Bloodless

by Roberto Vecchi

  The man’s neck might have snapped from the speed and force Jesolin’s comment elicited, “I am sorry, My Lord. Please forgive me, My Lord. I meant to offer no offense,” but before he could continue, Jesolin interrupted him.

  “Yes, yes, we are all acquainted with the expertise with which you grovel in my presence. Get to the point, Constable, for I am in a foul mood and your presence is doing nothing to adjust it,” he said as his two Blood Guards, each ominously standing behind one side of the throne, adjusted their postures slight, but just enough to assert their presence.

  The Constable was visually shaken by Jesolin’s display of contempt, more so because it was in front of his entourage which was comprised of several younger adults who were no doubt impressed with the man’s worthful, self-appraisal. But Jesolin was in no mood to allow this man to occupy more of his time than was absolutely necessary, “Well, get to it man!” he commanded.

  Still visually stunned, but able to collect himself, The Constable continued, “Yes, of course, My Lord. As you are undoubtedly aware, there are many challenges to managing a city. And of those challenges, the three paramounts are food, water, and shelter. While the latter is proving to be nothing to worry about, the first two are another matter.”

  “Go one,” said Jesolin, trying to appear interested in anything that man had to say.

  “Of course,” said The Constable again growing in his confidence, “It seems that our hunters, amongst the best in the Silver Empire, are finding it more and more difficult to produce the quantities we had in the past.”

  “Is it a problem of effort and time?” asked Jesolin, feigning his interest. In truth, he did not care how much food they were able to provide for the citizens. Nor did he care for their conditions. As far as he was concerned, they were allowed to live because of his obedience to his Master, nothing more.

  “No, My Lord. We have the man power similar to what was present before your glorious reign. We just do not seem to have the same number of animals, which is going to cause a shortage in not only our ability to produce food, but also in the overall commerce for tanners and armorers,” continued The Constable, his confidence still growing.

  “That does pose a problem,” said Jesolin.

  “It has not yet, but it may in the near future if we are unable to produce the required goods with which to trade.”

  “How so?” asked Jesolin, growing in his boredom of the logistical duties.

  “Well, as you probably know, we are not a large agricultural community, but we have been able to secure the necessary grains and produce from our surrounding cities and provinces because of our ability to produce a surplus of animal products with which to trade to those communities who are in need. But now, without possibly being able to supply their demands, they may source their provisions elsewhere leaving our people without the necessary foods to sustain our hungry bellies,” he finished as he looked to Jesolin for a possible solution.

  After moment of brief silence, Jesolin replied to his inherent question, “Constable, have you heard of the work The University has begun regarding imbuing food with magic?”

  “I am sorry, My Lord, I have not,” answered The Constable. He was going to say more to the point, but he was interrupted by one of the members of his entourage.

  “I have heard they have selected a few farms and have begun the process already,” said the young woman excitedly. Apparently, The Constable was not as excited by her greater knowledge and tried to silently admonish her with a deathly glare. However, before he could verbalize his anger, Jesolin replied to her.

  “How did you come by this knowledge?” he asked.

  “My father’s farm was selected as one of the trial lands. For his reward, I was given a position here, to secure my future,” she replied and added, “My, Lord.”

  “Constable?” asked Jesolin, turning his attention to the embarrassed man, “how is it that one in your entourage can know something that you do not, let alone something of such vital importance? Should I consider her for your replacement?”

  “My Lord no!” he replied a little too vehemently which drew a leveled stare from Jesolin that visibly shrank the other man’s soul. “I apologize, my lord. It will not happen again?”

  “To which are you referring? To your inexcusable lack of knowledge, or to your equally inexcusable verbal arrogance?” Jesolin asked.

  “To both, My Lord! You know I have ever been your humble servant seeking only to uphold and honor the position you have graciously given me! I would never knowingly do anything,” but before he was able to complete his eloquently empty apology, Jesolin was upon him more quickly and with more efficacy of movement than mortals were allowed to possess.

