poisonous vipers, it’s been said that this ghastly Horror is the curse of seeing things for what they truly are; and with this malediction of sight comes the malediction to question. At its worst, this Horror could force your own reflection upon you in the mirror – a haunting never to be forgotten. Tears roll down one side of the face in the mirror, while cackling laughter ravages the other.

The silhouette is bent and breathless. Owls and crows murmur and mutter into the venerable breeze: “Your character is your fate. Your character has always been your fate.”

Then they become still, and their glances start to drift.

“Grant a sacrifice”, says the reflection in the mirror, “one which is not barren – and they will pluck some feathers with their beaks and speak anew as the feathers float almost motionless in the air, drifting ever so slowly downwards.”

Three drops of blood bid the birds’ murmur to resume: “The forward paths are manifold but not unlimited. All these paths are the sons and daughters of the forever-festering wound: the wound whose pus nurtures everything."

“We could make of you a seer”, they hiss, “but for every vision comes a cost of yielding something to the scythe.”

“The first vision”, says the smallest of the night-fowls, “will cost you the warmth of belonging.”

“They bark at all which they do not know. They bark at the sun, the moon, and the wind rustling through the leaves. They bark with a grin that reveals crooked teeth and greying gums. They bark whenever they hear barking, increasingly intoxicated by the sounds of their own barking. Their odorous, scab-plagued mass-stare fixes on you, as they all bark in unison: ‘The many are good and the few are bad – look only to us and bow to our creed, for we rule as kings on this earth. And our baskets are in towers so high that even the mountains pale with envy! Our leashes are plated with silver and our necklaces made of gold.’”

“This next vision”, croaks the eldest of the crows, “will cost you the solace that comes from the prowess of your kind.

Next to a pale horse stands a man. Tall and proud in stature, a crown adorns his head, and the garments he wears are fit for a king. “I have made myself the greatest of all gods”, he exclaims, “and now everything living bends to my will! “
The eyes of his horse roll back and turn inward. It neighs, spits out foam, and responds.
“You are indeed the king of kings, and you will own the greatness of your deeds. You have ploughed the soil and left it poisoned – henceforth, the fruits of the earth will turn to blight in your mouth, and your crops will be a slow and tasteless poison.”
Suddenly, the king seems to lose some of his swagger. His mount continues.
“The air was the sweetest and softest of all earthly delights, a treat for beings both big and small, but now the fumes of your creations smother the sky. Your breath will serve you pestilence and turn your lungs into peat.”
The king gasps for breath, as carrion beetles pour from his mouth.
“The bones of the earth you have broken, and you have melted the marvels of the depths. And now your own bones will be broken, and their flesh melted off.”
And, following the audible snapping of his shinbones, the king drops onto his knees.
“But isn’t strife the entirety of existence?”, he protests, “I conquered this world through sword and through fire and carved it to my image. Surely, my claim to the throne is just.”

“Polemos truly is the father of all things!”, the silhouette speaks up, causing the vision to vanish. “Enough with the lecturing now.”

“How rude!”, exclaim several voices from higher branches. “Silly impatience!”

“Hearken, child”, growls an owl – while carrying a rodent in its claws, nibbling on its head – “Yes, the arkhé of this world is fire. But for all the smoke that rises, something must also come down! Now, I know your kind. They tend to start off scoffing, but soon enough find themselves coughing… and, ultimately, beseeching the wind for the gift of breath. You profess yourself destined to feed the fire, blissfully ignorant that there are, in truth, many different fires burning with different smoke: most of them vain and very few divine. The vast majority of your wars are akin to hounds chasing their own tail. In terms of longevity, ice in the summer sun trumps all the spoils of your many conquests. War is holy, holy, and holy… defile it at your own peril.”

“Those words will cost you the relief of trusting in simple answers”, adds the owl, swallowing the rodent’s head.

“Many of us may burn in the fires of vanity, and even more live absent and hollow lives”, says the silhouette, aghast, seated on a rock. “But beyond those bound to become a pile of ashes, have our civilisations no valid claim to eternity?”

“The eternity of fools, perhaps!”, laughs a white crow.

