The Last Child

The court of the Crimson King laughed in time with the sound of a slicing blade and the unmistakable soft thump of flesh striking flagstone. He heard this through the grand doors before which he was bound and gagged as he awaited his own justice to be meted out at the hands of this King. A guard on either side, heavily armored and bladed in case the adornment of chains he was regaled in failed, were his only companions. Bound like an animal upon a wooden cart, link after link securing his frame kneeled and gagged in a subservient pose.

The faked amusement and laughter within the chamber ahead trailed off, until an awkward last chuckle hung naked in the room. It was his time for judgement.

The grand doors were twenty feet of iron and opened with the sound of superiority they were meant to affect. One did not enter the Hall, these doors made sure you knew that you had been summoned and were granted passage.

The guards pulled on the squeaky wooden cart and the tattered rags that barely clothed the pathetic creature reeked of time, excrement, and decay. It was nauseating, and the court responded with disgust and mockery as expected; some 150 murmurs filled the air. However, there were hints of sympathy whispered within the sneers. So quiet so as not to be heard by the King, but the pity was palpable. How could you lay any creature so low?

The Herald of the Court broke the murmur with crisp and clear pitch. “My Grand King, I present the next subject wishing your judgement.”

The Crimson King was distracted by his metallic snake and advisor Ophion. The Snake was a thing of mythology, a character within stories of times long ago and was said to have even seen the birth of the world. It slithered and suggestively flicked its words and tongue within the King’s ear. It whispered obsequiously, phrases that both aroused and maneuvered the most powerful man alive. It didn’t wear flesh any longer, instead it was made with a type of metal so old and forgotten the world no longer had any supply. Unique and malevolent and always whispering; schemes within schemes, plans within plans were this creature’s daily diet.

The King laughed at some secret told only to him. Without bothering to look and not masking the boredom of another beheading he called out, “And please tell me that we have a story not involving pity or tears. My heartstrings nor my floor can handle much more of that today.” He was correct for the drain in the middle of the marble court had begun to plug with the blood of the penitent that had prior appointments. The cronies of the horde giggled and muttered their sympathy for his plight.

The Herald’s voice rang clean splitting the noise like a razor. “My King, I present then for your judgement, the 9th.”

The silence that statement evoked was quieter than the word itself. The air drew a sharp breath in. Nothing moved. The Crimson King was no longer distracted, and his head snapped to a look upon a legend come to life. Instead, he saw exactly what everyone else had witnessed wheeled in. If sewage wore clothes and attempted to pass itself off as a man, this was it.

Ophion curled around the King’s neck, the clinking of metal against the metal rang throughout the court as the only sound that existed within the moment. The Snake looked upon the defeated creature and with flicked tongue whispered its judgement, “Liessssss.”

The King scuttled his initial surprise and almost hid it successfully, when he called out, “Oh, was God busy today?” The laughter was more forced than normal from his supporters. Ophion, nonetheless giggled within his ear. “Yes, destroy thissss pretender. Show them your might, my Lord.”

The King was emboldened and stood to display his powerful frame that was defiant of Men and Gods alike and told stories of his many conquests for him. He struck a contemplative but mocking pose, pressing a finger to his lips. He tapped his lips to emphasize that he was thinking deeply upon this matter. Really, he just was deciding how to destroy the man within the bound animal before him.

“The 9th you said? As in the bedtime stories that we were told as warnings to be good little boys and girls?” Again, half-hearted chuckles greeted his scornful words, but they were rather thin. “And yet, here I see nothing in front of me but a husk pretending to be a man. Actually, less man and more animal according to my nose.” He paused for the laughter but was unrewarded. Irritated, he spat,” And who called him such?”

“He himself, my King.” The Herald responded flatly. “I asked the guards, and none could recollect his original capture. He said he started waiting two Kings prior to your rule and in fact he claims he offered his captivity before your grandfather spilled the blood of Corvus on these very stones.” The Hall began to shrink back from the bound prisoner and the whispers were louder than the forced laughter; it was very unsettling to see a childhood fable wear skin before your eyes. Why would anyone even dare to claim that title?

The King heartily forced laughter to the court attempting to quell the growing uneasiness. “If he has been here since my grandfather’s time, you’re asking me to believe that he has been our guest for more than three hundred years of his own resolve? What other are tales are you attempting to beguile me with today? Mind your tongue while you still own it.” Unbridled scorn punctuated every word.

