The Fable of the Children of the Abyss – A Tale of Faith and Freedom

The Palace of Promises

In an ancient kingdom, perched between the clouds of faith and the mists of fear, stood the Palace of Promises. There lived families with fervent hearts who swore they loved their children more than life itself. They kissed their foreheads each morning, tucked them in at night whispering “May God protect you,” and repeated endlessly, “I would do anything for you.”

But beneath the golden arches of that palace, every birth carried an old curse. A silent secret that no one ever shared with the children: the path laid out for them might lead to the abyss. An eternal abyss. For here, parental love came with a sacred transmission — Faith. And this faith, gentle at first, sometimes bore invisible fangs. If the child doubted, disobeyed, or dared to walk another path, the abyss opened wide. And no one knew if there would be a way back.

The Rite of the Name

On the day they were born, each child received a name, a bath, and a belief. No one asked for their opinion. They were offered. They were tied, without knowing, to a spiritual contract. Their parents, convinced it was for the good, inscribed their offspring into the eternal records without opening any alternative. It was not cruelty, they thought, but heritage. The child was not meant to choose — only to continue.

“They need a structure,” said the elders. “A moral compass, a shield, a path.” And no one truly questioned what that structure contained. They passed it down like a coat of arms, unaware the symbol might be carved in acid.

The Mask of Love

The children grew up in the shadow of flawless love. Every day they were told they were cherished, adored, precious. But behind those caresses, a darker equation slept. Because if the inherited Faith was true, then one misstep, one doubt, one moment of weakness could doom the child forever. And that Hell, even if softened by metaphor, was written in the very books read at bedtime.

Did those who loved the most dare to face the risk they were imposing? Did they ask the terrible question: “Do I have the right to bring a soul into existence if I cannot guarantee that my love will not, in the end, become a sentence without end?”

The Architects of Uncertainty

At the heart of the kingdom, some parents believed they were entrusting everything to the justice of God. “He will judge,” they said. “He is merciful.” But they avoided pushing their faith to its logical end. Because if they were right, then every gesture mattered, every lapse, every deviation. One fault, one forgotten rule, one careless day could be enough to lose the child forever.

And yet, those same parents spent months choosing schools, insurance plans, diets. They read labels, consulted experts. But for the child’s soul, they simply repeated what they had been told, without verification. They passed on blindly what they themselves had never examined properly.

The Illusion of Safety

“But we are giving them the true faith,” they said. “They will have the best chance of being saved.” As if that argument guaranteed the child would escape Hell automatically. They forgot that every religion claims the same, with the same certainty. And what if, in adulthood, the child chose another path? Rejected the inherited belief? That imposed faith then became a trap, a ticking spiritual bomb. Instead of protecting them, it exposed them to a risk they never even knew they were carrying.

And so, the promised salvation became conditional, fragile like a rope bridge stretched over an unseen canyon. And the love that claimed to give everything became the origin of an infinite debt: “Be faithful to what we gave you, or suffer forever.”

The Parents of Silence

Why, then, did so few parents question this logic? Why this silence about the Hell they had placed at their child’s feet like a poisoned toy? The answer was simple: tradition and comfort. “Our parents gave us this faith, and we were happy,” they said.

But being happy does not mean being right. And passing on blindly is not love. It is repetition without courage. Worse still, some dressed Hell in new clothes. They made it symbolic, rare, improbable. A punishment for tyrants and monsters only. But the texts said otherwise. And that disguise, however comforting, did not protect the children. It only soothed the conscience of those who had imposed the invisible sword.

The Freeborn

In distant lands of the kingdom, a few parents began to doubt. They admitted their ignorance. Instead of transmitting dogma, they offered a quest. To their children, they said: “This is what I have believed, but you are free. I teach you ethics, doubt, and honesty. The rest, you will search for on your own.”

They promised no paradise, no Hell. Only respect. And they believed that if God was just, He would not punish sincere error or honest seeking. These children grew without chains. And even if they doubted, they did not tremble. Because no one had told them that one mistake could destroy them forever.

The Forbidden Question

One day, a child who had become an adult returned to the Palace of Promises. He had walked far, doubted often. He approached his parents, tears in his eyes. “Why did you give me such a harsh faith without telling me I was free? Why did you tie me to a fear I never chose?”

The parents said nothing. Silence had become their only answer. Because to admit the question would mean facing an unbearable remorse: that they had brought into the world a soul they could not protect. They had loved him, truly. But they had failed to prove it in any way other than repeating the errors of centuries.

The Kingdom of the Wager

And the kingdom continued. Children were born. They were bathed in faith. They were told the story of a good but demanding God. The hard questions were avoided. And the smiles of baptism still concealed the original wager:

“You are alive. You may love, laugh, create. But if you stray, eternal fire awaits.”

So on a forbidden hill, an old man carved these words into a stone:

“He who gives life without knowing how to shield it from the worst should not speak the word love.”

And that stone, which no one wanted to read, remained there, alone. A silent reminder that sometimes, Hell begins in the cradle.