A sprawling city, shrouded in gloomy radiance, lies next to the ocean. Never before have mortal eyes seen something so infinitely vast, complex, and interwoven. A living, breathing, metropolitan organism: the creation of a race of kings seeking to conquer the stars. Suddenly, the sustained note of lone horn cleaves the air. The very earth trembles. The ocean – Thaumas, perhaps – sets in motion three titan waves, each dwarfing the tallest wall. In their wake, all light turns into the darkest night. Lively noise yields to silence and heat surrenders to the cold. All that was dry has now become drenched. What was once considered an unconquerable jewel lies submerged and besieged… and that which was quiet returns to being quiet, undisturbed.

The white crow lands on the silhouette’s shoulder. It picks at the silhouette’s chest with its beak, leaving a pearl of blood. “This wound will never heal. May it serve as a reminder of the silence and oblivion that awaits all those whose scales are gripped and who refuse the dance around balance.”

“Enantiodromia!”, shouts a visibly exasperated owl.

“Yes indeed, enantiodromia!”, concurs the white crow, who then returns to perching in the crown of a bending, whimpering tree.

“If I may interject… “, speaks a profound voice.

All eyes shift to the left and focus on a stray poodle, black of colour and with eyes blazing red. He urinates on a small pile of rodent bones and rodent fur.

“O, beware – it truly is Him!” whispers the convergence of fowls. A deathlike silence settles over the nocturnal congregation.

Advancing to the midst of the gathering, the poodle swells to the size of a bear. He is covered with infected, worm-riddled lacerations. Through an air of confidence, he addresses the silhouette:

“Don’t let these prattling feathery fellows dampen your spirits! You dwell under the eternal law of nature which dictates that in order to survive, one must claim the lives of many others. Becoming an instrument of death is merely to exert upon the earth one’s earnest will to live. All that which you do not kill is enslaved, subjugated, and made a tool for your pleasure. And should anything escape your grip, my dear, it is simply because it cannot be turned into riches. For the voluptuousness of bloodshed – that unparalleled rush – you’d willingly abandon both father and mother. All that is required is a gentle push: a little nudge to stir your atavistic urges, the briefest of glimpses beneath the filthy rug of civilisation.”
“But you are just abiding by your human nature, and that is a good thing – very good, in fact”, he says with a flattering tone before continuing, playfully, “I seem to recall murder being made the first of your forbidden commandments, no? Was this not, in truth, because it is your foremost need? Whether by symbol or blade, death permeates your every undertaking. There is neither rest nor peace of mind to be found, so long as anything breathing has evaded your clutches. Ultimately, of course, this whirlwind will swallow you and your kind, for no one can retain mastery over death, nor contain it, through the course of centuries. In short: all of life is strife, yes, and you are the chief executioner. All is well under the sun, Polemos would be proud!”

After disgorging a pile of human limbs, he begins chewing on them. The feast is accompanied by the sound of cracking bones. Noticeably delighted, he looks up and adds with a wink: “I love you.”

“Now, now…” interjects the eldest of the owls. “Within the burden of destiny, there is choice at every step of the ladder – be it up or down.”

“One would have to imagine that Sisyphus is happy…” belches the monstrous poodle with palpable disdain. “Sisyphus is fighting a very long defeat, and since when do we like the defeated? Honour goes to victors only!”

The silhouette gasps. “Sisyphus tried to rectify a scandal! He is a saint. However fraught with imperfections, humanity has infused mercy into the natural order!”

With the sound of a hissing snake, the purulent poodle snarls: “Not even for your own kind! You revel in inequity. Inequity is your womb! How dare you even speak? Your hand has been too busy casting stones when, all the while, it should’ve covered your shameful face. Yes, I saw you! What you call civilisation is merely a fleeting attempt at taming the primordial beast. As you cannot fend off that ageless urge, how sly you are to channel it instead!” He pauses. “And even so, your entire species is a miser when it comes to mercy. It extends no further than what you have within your immediate sight. You are the direct descendant of perpetual discord. When your kind tries to impose sense upon the absurd, it is carried out through hierarchy. And since your hierarchies are ironclad, it must be enforced with arms. Tribe, class, caste, creed… words worth their weight in gold to whomever acquires a taste for blood and tears. Golden keys to swing wide open the very gates of Hell. “

“They can also bring a sense of order”, objects a crow, “and occasionally some solace. Under their shadow, a tree can grow to reach the sun. Sometimes, that tree goes by the name of Hope.”