Ophion, continued its sensual constriction upon the King’s shoulders. A quick unsure glance was cast at the captive, whose face was still forced to look down by his bindings. He was a prisoner that indicated no recognizable threat; rags and bonds of iron empowered the snake’s next whisper,” Storiesssss for children. Sssstrike him down!”

The King looked around the court before returning to address HIS prisoner. “Please tell me, Sir 9th…is that even proper as the title? You are nothing but imaginations and stories around a campfire. In fact, you are just a crazy man, and this is your way of calling yourself God to avoid my punishment.” He waved at the guards impatiently to release the gag, though the chains that were about him remained untouched.

Once the rag was removed from his mouth, the captive stretched his jaw with freedom. He looked upon the King and his bitch snake, and his unblenching gaze paired perfectly with his sanguine words, “You inquire of me? I would have thought you knew the old saying? ‘The one asked knows no more than the inquirer’.” The statement was cool confidence in delivery, and this had a very unsettling effect. A bound prisoner should have long ago been broken and stripped of any such fearlessness. Both the King and the Snake hissed in unison.

“You mock me with a fortune cookie!?” Ophion, rasped loudly in the King’s ear, “Sssstrike, sssstrike! Eat hissss tongue.” And the King brought his hand up to signify that he was done with this charade and the guards should just cut the man in half, when the motion was interrupted with fresh words spoken to his advisor.

“Ophion, I remember your mother.” The snake froze. No one, no story had ever been told of his origin for he was the only one that remained with knowledge of those events all their blood on his hands. The stranger continued, “I remember when you walked as a man before she cursed you to slither upon your belly.” Ophion, hissed harshly, this could not be known. “She called you the Defiler. The Prince of Lies. Right before you cut her heart out. And look at you now, here you are, exactly as she described you would live the rest of your cursed existence.” He paused so that the words hung large in the great hall. “ἔσχατος (the end and the beginning, the lowest and greatest) is here.”

Ophion was screaming, “Kill him now! Sssstrike! He is the 9th!” And in panic he began constricting the King’s throat. The crowd started to shuffle and mill about like scared cattle looking for escape in a burning barn. They weren’t sure what was happening, but all could feel the impending arrival of a great storm.

The Crimson King, grasped at the metallic scales of Ophion which were pulling taught around his neck and cutting air from him. Gasping he cried, “What are you doing? Stop!” Yet, the snake was terrified and only thought was of his own survival. The 9th had taken over control of the creature easily bending its will as terror intensified at the realization of exactly who knelt before this throne.

In the rising cacophony and confusion in the Hall, the Snake spoke into the fool’s ear. Ophion’s voice rose with terror as he pronounced the titles the prisoner had earned since the dawn of time. “He is the 9th. He is the Bringer of Storms! The Toll of the Bell! The Eater of Worlds!” The snake twisted, there was no escape; it was a garrote around the King’s neck. A metallic noose that choked the Crimson King’s final attempts to gasp air. The Snake lowered its voice amongst the rising panic and screams of the Hall and whispered one last time, “He is the 9th Child. The Last Child of Eschatos. I kill you now as a mercy.” There was an audible snap which was heard by all; pandemonium erupted amongst the cattle.

The 9th stood up, the metal chains stretched beyond their bearing and fell. His soiled garments also dropped in synchronicity. He stood naked, glowing and emblazoned with ἔσχατος across his chest and arms, golden it erupted purity and light. The embodiment of judgement stood before the audience and all recounted their sins in panic.

He crossed his arms before him and coolly withdrew both flanking guards’ blades, unnoticed, as they were distracted by the maelstrom. With a simple and quick motion he returned both arms to his sides and in the process neatly beheaded them. He paid no mind to all the screaming panic and rushing about as the court realized they were trapped in this room with him. The doors were fused shut, and the high windows were unreachable though they desperately clawed and climbed on top of each other in futility. The 9th calmly dropped the swords and walked with purpose through the blur toward Ophion. The Snake was curled upon the king’s body which slumped forward in his throne, awkwardly as only the dead had perfected.

Ophion did not attempt deceit, pleading or escape with the adjudicator. Instead, it coiled tightly, and when the 9th topped the stairs, it sprang from the king’s corpse seeking one final chance at a death blow. The man just let the creature bite deeply into his throat. He was non-plussed and as if he was just brushing a fly away, he grabbed the insignificant thing and broke the snake’s jaw impassively between his two fingers.

The 9th held the creature out before him, like a staff of station as he addressed the zig-zagging herd. His voice was quiet but held weight and they stopped moving and gave him their attention though some still tried to control sobs. “Payment is due. I have waited 300 years to collect. I have offered you and your brethren that spat your existence out of their vile holes every chance. Your very presence here today indicates your complicity. You have been judged and you all owe me blood.” The cries renewed with far greater intensity. He did not attempt to assuage them; in his experience they needed this time to reckon the immediate future for themselves, and there was very little of it left.

The 9th turned his attention back to Ophion, the snake was still trying to seek some small window of escape thrashing wildly. “And you worm. I judge you for the betrayal of Man. I judge for the countless fields of blood at your whisper. Just so that you could be the most powerful SNAKE of them all?” The 9th, shook his head and laughed incredulously at the silly concept. “You’ve killed and destroyed kingdoms to secure your existence as a metal pet. I have also given you ample opportunity since that Day to make amends. You have the station and power and means to do so. Yet, since the dawn of creation, never once. I do not take the judgement of Immortals lightly. The line of the Eight before me have convened and deliberated, with unanimity all have reached verdict as Nine and One standing before you, we no longer tolerate your existence.”

Ophion curled and flailed in the 9th’s grasp and suddenly, HE was standing! A naked, two-legged man, impossibly once again. His face displayed unrestrained bewilderment to be standing upright. Oh, the thousands upon thousands of days spent crawling on his belly in the dust. He looked into the face of the judge and gratitude was unmistaken for his release from a slithering prison. With a cracking voice, (a man’s voice!) he spoke through tears, “Thank you.”

The 9th gazed at him sorrowfully with a slight and sad shake of his head. He reached, without challenge, gently to grasp the man Ophion at the throat with his powerful right hand and anchoring his left hand firmly into the curled locks of his head, he ripped him in half.

The screams of those watching the interchange escalated beyond what they had previously known to be terror.

The 9th stood silently covered in fresh blood, a half of a man grasped in each hand as the shrieks painted the room around him. Then, without any acknowledgement of the moments just passed, he discarded the remnants to the floor like laundry that needed washing. Silently, his gaze returned to the other animals occupying the room.

They were fleeing rats, running blind, slamming into each other without concern just hoping to find that smallest of holes through which they could crawl and maybe escape. The screaming continued for a time longer and he simply waited. It tapered off once they began to realize that it was all just noise. Only stupid noise, inconsequential and not effective. At last, quiet was allowed to live in the room. The silent air shared space with fear and terror, piss and prayed petitions, but at least it was quiet now. The 9th had grown so weary of the sound of shrieking in the face of inevitability. It was most undignified for that to be the final sound you manifest to the world upon departure.

All eyes burned into the man who stood like a statue. He addressed the crowd at last when they granted him their silent audience as one. They listened but pressed as far back from him as possible.

He spoke calmly and softly but the words were heavy, and the imminent result was the plot revealed too early. “All 146 of you have been judged and are found wanting.” Their cries renewed with howls of sorrow and pleading and bargaining but again it was a song ignored. No one dared approach but they polluted the air with their noise anew. He sighed, like so many other times before, and began the final act.

He walked behind the once king’s throne to position himself squarely between two great and ornate pillars that stretched from floor to muraled ceiling. Conjuring an image burned into his collective memory of a similar event involving the 3rd of the Line of Eschatos, whose secret name was Migdalah, (The Tower), but was commonly called Samson in the Christian parlance, he pressed his palms against the stone supports.

It painted quite the image; a man covered in darkening red blood against pristine white marble. Muscles bugled and curled up like wound cables as the supporting pillars groaned and began to bow unnaturally. Within seconds the columns snapped when their sad songs of mercy were answered with force. The heavy, crushing stones obeyed and betrayed their muraled ceilings. The columns had so successfully held them back for centuries. Through all this, the irony was not lost upon the 9th. The murals had depicted scenes of heaven. The screams and noise reached their crescendo; for this was the Opus of the performance.

Silence, almost. There was the very slight sound of dust settling in an attempt to cover the mess of blood and gore with fine white marble powder. Even more faint was the sound of small sobs emanating within the 9th as the final remnants of his pathos neared their extinction.