by Nocturned
Item #: SCP-7642
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: The area surrounding SCP-7642 has been fenced off from the public and disguised as an archaeological research site under the jurisdiction of the Russian Ministry of Culture. Satellite imagery of the surrounding region is to be altered to obscure the precise location of SCP-7642.
All items and artifacts recovered from SCP-7642 are to be transported to Site-20 for analysis and storage.
Description: SCP-7642 refers to the damaged remains of a subterranean temple complex located in the Sayan mountain range in southeastern Russia. It is constructed from a mixture of clay, basalt, and inert organic material, primarily bone and muscle. Radiocarbon dating of preserved biological matter within the structure suggests it was built between 1700 BCE and 1400 BCE.
The central chamber of SCP-7642 is situated approximately 11 meters below the surface. Although the ceiling has partially collapsed, many architectural features remain intact, including several basalt columns encased in calcified muscle tissue. Despite prolonged exposure to the elements, these biological components show no signs of decomposition. Samples of tissue harvested for testing reveal no cellular regeneration or anomalous traits beyond their remarkable state of preservation.
Despite the anomalous nature of some of the materials used in its construction, the most distinctive feature of SCP-7642 lies in the architectural and symbolic elements present within the structure. The design philosophy of SCP-7642 incorporates motifs from both Daevite and Sarkic architecture, a highly unusual combination given the extreme hostility documented between the two culture groups.
No living or deceased organisms or entities have been recorded within SCP-7642 to date.
Discovery: SCP-7642 was discovered on 08/12/1996 during a geological survey conducted by Dr. █████ ███████, a Russian hydrologist who was investigating permafrost retreat near the headwaters of the Abakan River. Initial reports indicated the presence of a temple partially exposed by a landslide. Foundation agents embedded within the Russian Academy of Sciences flagged the site for Foundation interest following explorer accounts describing having found large quantities of flesh having been used as construction material.
Addendum 1: The following is a list of notable artifacts recovered from SCP-7642.
Designation
Description
Notes
ARTF-7642-01
A carved stone tablet located near the entrance, written in Old Daevon.
A partial translation of the text reads: “[…] Sarnali, the most merciful. She forgave the wretched sons, and took them to root.”
ARTF-7642-04
An altar formed from ossified muscle tissue.
N/A
ARTF-7642-05
A ceremonial dagger. The blade of which is made of bone.
The words "The blade binds wielder to victim. It binds life to death" are carved on both sides of the blade in Old Daevon.
ARTF-7642-09
A pendant shaped like a stylized uterus, composed of enamel and iron.
A sigil is present on the back of the pendant. Significance unknown.
ARTF-7642-14
A wall mural depicting a woman in ceremonial Daevite garments lifting a human heart in one hand and a dagger in the other. Several human figures are depicted supplicating behind her.
The entire mural appears to have been painted in blood with varying pigmentation.
ARTF-7642-20
A ceremonial mask composed of bark, stretched human skin, and copper, shaped to resemble a feminine face.
The interior surface is lined with fine thorns angled inward. Blood traces suggest it was worn during ritualistic self-harm activities.
ARTF-7642-26
A bowl carved from a single adult human skull. The interior is etched with a Daevite glyph meaning “remembrance.”
Purpose unknown, although, given its placement near ARTF-7642-04, it is believed that it may have been used to receive or deliver offerings.
Addendum 2: The following is a collection of translated texts from scrolls and other documents recovered from one of SCP-7642's smaller chambers, arranged in approximate chronological order.
[-] Close.
I have forgotten how many days it has been since we first arrived. The snow melts in wet chunks above our heads and the clay bleeds red from the foundation pits. The priestesses say this is a blessing, but I can't see anything but a curse.
We have dug through frost and rot. A forest once stood here. They cut it all down in a single week. The slaves snapped the trees at the root with their bare hands, shivering and bruised. One still wears the neck chain I gave him, back when I was his shepherd. I try not to look at him. I tell myself I am not the same man who gave him that chain in love and loyalty. But I am. That, I know.
I stood before the Daeva overseeing the construction yesterday and lied through my teeth about how honored I am to serve her cause. She smiled and gave me a pinch of her flesh to swallow as reward. I vomited it later behind the altar mound, bile spattering bone.
I felt sick right then, as I do right now. I can only hope that Ion will forgive me.
It was not cowardice. Not truly.
Ion promised us liberation. He gave us the words of inspiration, taught us to hear the blood and mold the bone, but he never promised certainty. I saw what they did to the ones they captured. Pinned them like damned insects and burnt them down to ash.
So when the Daevas offered me a chance to join— no, not to join, but to serve. I took it.
I knew I’d be a tool, but tools are useful, and being useful means survival. This I know very well.
I still remember when I made the first offering to them. My hands shook. I whispered Ion’s name and begged him to forgive me, but I do not think he can. I do not think I can.
