And The Word Became Flesh

Why would the King select me specifically for this gruesome task?

''An urgent order,'' his excellency proclaimed, as if asking for freshly baked bread, or another barrel of mead. The normalcy of it made me feel uneasy to say the least. ''Now.'' he added, as I bowed deeply. And even before I took my leave to accomplish his terrible will, the King asked for his advisors, regarding a meeting with the defeated enemy's envoys.

I walked out, my armor a constant signal to anyone around that indeed, a knight was near. Stepping in the courtyard, I couldn't help but notice with irritation the spire of the city's church, protruding through the surrounding walls, grotesque phallus erected toward heaven. Midday was announced by a cacophony of bells, not only from our great church but also from countless surrounding chapels. Their ringing reminded me of the funeral, and I cursed once again whatever so-called God designed for the demise of my family. Fantasizing about perhaps cutting the ropes of the church's bells, I reached the entrance of the dungeons. Turning left then left then left again, then down a dank flight of stairs I reached the barely lit sealed door. The sealed door behind which I had to commit atrocities.

Faint moans. A constant knocking, scratching, and the sobs of lost souls, desecrated souls. Slow, loud footsteps echoed in the barely lit antichamber. The person coming down was obviously not pressed by some royal order, so heavy and methodical each step. Coming closer and closer I chuckled, the intensity of the noise and the curiosity of who was coming, quite humorous to me.

A dark, massive piece of metal appeared through the doorframe, emerging from the shadows, this rusty executioner's sword, its tip perfectly flat, its edges having clearly just been hastily sharpened. Holding the sword, an obese man, dressed in all black, his face covered with a frightening mask; the executioner.

''The guillotine is the way to go now, but here, for old time's sake.'' he said, his voice strangely calming.

I got a hold of the sword, its weight and balance surprised me. Carved unto its thick blade, the crude Latin words for And the word became flesh. A smile sprouted on my face, what appropriate words indeed for the task at hand.

The executioner took a look at the sealed door, then at me, sighed and turned around, making his way back up. Clearly he had something to say, but didn't dare due to hierarchy. Curiosity got the best of me.

''Tell me, when the king orders you to kill, does that make you a murderer?" I blurted, not really certain what I was asking really.

''You're asking, upon whomst befall the terrible sin of taking innocent lives?'' he eloquently replied, from the shadows of the stairs.

I stared at him, well where I thought he was, since it was so dark he vanished completely.

''Is it the word, or the flesh?'' I asked, my fingers passing onto the engraved words, the sword getting heavier by the second.

''Is it a greater will, is it a lesser will? Perhaps it is Will itself, and no choice is to be made.'' his voice echoed, and even the sobbing and moaning from beyond the sealed door ceased, for the lost souls were listening.

''What terrible will indeed.'' I uttered, as a way to end the discussion. I grasped the executioner's sword firmly. Shining from the feeble flame's light, flakes of dried blood upon the blade. Perhaps all these talks of death and the inevitability of it all got to my head. I saw my hands, my arms, my legs and the very ground I stood upon, covered in horrible filth, sanguine filth, and indeed the word became flesh, unholy desecrated flesh, by order of the king, his WILL done by this humble knight, this troubled knight, this hesitating knight, that thought very seriously about turning around and sparing such lost souls.

Neither by mercy nor cowardice no, but by this almost suicidal drive to challenge the higher will. Yes, I shall refuse, and revoke my title of knight and-

''And what of God?'' shouted a raspy voice, from beyond the sealed door.

I froze. I took a look at the dark doorway where the executioner was, but he left a moment ago. I approached the sealed door, holding firmly my sword, and losing myself in the patterns of the flame upon its blade, trying to calm my rising resentment, I entertained this lost soul.

''What of this God?'' I asked, swelling inside me an inexorable irritation, at such nonsense. The orator inside spoke in Latin. Deus Vult, the Will of God, the hubris of men like me, of how terrible indeed will my eternity of suffering in Hell will be-

As he spoke in such a righteous tone I opened the seal of the door, its heavy lock falling on the ground, to an eerie silence, broken only by my laughter. I felt it, something had broken inside of me, or perhaps it had already been broken, and simply waited for a moment to take over.. I opened the door, scraping upon the stone bricks. The smell. Then the nightmare of their faces, these poor, lost souls, and the orator that doomed them all, closest to the door, on his face, a defiant, resolute look.

I took a step toward the only light, the flame outside, and blew on it, for my task must never see the light of day. His feverish white face remained etched in my eyes, making me laugh some more, for I saw myself in him, Ô so maddening, and then I wished to see nothing anymore. I threw it all away, and the breathe of these words swelled from deep within;

''And the word becomes flesh alright!'' lifting the terrible sword, the dozens of prisoners of war scurrying about in the dark, frightened beyond belief.

In complete darkness I entered the foul room, this irritation of God and of Fate and such nonsense exploding into rage, dutyful rage.

I fulfilled my royal task.

Frankly I remember nothing else than these sounds, of the heavy blade cutting through them, of the sloshing around of the blood, so much blood, their muffled screams, as if they weren't allowed to make anymore noises. Oh and the absolute surprise at the sound of multiple people rushing down the stairs, outside the chamber.

Standing still, in the invisible atrocity of my carnage, I saw bright lights creeping in the sealed room. I pushed open the door, the blood pouring out onto the pristine boots of many knights. And the King himself, holding a torch, looked at me with the deranged look of a mad man, terrible disgust, and upon gazing in the abyss of my carnage he turned away.

He retched and threw up. I remember vividly the red of the blood mixing with the purple of the wine he had just ingested, the forbidden colors forming a maelstrom, shining oddly in the torch's light, illuminating to my horror what I foolishly thought would stay buried in darkness forever..

I stared at them, still holding the executioner's sword, letting the tip fall onto the ground, leaning on it, after such exercise.

''What now? I asked, lifting up the visor of my helmet, to the avoiding eyes of the many. I panicked and defaulted to my usual servitude;

''And the word became flesh'' I said, bowing to the king, who threw up all the more.

''Arrest this man.'' The king said hastily, his voice shaking. In that split second I catched his eyes, staring into mine. Malice, but also curiously Satisfaction, and he quickly looked away. The knights brutally brought me up the stairs, unto the courtyard, where nobles and envoys were awaiting, almost by design.

Utterly blinded by the sun. My blood-sweat making me shiver madly in the wind. I was thrown on the ground. The King made a great show of his anger and surprise at the situation, he promised to make things right with the nation of the slaughtered prisoners of war. As if he didn't plan everything himself.

Letters were written of the terrible news, witnesses would be sent with said letters, and a great deal of commotion was made to bring forth and assemble the guillotine.

I stared at the spire of the church once more, wishing, hoping the bells wouldn't ring once more before the end. I laughed once more at this rage that blinded me..

And I proposed to die by the sword instead.

The idea seemed to please everyone present. Upon the thunderous applause of those gathered around I was thrown at the feet of the obese executioner. He was handed the heavy sword I held just some minutes ago.

In the awful quiet of anticipation, the executioner took his time to clean, sharpen and oil the blade, raising it up to the clear sky, such a gruesome tool of death, immaculate. I cursed him for making me wait, for I dreaded the coming of the next hour, the inevitable bells. A priest, wearing brown robes, ropes, and a hairy crown, approached me for my last rites. I spat at him and cursed him all the more, as he recited his nonsensical prayers, what hypocrisy.

The executioner laughed, as if delighted by a sudden great idea. He removed my helmet, exposing me to all, and I didn't know what expression to make. I could only look up to the sky, in resolute defiance, much like the orator of the lost souls. He took off his glove, and gathered in his palm some of the blood on my armor, some from my hair as well. He smeared his bloodied hand upon the engraved inscription on the executioner's blade, highlighting the message, making its words much more visible to the audience.

The King clapped, delighted. The executioner placed the sword horizontally, toward me, so that I could read its terrible words, which everyone knows perfectly by now. He turned toward the King, toward the crowd, and upon their screams of excitement, the madness of the moment the executioner lifted the sword, yet stood still, as if savoring the moment. Of course, the cacophony of the bells, as if rejoicing in the ultimate demise of the heretic.. I closed my eyes, exhausted beyond belief at the irony of it all. Before the executioner could say what he was dying to say I told him, I shouted it to everyone, even to this God as well, half-crying half-laughing,

''... And the word becomes flesh!''