“Fire will always lie dormant beneath the roots of this tree”, counters the colossal canine, “ready to burst into flame and turn it all into ash. After all, such is the nature of fire.” He smiles, and nods to the silhouette, “Suffice it to say, I’ve been around for a while. Let’s just say that history has a tendency to repeat itself. Eadem, sed aliter.”
“As it happens,” he adds with a secretive tone, “God himself is none too happy. His heavenly highness has grown somewhat sullen since you proclaimed him dead. He was just on the verge of discontinuing this entire debacle - again. But fear not, his love for gallows humour is as great as mine; he’s also a bit of a gambler. We have a running bet as to just how low you will sink this time around. After all, you are masterful at regression.” The poodle laughs heartily, the echoes of his shrill mirth piercing the ears of those assembled.

“A civilisation of the sword made god then, what grace would that find in your eyes?”, asks the silhouette, slowly rising.

“It is always those not of the sword, those who refuse its necessity, who are the first to meet it” replies the infernal creature. “But then again, those who are of the sword often perish shortly thereafter. A sword knows no master but the stench of blood; and once it has developed a taste for it, its hunger will never be quenched.”

“What about a civilisation under the philosopher king…?” says the silhouette, glancing into the distance.

“Well, beat up a bloody horse in Turin and the philosopher king drops his hammer”, scoffs the poodle. As he shakes his body and head, worms and pus are flung in all directions. Licking his snout, he says: “Folks, I am expected for dinner. With this breed in charge, the world has no dearth of souls to devour! Nonetheless, a final word in closing…” He stares with utmost intensity at the silhouette. “I am your father but also your child. We are family and you feed me.”

He trots out of the circle and barks: “SIE SIND GERICHTET”.

After a brief moment of oppressive silence, the silhouette asks: “How then does any of this balance the scales waiting at the horizon…?”

The smallest of the night-fowls replies: “You must speak the following oath: I am here to bring death, terror, and destruction.”

“But” objects the silhouette, “that’s not all… “

“Become death to become life”, whispers the smallest of the night-fowls.

"It will allow you to break the circle”, yells an intruding crow, “along with all the chain-links, and to finally breathe!”

“I was just about to say that!”, hisses the smallest of the night-fowls. “Swear the oath and be reborn. The immemorial voice of the rocks will become a melodic chant to your ears. You will hear curses hurled at the temples of mankind’s arrogance: chant with them and channel death. Submit yourself to the ocean’s cold embrace, tune your chant to its salty harmonies. The ocean will rise, cries of terror resounding all across its shores. But, most importantly, destruction is blind only to fools. To the wise, it is capacity to discriminate and to choose. It makes acceptance whole and he who carries it sovereign.”

“So, there is choice… “, starts the silhouette.

“… at every step of the ladder, yes”, the eldest of the owls completes the sentence. “Some steps will entail the sacrifice of everything you once held dear; many will lead to all-out war and strife. But without the purest of discernment, you miss the greatest foe of all.”

“The Devil?” ventures the silhouette.

An exasperated sigh ripples through the branches of the bending and whimpering trees.

“Haven’t you been listening?” scolds the white crow, as the cackle of disbelief slowly fades. “The Devil already told you: he is both your father and your child.”

“But he is the prince of lies! He is the Adversary!” says the silhouette, pointing in the direction where the monstrous poodle had vanished.

“And he loves you! Your kind feeds him well” sneers a crow who had hitherto remained silent.

“I remember how the night sky was once full of stars”, says the silhouette after a moment’s contemplation. “Is this memory true?”

“Aye”, the eldest of the owls answers softly. “They are still glittering in the night of those who tread the path of solar solitude. To the rest – to the flock – they are already dead and all but forgotten.”

“What amount of death, terror, and destruction must I wreak upon mankind in order to restore them?” proclaims the silhouette with a solemn tone. “For I am here to bring death, terror, and destruction.” As these words flutter in the air, it is as if an uncanny choir suddenly encircles the silhouette’s every word.

The eldest of the owls responds: “No matter how high a tower you build from the skulls of fallen foes, no matter the multitude of cities reduced to rubble, the child of Man has already been unleashed.”

“The Devil?” asks the bewildered silhouette. “He is the immemorial serpent roaming free. I feel him in my heart!”

The smallest of the night-fowls answers with a nervous voice: “’No, the Machine. A cosmos within the cosmos. It is mankind, the gods, and all the devils of creation at once. And something else – something new, untamed, and growing exponentially, that lies beyond our sight.”