My siblings live in the southern chamber now. They no longer speak to me, not even when they are made to work beside me. I do not blame them.
Lerron spat in my direction today. He was a cantor once. His voice was so magnificent that he could summon fire with it. Now, he is forced to chant for the Daevas as they conduct their foul and perverse rituals.
“You truly believe they will spare you?” he hissed, lips split, teeth loose.
I struck him. It was instinct. He bled and spat at me. I think I wept.
Later that night, a priestess came to my chamber and offered to “bless” me with a new name, one that would sever me from my former kin. I said yes. I am called "Osan" now.
A traitor's name.
I finished the altar today.
There is a creature within it. It is meant to be awakened if my people claim this place as their own. They keep feeding it with blood, teeth, fingers, anything they deem “pure."
It twitches like it is dreaming. The Daevas say it will sing someday.
If it does, I will dig my ears out with my own hands.
They asked me to demonstrate flesh crafting today. Of course they did.
I have shown them this before. Shown them how to thread nerves like rope, how to pulse blood through empty vessels without a heart, how to coax marrow to flower and sprout bone like bark. They watched, and they learned.
Today they took a girl. She could not have been older than thirteen, and used it on her. Not for healing, not for creation, but to stretch her bones like wire while she still breathed. She screamed for her mother until the end. The Daevas ignored her and shut her mouth when they had enough. They marveled at what their hands could now do.
My teeth ache from grinding. My jaw cramps each night. I say nothing. I tell myself the lie again and again: this will all be worth it when I have my land, my freedom. But even my own voice mocks me now.
I dream of Adytum, even now. Of home.
Not the place itself, but the moments, the people, the chant of morning prayers to Ion. Things I will never get to experience ever again. I do not deserve it after what I've done.
They call this place a mercy, a temple to “forgiveness," they say. A home for those misguided by an idealistic traitor, constructed by a merciful Daeva, Sarnali.
A bitter joke, perhaps, for the mercy of a Daevite is a knife that cuts just deep enough to make you thank them for the pain.
I sacrificed a child today.
Her name was Elari. She was one of mine. Not by blood, but by oath. She once carried the antlers during the spring rites. Her knees always ached, and I gave her balm for it when we had such things. I told her stories of Ion and his Klavigars when she had trouble sleeping.
I carved her open for the Daevas. I said the words, and the knife moved, and her ribs cracked like bird bones. They clapped. They smiled. I dipped my fingers in her heart's blood and painted their twisted symbols across the altar.
I do not feel like I can sleep today.
I will not write tomorrow.
Ion, please, forgive me.
You think I was the only one? You think I broke first?
No. There were many. I could name them, if I still had the stomach for it. Names I once spoke with joy. Men and women who marched beside me when we fled the slave camps. Who stood around Ion like sparks around the flame.
They are here too.
Not just in chains, no. Some wear robes. Some command squads of slaves, some smile, just like I do, when a Daeva looks their way. We traded our freedom for safety, but it was necessary. We are not cowards. I am not a coward.
The cause is doomed. I am sure that Ion will understand.
I am told that, once the war ends, I will be given a district of my own for my services
I will have a garden and people to watch over again, but not like before. It will not be like a family, no. These will be strangers. They will call me Master and avert their eyes while they do so.
I tell myself I will hate it. I will use my position for good. I will free those I can. I will not become one of them.
And yet…
I have already become what I once bled to destroy, have I not?
One of the slaves escaped last night. He made it deep into the woods before they caught him.
They brought him broken. His spine was fractured, his mouth was filled with dirt and blood. The priestess in charge asked me if I knew him.
I did.
He used to dance during the evening rites back in Adytum. He braided the younger boys’ hair. He always saved the best berries from his rations to give to the sick.
I said I did not know him.
I watched them nail his hands to the outer gate as a warning.
I tried to treat his wounds, but he would not let me.
Sometimes I look at my hands and they do not feel like they belong to me.
I remember when they healed. When they shaped broken bone and closed wounds. When I used them to cure the sick and feed the hungry.
Now they pull teeth and skin, now they show Daevite brats how to stretch a liver into a map of constellations.
And I smile when I do it. I smile, Ion, forgive me.
Because if I do not, they will notice. And if they notice, I will go the way of the rest.
I tell myself I am still me. That one day I will return. That one day I will be forgiven.
But I know that this is not true.
I cannot stop.
The night bleeds into the day and the day bleeds into the next. I am running, but nowhere is far enough.
Every fiber of meat I weave screams at me, each thread a thousand voices trapped inside it, begging for release, begging for mercy, begging for death. And I bind them tighter.
My mind fractures like the bones I break. At times, I see Ion’s eyes, wide, accusing, impossible to face. At other times, I see her, Sarnali. Her lips twisting into a smile that never reaches her eyes.
I laugh sometimes, like a mad thing, because if I do not laugh, I fear I will break.
