MountainsShort: Short Story – The Envoy of Decay
The Envoy of Decay
Few among the wise have ever heard his name — if name he ever had. No records, no memories, no trace. Where he comes, all things have already ended. It is his hour, and his essence.
He is the Envoy of Decay.
Was he sent? Or does he walk willingly, bearing witness to the ruin of all things that die? Does he feed on the slow surrender of the world?
They speak of him in whispers, eyes darting, afraid he might step from the shadow behind them. Some tell of séances and the mutterings of infernal spirits that know his tale. No one claims belief — and still the story lives.
His arrival was never foretold. He was simply there.
Two black carriages — silent, dust-veiled, without wheels — halted before the southern gate of the infernal palace. A breath of ash rose and drifted down again, heavy as forgotten snow.
After an age — when even the idea of eternity seemed exhausted — the doors opened.
He stepped out first. Slowly. Unimpressed. Unchanged.
He spoke not. He regarded no one.
He moved toward the palace gates as though they had been waiting for him since the first collapse of light. His coat hung still — the air itself recoiled and thinned around him.
The wing darkened instantly, as if shy light had turned its face away.
The Grand Duke of Deceit, Prince of Lies, Keeper of the Nine Gates — the Devil himself —
... was not present.
He was occupied elsewhere.
Servants ran. The finest rooms were made ready.
The Envoy received quarters overlooking the Tribunal of Angels and the Purgatory — two faces of eternal order, smouldering like old photographs held too close to a flame.
He entered, sat, looked — and did not speak.
Time bent near him. Slower. Heavier. Uncertain.
Marble statues cracked. The torture engines sighed. The damned grew silent, uneasy in their own misery.
The Devil grew restless. He acted his roles — the jester, the deceiver, the tyrant.
Yet the palace was filled only with the stillness of decay. The Envoy did not eat. Did not complain. He simply remained.
At last, the Devil summoned her — the Envoy’s companion. Perhaps a sign of doubt. Some whispered, panic.
She came: black-haired, pale, graceful as dust before a storm. A smile that remembered beauty, though it no longer believed in it.
“Vacation …?” the Devil echoed.
She smiled. “Where, if not in Hell, could he best indulge himself? Sorrow, despair, futility … your realm is his delight.”
The Devil said nothing. A strange ache stirred inside him — something like helplessness. He did not recognize it.
Since then, the Envoy of Decay has kept his rooms within the palace.
No one enters.
The corridor outside is cold — not infernal, but void. Meaningless.
Sometimes new souls swear they hear a murmur. No one answers.
Only the Devil passes by, now and then. Slow steps. Straight back. Eyes lowered.
End.
Anmerkung: Die deutsche Übersetzung (Der Abgesandte des Verfalls) bekommt ihr hier:
