Chapter 2: Adoratio Solaris

The burn refused to heal.

Three days had passed since Julian's latest nightmare, and the hand-shaped mark on his arm seemed to mock every medical remedy he applied. The antiseptic cream Dr. Morrison had prescribed turned the surrounding skin an angry purple. The bandages, changed twice daily, came away stained with a clear fluid that smelled faintly of ozone and burnt metal.

Julian sat in his study, methodically cleaning the wound as morning light filtered through the curtains. Each ray that touched the mark sent a pulse of heat through his arm, as if his very flesh were responding to the sun's presence. He gritted his teeth and continued his ministrations, determined not to acknowledge the impossibility of it all.

His journal lay open beside him, filled with increasingly desperate entries chronicling the mark's refusal to heal. But today's entry would be different. Today, he would finally write about what came after that first conversation in the library—about Alistair's descent into something far worse than scholarly obsession.

June 18th, 1987

I can no longer pretend this is merely psychosomatic. The mark throbs with its own rhythm, independent of my pulse. When sunlight touches it, I swear I can hear whispers—not in any language I recognize, though something deep in my mind insists I should understand every word.

I must record what happened after that day in the library. Perhaps putting it to paper will somehow diminish its hold on me. Perhaps confession will bring absolution.

God, let it bring absolution.

Julian set down his pen and closed his eyes, allowing the memories to surface once more.

---

Summer 1985. Three months after Alistair's revelation.

Julian had noticed the changes gradually. At first, it was merely his friend's appearance—Alistair had taken to wearing lighter colors, claiming his usual dark tweeds made him feel "stifled." His pale complexion had begun to show the first hints of a tan, unusual for someone who typically spent his days buried in dusty tomes.

But it was the books themselves that had truly alarmed Julian.

"What's all this?" Julian had asked during one of their weekly meetings at the Faculty Club, gesturing at the stack of volumes Alistair had brought with him. The familiar academic texts had been replaced by obscure works on solar mythology, ancient Egyptian religious practices, and—most disturbing—modern treatises on "heliotherapy" and "solar consciousness."

Alistair had looked up from his reading with eyes that seemed unusually bright, almost fevered. "Research, my dear fellow. I told you I intended to pursue this Akhenaten business seriously."

"Seriously, yes, but..." Julian had picked up one of the books—a self-published volume titled "The Solar Path: Embracing Your Divine Nature Through Sun Worship." The author's credentials were conspicuously absent. "Alistair, this isn't scholarship. This is..."

"What? Heresy?" Alistair had laughed, but there was an edge to it that Julian had never heard before. "Sometimes heresy is simply truth arriving ahead of its time."

Julian had set the book down carefully, noting how his friend's fingers lingered on its sun-emblazoned cover. "I'm concerned about you. You've been different lately. Distant."

"Not distant. Elevated." Alistair had leaned forward, his voice dropping to that same conspiratorial whisper he'd used in the archives. "Julian, I've been practicing. The adoratio solaris—the solar adoration that Akhenaten perfected. And it works."

The Latin phrase had sent a chill through Julian's scholarly soul. Adoratio solaris was not a term from any legitimate academic source he knew. "What exactly do you mean by 'practicing'?"

Alistair had glanced around the club's dining room, ensuring they wouldn't be overheard. "I've been spending time in direct sunlight. Unprotected exposure, just as the hieroglyphs describe. And Julian... I can feel Him. Aten. His presence is unmistakable."

"Alistair, you're talking about deliberately damaging your skin. This is dangerous—"

"Dangerous?" Alistair's voice had risen slightly, drawing glances from nearby tables. He'd lowered it again, but his intensity remained. "Julian, for the first time in my life, I'm truly alive. The warmth doesn't just touch my skin—it penetrates to my very soul. I'm being purified, transformed into something higher."

Julian had studied his friend's face more carefully then, noting the subtle changes he'd previously attributed to summer's approach. The slight redness around Alistair's nose and cheeks. The way his hair seemed to have lightened by several shades. The faint smell of sunscreen that clung to his clothes, though Julian was beginning to suspect Alistair wasn't using any.

"Show me," Julian had said quietly.

"What?"

"Show me what you mean. If this is legitimate religious experience, if it's producing measurable results..."

Alistair had smiled then—a slow, beatific expression that transformed his features into something Julian barely recognized. "Oh, my dear friend. I was hoping you'd ask."

---

The next day, Julian had found himself standing outside Alistair's townhouse in Bloomsbury, clutching a bottle of wine and fighting the urge to turn around and leave. Something about his friend's invitation had unsettled him deeply, though he couldn't articulate why.