They think I am their faithful servant. The one who bends flesh like clay, who sacrifices without hesitation. But they do not see the pieces of me scattered like dust across this frozen mountain.
I will survive. Or I will die trying.
And if I die, may Ion have mercy on my shattered soul.
A new presence has taken interest in me. She calls herself Adelya.
I had seen her before but we never exchanged words, until yesterday.
"You look tired," she said, as I carved a pattern into fresh bone.
I said nothing.
She laughed and pressed a cool hand to my shoulder. "You think yourself cursed. But there is purpose in pain, yes?"
I looked up. Her eyes were cruel, but in them was a flicker of something… almost kindness. Almost.
"You are broken," she said, "but you are still useful. More useful than you know."
I wanted to spit in her face. Instead, I nodded.
She smiled then, and leaned close, whispering, "You are interesting. I will keep an eye on you."
She stays near after that. Watches as I work. Sometimes she speaks of what she will do once the war is over, in a way that almost makes her sound kind, but I am not foolish. This is likely a scheme to make me feel safer so she can take advantage of me later.
For what reason though, I do not know.
Is this hope? Or is it madness?
Adelya and I… we share moments now. Small ones. A touch on the arm. A glance held too long. Words that linger beyond their meaning.
She teaches me things about the Daevas and their way of life: the architecture of power, the subtle dance of dominance and submission. In turn, I speak to her about Ion's teachings and how my people came to be.
She listens, sometimes smiles, and sometimes laughs.
She says I am a fascinating puzzle, a man divided against himself, and perhaps that is true.
Sometimes I wonder if I am the only one who feels this way. If beneath her veneer of cruelty there is a fragment of something human. Or perhaps she simply enjoys the curiosity I bring to her.
Still, in this frozen hell, her presence is the only fire I know.
I think about freedom constantly.
What it tastes like. What it smells like. The feel of warm earth under bare feet, the cry of a bird at dawn.
I remember when Ion spoke of freedom as a birthright, something worth dying for, worth suffering for.
And yet, here I am. A man bought and sold, a slave made master, a traitor to himself.
Sometimes, late at night, I speak to Adelya. She listens in ways no one else does. She knows I am broken, and I think she likes it that way. But I cannot help myself.
She has promised me land, power, a seat at the table beside her. But I do not know what to think.
Adelya spoke to me again tonight, with her crimson robes and serpent’s tongue.
She called me to her chambers after the rites and offered me wine.
“You are valuable,” she said. “You have endured more than most. Would you like a reward?”
I asked what she meant.
She pressed her fingers to my jaw and turned my face toward hers. Her eyes were like polished obsidian, beautiful and bottomless.
"A home,” she whispered. “A future, me.”
I did not answer. Not out loud.
But I thought about it. I thought about the way her fingers trace my scars when she is feeling kind. About the way she presses her forehead to mine when no one is watching.
I hate her. I need her.
I told her I needed time. She kissed my brow and said I had already chosen.
I think she is right.
Today we conducted the rites of devotion. The altar trembled so hard that a crack formed beneath it. Something stirred below.
I led the rite. I said the prayers. I slaughtered a defenseless and scared man while the Daevas celebrated. Adelya watched me with approval. She did not speak, but I felt her eyes.
That night, she let me rest with her, curled like a dying hound at her feet. I do not know if she does this out of cruelty or comfort. Perhaps both.
She whispered dreams into my ear as I drifted: dreams of cities made from bone, of thrones atop mountains of corpses.
“You could be more,” she said. “If only you would stop clinging to the past.”
But the past clings to me. I carry it like a tumor behind my ribs.
And I think, perhaps, I deserve to.
It is over. Word came today. A whisper, then a cry, then a scream.
The Daevite Empire is broken.
Some say that my people won a decisive victory. Others say that the wretched creature they call a god had forsaken them. It does not matter.
I stood outside the temple for hours, breathing the cold air. The wind did not feel like knives. The sky was not bleeding. There were no orders to follow. No rituals to prepare.
For the first time in decades, no one asked me to kill. No one told me to do anything at all.
I should be grateful and relieved that everything is over, but… I do not know what to do with this silence.
I convinced myself that the Daevas would win. That Ion’s dream was a fantasy. That the rebellion would be crushed, and I would survive by becoming what I hated.
I carved children like livestock. I trained butchers and called it education. I stitched the screams of the innocent into holy songs. And for what?
The empire collapsed. My name will be spoken in disgust when it is spoken at all. Adelya fled east, they say. She tried to bring me with her, but I refused.
I walk these mostly empty halls now. Bones in the walls. Blood in the stone. Every corner reminds me of what I did to stay alive…
I am alive, but I am not clean.
I will not be staying much longer. I can't.
I know that I will be hunted for my transgressions. If I ever get caught, I will not beg. I will not ask for forgiveness. I will stand, bare and broken, and say only this:
I remember, and I am sorry.