Immortality is not a gift. It is a curse only meant for the elite of evil, the worst of the many sinners. Those who claim their acts of evil are for the greater good of others. Taking futures by dark means in the claim to provide brighter one. Darkness does not breed light...light does not call forth darkness.
The only people who would revel in eternal life are the soulless who live without the consideration of the lives of others, their families, their people. To die is the truest act of living, it inspires, it spurs, inclining us to achieve and grow and move forward. To climb the seemingly insurmountable because here and now are all you are gauranteed. You may not be here tomorrow. But before you go you will see the other side of that towering adversity, because it has no right to tell you what can not be achieved in the short entanglement you have with this mysterious mistress known as life. The impossible has no justification in proclamation of your inadequacies so readily, so rudely as you pass through the small kingdom of life on your way to the next plateau to assume it can insult you in passing by saying it is stronger as you walk your short path.
So in that short period you attempt to prove the chink in it's chain, the weakness in it's armor. Many times over you will succeed.
You, are every great person who has ever lived, and died.
I, am an eternal procrastinator who has not bid to the demand of death for my achievements in centuries. I am Atlas shrugging, I am the philosopher without his apprentice. I am the past without a future.
I am the Demon
In his life as a Duke, Varius was a man with a peasants complex, a knights honor, and a King's resolution. He was what the people needed. Until he was called upon to join the Pope's elite Templar in the year of our lord, twelve thirty one.
"None can fight with his ferocity."
"God is in his right hand"
"Were he not a man of the Lord I would call him Devil."
The countless praises that followed mention of the Duke were always spread in his youth from his time in servitude for the King. His victories were nearly countless, his prowess only rivaled by the rarest breeds of men. Manson the Hammer, Vlad the Impaler, Baron Knightfall, and a select other few.
He found the burden of carrying the titles much more heavy than any blade. For where the blade's passing brought him closer to home, the titles passing took him further away. Called to arms over, and over, and over.
Jerusalem
"Hail." The guardsmen grumbles in a restless voice, exhausted in the sandy cave beneath Jerusalem holding the last few dying warriors of Catholicism. Varius smiles with weary black eyes "Hail." he says abbreviating the tiring mantra of the Templar long winded formalities reserved for men who could feel superior outside of conflict. This was a time of brotherhood though, there was no place for lordship, only leadership.
*KRAKATHOOM* Another catapulted boulder breaks against the fortitude's of the city and takes with it another chunk of wall. The ration were thin both in quantity and quality, the men were staggered, the city was nearly a pile of rubble. No rousing speech nor tactful advance could prepare the men for another onslaught. The drums carry on, and Varius knew. Knew the end was around he corner like a scholar feeling thin pages on his thumb knew the novel was near end; he just kept waiting for the slam of the final chapter of the Christian hold on Jerusalem.
The Judaen Deserts
The allegedly divine sent Thomas out into the wilds of the sahara on his fortieth birthday, with ten men, where he walked for forty days and forty nights.
The prints in the sand grew fewer as the trail of bodies began to take their place. Men dropped and died in the blazing heat underneath their roasting chain mail. Until only one made it to the forty first night where upon under the pretense of a miracle or science he was guided by the full moon into a lit path way of mountains, to what was sure to be his sanctuary.
Within the caverns he traversed with as much haste as his weakened body would allow, searching for food, water, shelter. Anything that offered the promise of another day. It wasn't death that spilled a cold wash down the back of the burned and overheated warrior, but the thought of a dishonorable death..
It was within those, what he later discovered to be catacombs, he found the springs.
the springs where hope was eternal, faith was immutable, and divinity was cast aside.
Log in to comment