  He could weather the storm of this man’s dribble no longer, and because of his already lingering malaise from the silence he received earlier today, his actions were predisposed to their maximum elevation. So, he sprung from his throne and landed in front of the constable, using his right hand to grab the groveling man’s throat. The Constable would have stumbled backward from the shock and awe Jesolin’s immortal physicality caused, but so tightly was he gripped that his face instantly began to turn a shade of pink. However, The Constable’s entourage was not so confined. When Jesolin landed only a hair’s breadth from their leader, they all stumbled backward from the surprise and sheer display of their Lord’s whip like anger and quickness.

  Jesolin looked into the man’s soul and saw fear, which aroused him. He felt a slight surge within him as his fountain demanded to be released. The fear he felt from The Constable, as his face turned a deeper shade of red, was providing a slight reprieve from his silence and neglect induced malaise. When Jesolin squeezed more tightly, The Constable’s fear grew and his melancholy diminished even more. As his face turned to a nice shade of purple, Jesolin was resolved to end his life until he felt the man’s fear no longer increase. Apparently, fear of death was limited and could grow only so much. In that moment, Jesolin wondered if there could be a greater provocation of fear beyond that of death. To explore this question, he loosened his grip allowing the man to weekly sustain his life by the faintest trickling of breath and blood.

  He gathered his dark power and probed the man’s past. He saw into the man’s childhood and had to search through all manner of mundane memories until he found the one he was searching for. There, alone in a dark room, he saw a young boy of no more than six or seven years. The boy was huddled in the corner of his bed resembling the way Jesolin had all those years ago after receiving a beating from The Beast. But unlike him, The Constable’s beating was accompanied by more than the hands and fists of someone stronger and larger. He saw the door to this boy’s room open revealing a man standing in the doorway. Ominously, the man entered the room and walked toward the bed upon which the young boy huddled hoping so strongly that the gods dared not ignore his pleas. But ignore them they did. Jesolin watched as this young and innocent boy was turned over onto his back and taken by who he assumed was the boy’s father.

  “No,” said The Constable weakly.

  Fear, pure and nearly unlimited came pouring forth from The Constable like a torrent of rain during the legendary typhoons pouring into a great river causing its banks to overflow and surge forth its storm bolstered waters. This man, this boy, who had wished for his own death on so many occasions as a means to end this physical assault, had not feared death, he had longed for it. The ending of his life was not the mortar holding together a structure of pain, but rather, was the ultimate end to all the fear he had ever felt. But to build again that same structure which had been torn down never to be built again would offer up the most exquisite fear as a feast for Jesolin and his fountain. At the very best, it would quell his malaise completely by asserting his control when he felt he was losing his. At the very least, it would temporarily still his mind from feeling the most useless of all emotions, sadness. But there was no choice for his fountain and viscous torrent of liquid evil to engage this level of fear. So, it l
eapt to the surface of Jesolin’s control and raged within him instantly causing him to engorge between his legs.

  He turned the man around, pushing him to the wall and lifted his rather ornate robes. All the while the man’s fear grew to an almost inhuman level. And then, right before Jesolin plunged into the man’s horrible past, he felt the fear from those of his entourage. This was almost too much for him to take. Being driven by a drunkenness induced from the combining effects of his out of control fountain of hate laced evil and the ecstasy of unhinged fear, Jesolin held nothing back. But there was nothing sexual about what he was doing. With each pulse, he was made more and more aware that, for him, the intimacy of sex had changed to a domination born of fear and control. It was domination that aroused him and sent him to a frenzy of thrusting convulsions rendering the object as inconsequential. The only thing it was used for was for him to feed, and feed he did. He took everything from the Constable. All his fear, all his tears, and all his pain had become Jesolin’s to give back. And give he did. When he had finished, the man crumpled to the ground, a shell of whatever confidence it had taken his life to build from the shattered past he had lived.