(to be continued...)



I have come to bring death, terror, and destruction
Yes, the arkhè of this world is fire,
but for all the smoke that rises,
something must also come down!

Should their scales be gripped,
should they sneer at the dance around balance,
the sentencing from the stars will scream:
Death, silence, and oblivion!

The wise claim there are, in truth,
many different fires burning with different smoke,
most of them vain and very few divine

I have come to bring death and destruction
For the arkhè of this world truly is fire!
And for all the smoke you see rising,
something will come down on you,
blazing and burning shall it come for you.

Smitten sore with wretched wrath
under the light of burning stars
three hundred gods say murder all!

Behold the arch-fire, ignited by entire swarms of locusts!
Tentacles of war and fire,
just as war is thrice holy,
behold and beware as we join the dance.

Light turns into darkness, lively noise yields to silence,
and heat surrenders to the cold,
all that was dry has now become drenched in liquid.

A cosmos within the cosmos.
It is mankind, the gods,
and all the devils of creation at once.
And something else – something new,
It’s a power beyond you,
untamed, and growing exponentially.
I have come to bring death, and destruction!
I have come to bring death, silence, and oblivion!




You will be made to remember the time when mountains were your cathedrals…
You will be made to remember the time when the ocean was your womb…
You will be made to remember the time when fertile soil was holy ground…

No matter how high a tower you build from the skulls of fallen foes,
no matter the multitudes of cities reduced to rubble,
the child of Man has already been awakened and fed,
the child of Man has already been unleashed…

And He has come to bring vile death!
And He has come to bring ruin!
And He has come to bring silence!
And He has come to bring an end!
And He has come to bring new life!
And He has come to bring pure light!
And He has come to bring concord!
And He has come to bring order! Открыть страницу с текстом

You must claim lives, so many lives,
to exert upon this earth an earnest will to live.
Becoming an instrument of death is not a choice, but fate,
under laws made eternal!
 
Our life is your death
and our death is your life
in this shrinking world
at whose throat
even Eden draws her blade…
in this zero-sum game.
 
We’ve tamed the absurd
and brought all discord to a halt!
Those are the marvels of hierarchy,
upon which a Polis is built:
Tribe and class, caste and creed…
 
We will be the Sparta of your Athens!
If it was murder the first to be outlawed,
that’s because it’s our life’s blood.
Whether by word or whether by blade,
It is death that permeates our every quest!
 
Our death is your life
and our life is your death
in this shrinking world
at whose throat
even Eden draws her blade…
in this zero-sum game.
 
There won’t be rest nor peace of mind
so long as anything that breathes evades our grasp.
Become death to become life…
Swear the oath and be reborn!
 
Yet in the swing of the pendulum,
through the course of age,
no one retains mastery over death.
And still, under gods or tyrants, or philosopher kings…
Our life is our death and
all is well under the sun! Открыть страницу с текстом

You revel in inequity, inequity is your womb!
How dare you even speak?
Your hand has been too busy casting stones when,
all the while, it should have covered your shameful face.
Oh yes, we saw you. Yes! We saw you…

You bless with wounds that never heal,
you heal through wounds beyond any blessing.
Crime-turned-ambrosia oozes
through all the pores of your skin.

The paths you tread are the sons and daughters
of the wound that festers forever:
the wound whose pus nurtures everything,
the wound whose pus nourishes all.

Your civilisation is merely a fleeting attempt
at taming the beast.
As you cannot fend off that ageless urge,
how sly you are to channel it instead!

Your civilisations stand as monuments to perpetual discord:
a boundless will to power over the infinite…
culture, civilisation, culture…
The forever-festering wound
would have it no other way. Открыть страницу с текстом

To the shadows of ancient trees, moss, and autumn leaves. To austere ridges, sharp rocks, frozen streams, and the wind howling over bare summits. To thunderstorms and feverish full-moon nights. Red wine and brazen days. To the mysteries of knowledge, the scent of an old book. To resistance - no matter how vain. To sacrifices with the taste of rotten blood. To comrades, never to be forgotten: and lest we forget the Holy Dead. To the burning light of Lucifer, blinding the eye and liberating the heart! To the veil between divinity and man: the Devil! Yes! To the abhorrent lord of this earth, hearken to the long defeat. Открыть страницу с текстом