Alistair had answered the door wearing only a white cotton shirt and trousers, both of which seemed unnecessarily light for the evening's chill. His skin had darkened noticeably since their lunch, taking on a deep bronze that might have been attractive if not for the slightly angry redness beneath.

"Julian! Excellent. Come in, come in." Alistair had ushered him inside with unusual enthusiasm. "I have so much to show you."

The house had been transformed. Furniture had been rearranged to maximize the natural light flowing through the windows. Heavy curtains had been removed entirely, leaving the rooms exposed to every available ray of sunshine. But it was the smell that had struck Julian most forcefully—a strange, ozone-tinged aroma that seemed to permeate everything.

"What's that smell?" Julian had asked, setting down the wine bottle.

"Purification," Alistair had replied matter-of-factly. "The scent of spiritual transformation. Come, let me show you the adoration chamber."

He had led Julian up the stairs to what had once been a modest guest bedroom. The space had been completely gutted. The walls were painted a brilliant white that seemed to glow in the afternoon light. All furniture had been removed save for a simple wooden stool positioned directly in the center of the room, facing the largest window.

But it was the window itself that had made Julian's breath catch. The glass had been removed entirely, leaving only an open rectangle that framed the sky beyond. The afternoon sun streamed through unobstructed, creating a shaft of golden light that illuminated the stool like a spotlight.

"Alistair, you'll catch pneumonia with no glass in that window."

"Glass filters the sacred radiation," Alistair had explained, moving to stand in the beam of sunlight. His face had transformed as the rays touched him, taking on an expression of rapture that belonged in a cathedral, not a stripped bedroom. "Aten's essence must reach us unimpeded."

Julian had watched in growing alarm as his friend had removed his shirt, revealing skin that was no longer merely tanned but actively red, as if he'd spent hours under a Mediterranean sun without protection. Worse, there were patches where the skin had begun to peel, leaving raw pink areas that should have been agonizing.

"Good God, Alistair. You're burning yourself."

"I'm being refined." Alistair had settled onto the stool, spreading his arms wide to catch more of the light. "Like gold in the crucible, Julian. The dross must be burned away before the pure metal emerges."

"This is self-harm. This is..." Julian had struggled for words, watching his friend's face transform into something alien as he basked in the direct sunlight. The beatific expression had intensified until Alistair looked less like a man than like a religious icon painted by a madman.

"This is communion." Alistair's voice had taken on a dreamy quality, as if he were speaking from very far away. "Can you feel Him, Julian? Can you sense His presence in the light?"

Julian had felt something, certainly—a pressure in the air, a weight that seemed to press against his chest and make breathing difficult. The rational part of his mind had attributed it to anxiety, to the shock of seeing his friend in such a state. But another part, a deeper part he preferred not to acknowledge, had recognized something else entirely.

Something watching. Something hungry.

"Alistair, please. Come away from the window."

But his friend had seemed not to hear him. Alistair's eyes had rolled back, showing only whites, and his mouth had fallen open in a wordless expression of ecstasy. The smell of burning flesh had begun to fill the room.

Julian had fled then, stumbling down the stairs and out into the street, his mind reeling with what he'd witnessed. Behind him, through the glassless window, he could hear Alistair's voice raised in what might have been prayer or might have been screaming.

The words had followed him down the street, carried on the evening air in a language that wasn't quite Egyptian, wasn't quite human:

"Aten... Aten... purify me... transform me... make me worthy..."

---

Julian jerked back to the present as pain flared through his arm. The burn mark was glowing—actually glowing with its own faint light, as if lit from within. He stared at it in horror, watching as the finger-shaped impressions seemed to pulse with golden fire.

Sunlight was streaming through his study window, and in its rays, Julian could swear he saw shapes moving. Shadows that walked upright, arms outstretched in worship, their forms wavering like heat mirages.

He slammed the journal shut and stumbled away from the window, but the whispers followed him:

"Adoratio solaris, Julian... join us in the light... let Him purify you as He purified us..."

The voice was Alistair's, but wrong somehow—dried out, cracked, like leather left too long in the desert sun.

Julian pressed his back against the far wall, clutching his burned arm to his chest. That visit to Alistair's house had been two years ago, but the memory felt fresh as an open wound. He had tried to dismiss what he'd seen, to rationalize it away as a friend's temporary mental breakdown.

But rationalization was impossible when the evidence was seared into his flesh, when the voices whispered from every beam of sunlight, when he could feel something vast and alien turning its attention toward him with the inexorable patience of a predator.

Whatever Alistair had found in his adoratio solaris, whatever had answered his prayers for communion with the divine, it wasn't finished with either of them.

And as the golden light crept across his study floor, Julian Knight realized with dawning horror that his friend's madness might have been contagious after all.