  The constable was not the only one who was spent. Jesolin was breathing hard, sweat openly running down his face. His muscles felt tired, his legs were shaking and his eyes were slow to focus. He stumbled backward a few paces, and only through the greatest of struggles was he able to keep his balance. He barely noticed, and certainly took only a minimal conscious awareness of, the constable as he was being helped out of the throne room by the members of his entourage. Even less so did he take notice of his guards who had apparently be so unable to witness the recent scene, that they had left their posts.

  He raised his hand in front of his face in an effort to focus on something he knew was tangible, but he was unable to identify it as his. Yes, he knew it was his hand, and he knew he was in control of his actions, but both the actions he identified as his and the hand that he knew was his, did not feel like his. They felt distant, detached as it were. As he continued to stumble backward, the whole of the room felt the same way. He knew he was still in the throne room, standing on the hard marble floor, but it was almost as if he was not quite in the same phase as the rest of his surroundings. His feet, while feeling the floor underneath them, lacked the complete feeling of a solid foundation, thus he continued to stumble backward as he turned. But in his state of diffused connection, he was not quick enough to adjust for the bottom step leading to the dais upon which his throne was placed. He tripped and fell.

  As he struggled to understand what was happening, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. But when the intricate designs of the throne room ceiling were interrupted by Mordin’s smiling face, Jesolin knew he was in a very precarious position.

  “How are you feeling, My Lord?” asked Mordin.

  But Jesolin was not able to answer.

  “Do you not feel well?” asked Mordin as he bent down to one knee to examine him.

  Still, Jesolin was unable to answer. The diffuse detachment from himself was growing in intensity and he noticed that he lost most of his voluntarily controlled actions. Well, lost was not exactly an appropriate description because he could still consciously move, but what he could not do was generate a conscious response in accordance to his intent within this situation.

  “You do not look so well, my lord,” said Mordin as he stood up to his full height again, almost spitting the last two words in mock subservience. “Really, my lord, you should not leave yourself without your defenses. Who knows who or what could be lurking in the shadows waiting for your guard to be dropped?”

  Mordin looked up to the ceiling and inhaled deeply before speaking again, “Did you forget all of those times we played, sitting across from each other? I saw your ability rise and your understanding of strategy and how the game was really a portrayal of one’s own character grow. When locked inside the confines of the board and pieces, one cannot hide oneself. One’s intent and character become unrelentingly displayed for the other to observe and learn from. And as much as you were learning about me, I was also learning about you. And do you know what I learned?” he asked. But Jesolin, being drawn further and further into the detachment from himself, could not answer. He could barely focus on the man standing over him.

  “I learned who you are, what you are, at your center, your source, when there is nothing behind you and nothing giving you your powers and abilities. I saw you, a small boy, incapable of action or triumph of his own accord. I saw lack, loss and sorrow. Oh yes, I also saw power and potential, but that was not because of what you contained within yourself. No, it was because of something else behind you, supporting you and guiding you. But because of your play, I saw that when it was removed, you were nothing, and would always be nothing.” He paused and began climbing the steps, his eyes now focused on the Blood Throne. Jesolin was able to roll his head enough to see Mordin, but like everything else, the clarity of reality was dissolving into a haze of conscious fog.

  “But guess what else I learned from you during all those games, year after year,” stated the Prime Necron. “I learned that if I waited and watched, I would win. I knew you would eventually let your guard down. One day, I knew your erratic and neglect driven need would eventually unhinge you enough that you would forget that which you gave me. And it would become your demise. You gave me hate, and now I am going to give it back to you!” he said as he finished his assent of the steps and sat upon the Blood Throne.

