Illuminator

A solitary torch on a cobbled wall burned to illuminate the ominously dark and wide and deafeningly silent stone chamber. In one of the history-worn cells in the chamber, a young man with long black-brown hair in dreads and fair complexion sat naked and quivering in a frantic mix of fear and anger and staring at another man in a hooded black cloak standing in front of him and holding a red-hot brand. The chains tightly binding him by his wrists and ankles had been disabling him to fight for his own life. All he can do was to scream, his voice muffled by the silver tape used to close his mouth.

"Don't worry, Spencer, this is but a rehearsal," the hooded man, who seemed to be mocking a voice familiar to him, told him. "Later you'll be screaming for eternity miles and miles below that floor--and I hope you enjoy it. Your dear bandmates are waiting there for you--in fact, they're getting a little bit impatient."

I'd drag you there screaming with me, the guy called Spencer thought, mustering all the strength left in him to try to push his bound feet forward and kick the hooded man's leg. He was successful--he ignored the pain from the friction between his skin and the cold dark marble floor as he slid quickly forward to the hooded man's direction, his feet hitting the hooded man's leg and throwing him off-balance. The hooded man lost hold of his brand as he fell on his stomach beside Spencer and his hood finally betrayed his real identity.

Spencer stared at him in astonishment. I don't understand this! he thought. I thought you were my friend…

In the blink of an eye, there was the sound of hissing of burning flesh and a muffled shriek of agony.

***

The bright white light almost blinded him when he was jolted out of what seemed like a deep, long sleep. Was it real? He and his friends--his bandmates--were supposed to be on vacation from a set of exhilarating yet exhausting tours from one country to another. It was their keyboardist who proposed the idea of going to Rome. "I want to see the catacombs," he told them.

He turned to look around him. Everything was pristine white and light green. To his left was an oxygen tank, its contents transferred through his nostrils by a thin tube. In front of him was a clear window. He could see people walking to and fro outside the room in white medical robes and gas masks and hear their muffled voices in a foreign language--Latin, Spanish, Portuguese? Ah, he forgot that he was in Rome. They were in Rome. But where were they--Tim, Chris, James, Daniel, Grant? Were they in here as well? Were they safe? Or… ?

"Later you'll be screaming for eternity miles and miles below that floor--and I hope you enjoy it. Your dear bandmates are waiting there for you--in fact, they're getting a little bit impatient."

Maybe Chris wasn't the only one to see the catacombs now...

No!

It was just one stupid dream. Nothing more. But it was totally weird...

He could swear it was him. They were the best of friends, even after Aaron had left their band after thirteen years of being its heart--the drummer, aside from singing and writing some songs for them. But--of all the dreams he could dream. And of all people!

"This is where they all come to hunt me down, hunt me down..." the hooded man, with his bright orange shoulder-length hair and pale young face now revealed, sang mockingly as he pressed the brand harder against the bare chest of the man writhing and growling beside him.

"Where they come to hunt me down, they hunt me down…"

A heartless laugh escaped his lips.

A sharp pain flashed from his chest. When he placed a hand on his chest, whatever wound was on its skin hurt so much that he hissed and almost sputtered a curse word. He slowly lifted the paper gown off his chest to see what it was.

A flawless diamond, born of the ancient elements with such perfection that all those who saw it could only stare in wonder.

His heart pound away in horror as the words imprinted on his chest in a perfectly symmetrical diamond stared back at him.

Earth. Air. Fire. Water.