  Jesolin was unable to act upon what he felt. Even in his detached state, growing more and more dire with each passing moment, he could feel the pulsing of his fountain begging him to provide the connection and allowance to act on his behalf. He tried to do what had become an involuntary and natural condition of his existence, however, he found it non-responsive. He barely was able to understand that Mordin had begun to descend the steps again and was watching him intently. Again, Jesolin reached out for the dark fountain, but again, it did not respond to him. He felt it begging, pleading, to connect to his hate; however, as much as he tried, he could not form the connection.

  “Is something wrong, my lord?” asked Mordin as the dark wizard continued to mock the man laying helpless at his feet. “Can you not connect to your fountain? Does it not respond to your desires?” Mordin asked as he chuckled. “You are not the only one with innovative thoughts and abilities to see into the true potential of the fountain’s influence. Long have I been working on this. I really have you to thank for its conception. Do you remember the last time Vismorda and I battled you in our training? Do you remember the unrelenting wave after wave of pure hatred driven energy you filled us with?” But Jesolin, falling farther and farther away from himself, could barely grasp his own conscious thoughts let alone attend to another’s with enough focus to understand the complexities of spoken language.

  Mordin continued, “You need not answer. I would assume that you cannot even understand that I am even speaking let alone the meaning of what I say. By now, my spell has taken such a rooted connection to the source of who you are that nothing short of my death could prevent it from dissolving your mind into oblivion. But let me continue. In the moment the last wave landed into places so deep within me that not even I knew I had them, it allowed me to explore them. You see, my dear lord, had it not been for you, I would never have thought to delve deeply enough into my own hate, hatred for you to be specific, to even consider developing such an insidiously ingenious spell. But because you introduced me, through no real intent of your own, to my true power and potential, you gave to me the very thing you thought you had taken; my own will.” Again, Mordin paused to look around the throne room to further appreciate the moment.

  “And just like my brother, you failed to understand that true power is not displayed in moments of unequaled force, but rather in those who can withstand and outlast those fleeting moments. So, I waited and watched, equipped with the perfect spell, knowing you would even
tually become so unhinged I would be presented with the perfect moment wherein your guard would be forgotten, leaving yourself open to my patience. For that is all it took to undo you, my lord, conviction and patience. If a man has those, then he has everything. Or at least, can have everything. And in this case, that everything means your throne!” continued Mordin as he knelt down to more adequately see the glazing haze fully blending across Jesolin’s eyes.

  “I see you have almost completed the journey into the abyss of mindless life. A sort of deathless death, as it were. Will you continue? Yes. Will you be aware? No. You will be nothing except that which we all were to you, a simple piece on the board of life’s great game. Except now, you move where I intend and do what I bid! Make no mistake, my lord” he said as he lowered less than an inch from Jesolin’s ear allowing the dying lord to hear Mordin whisper the last three words Jesolin would ever consciously hear, “You are mine.”

  Feeling. What was it, wondered the slowly fading awareness of who was once the Lord of the Blood keep? Did he even feel anymore? Was he even him anymore? He saw, but did not see. He heard but did not hear. He felt, but did not feel. And most tragically, he was but he was not. He was not fading into the all-encompassing completeness of black, nor was he being dissolved into the nothingness of a white, fog like haze. Instead, he was becoming an extension of something else. Everything that made him, him was being slowly replaced by that which made someone else, someone else. His thoughts, if they could be called such, were not his alone any longer. They were a shared combination of what used to be him, and what was becoming him.

  Alone, that is what he was now. Alone and nothing of what he should have been, could have been. But even that thought did not even feel authentically driven from within. What was inside him? He did not know any longer, but he still knew. He knew that this was a transition from old to new; and in that light, he should accept it because are not all new things to benefit the old? Something told him to fight what was happening, that he depended on it; however, without an understanding of what spoke to him, he had no compulsion to act upon the foreign direction. So instead of hearing and acting to fight, he continued to follow the path of a seamless transition into the newness of him. But it was not him, it was someone else. It was the man standing over him. He was becoming him, and he welcomed it.