Eternity

by Nealis, James

  “How does he bloody well get away with it?”

  She responds but her words grow so quiet that I can't make them out. I reach down and I grab the back of my breed’s neck. I guide him and we creep towards the two Forgers.

  Their voices elevate as we draw closer.

  The male Forger slips the hot metal back into the forge. “Well, I hope the Prince hurries up this forsaken training, or we will be Rogue fodder before the army has taken its first swing.”

  Slop. Slop.

  My breed loudly laps the water up from a vase lying beside the forge. I try to stop him but I am too late.

  "Did you hear something?" she says.

  He grabs my arm and lifts me up. I reach for my sword only to realize I left it in the dining hall. "Better tell us what your business is."

  "Or what?" I say.

  The female pulls a bow and points an arrow directly at my face. Her speed is breathtaking. "I see no need to tell the Prince. We could deal with you here and now.”

  My breed roars and shows his teeth.

  I could battle them, but they are better equipped than I am. "I'm a soldier in the army to protect this world."

  “Soldier,” he says. “Pushy, whiney, ambitious, little bigheads. They are all the same.”

  “Indeed,” she says, "not all who fight do so nobly."

  "I don't claim to be noble," I say. "Nor do I care about the other recruits. I only wish to cause Rogues more pain than they have caused me."

  “Now, that's what I want to hear," he laughs, dropping me from his grip. "I’m Tinus, crafter of weapons and this is Celles my parallel."

  “What’s it feel like to kill?” she asks.

  “Kill?” I ask. “Well I don’t know. I haven’t actually taken a life yet.”

  “Hear that?” Tinus says. “They aren’t even killing yet.”

  Silence falls over the three of us as I search for something else to say.

  "So," I say. "You're parallels?"

  "Two different sides of the same craft," Celles says. "Tinus, well, he forges the offensive weapons and I forge defensive."

  "Defensive?" I ask.

  “He has to be joking,” he says.

  "They only think of sword play," Celles says.

  Tinus shakes his head. "Two bloody months of training and they still know nothing about warfare."

  Who do these people think they are?

  "No disrespect," I say, "but what makes you think you are more knowledgeable than we are about battle when there has never been a war?"

  “How do you know about your designs before you breed them?” she laughs. "It’s our nature. The Origin created us as crafters, we know our weapons before they are even forged."

  "We spend every day with them," he says. "I can tell you the weight of every ax I’ve forged. I know their weaknesses and I have spent my whole existence dreaming of new and fresh ways to use them."

  Celles grabs my shoulder and squeezes it with her crusty, burnt fingers. “To think every caste works overtime to supply you with tools, food, and materials, but you still don’t know the basics.”

  "So we aren’t the only ones who prepare for battle?"

  She shakes her head side to side. "I think this one has been sleeping on the surface of the moon."

  "This conflict affects us all," Tinus says. "Be it Designer, Crafter, Scribe, Carver, Harvester, Minor, or even Selector, we are under orders to focus our efforts on the most pressing issue."

  I had not thought about the other castes. I had only thought of the role I played.

  Celles lifts up a large, flat triangular metal plate. A blue mountain with three stars decorate its face.

  "This is defense," she says.

  I run my fingers along it. A smooth, sleek metal, the light of the forge reflects off of it and reddens my vision.

  "What is it?" I ask. My eyes burning from the smoke.

  "See?" she says.

  He laughs. "I like this one, Celles. I say we teach him a few things."

  "Yes," she says. "At least one of them should be prepared to kill a Rogue."

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Impulse

  “BEANBAGS AGAIN?” Uriel stomps his foot.

  “Quiet,” Christine says, taking another swipe. “He’ll hear you.”

  “Captain Raphael,” Uriel shouts. “I hate stabbing these Earth-forsaken bags of beans.”

  A slimy bit of greens drops from Raphael’s mouth and falls onto his shirt. He continues to chew the food, completely oblivious to what goes on around him. His legs plopped up on the table that he ordered us to carry out for him. He barely even resembles an angel anymore.

  “See?” Uriel runs his fingers through his long beard. “He doesn’t care a whip. We can’t impress or disappoint our new captain because he simply doesn’t care what we do.”

  “It’s not about pleasing him,” Christine says. “It’s about learning to fight.”

  “Sure, go ahead and tell that to the stone around his swollen neck. Face it Christine, this isn’t about war anymore. This is about politics.”

  Auro taps me on the arm. “I know the Frosted is your enemy and all but a week has transpired. We’re wasting valuable preparation time. Soon we will be facing real Rogues, who seek real blood, and we won’t stand a chance.”

  Christine nods. “Yeah, at least sour face taught us something. You sure we picked the right camp?”

  I can’t let them return to the Frosted. “All you learned from that Rogue was pain. Stay the course. I‘ll go talk to Raph.”

  “He’s a captain now,” Christine says. “He won’t want your suggestions.”

  “He’s only a captain because we made him one,” I say. “He owes us.”

  I sheathe my sword and walk over toward the lazy captain. His eyes are closed now and I get the feeling he might be drifting off to sleep. I lean forward and place my hand on the table. “Captain?”

  He doesn’t respond. His head slumps downward as if about to dislodge from his body. Perhaps that would be a cosmetic improvement.

  I hit the table, startling him awake.

  “What!” he shouts rising to his feet. He swings his plate at me.

  “Sir,” I say, “Forgive me for disturbing you.”

  “Oh, Michael,” he rubs his eyes. “How is the training going?”

  “That’s why I am here,” I say. “Things are starting to feel a little monotonous.”

  “Oh?”

  “Perhaps, we could shake things up a bit.”

  “You feel that way, huh?”

  “I do.”

  “I’m glad you told me,” Raphael says. “I probably should get a little more creative.”

  “You were one of us recently, so you know how it is.”

  Raphael laughs. “Yes, I was. Though I’m not one of you now, am I?”

  I smile and wait for him to continue but he doesn’t. We look at each other in silence awkwardly until he raises his eyebrows as if I am supposed to answer. “Not anymore, no.”

  “What would you have them do?” he asks.

  “Sparring is always helpful,” I say. “It helps us hone our reaction skills. These bags, they are just so unresponsive. So unthreatening. So safe. Respectfully, this exercise is just worthless.”

  “I can see how a little danger would be good for you,” he says. “But I’m not sure I’ll find that quite as entertaining as what I have in my mind. Line them up.”

  I walk back to my comrades and tell them the good news. We stand at attention. I peer over at Christine, who appears to be unconvinced that change is coming. She has never forgiven him for merely following the Frosted’s sadistic orders. I try to tell her that he is harmless, but she refuses to listen.

  “I spoke with Michael,” the new captain announces. “I know from my days of being one of you how much respect we all have for him.”

  I give a polite smile as he nods in my direction.

  “Michael believes that these exercises don’t make you better warriors,�
�� he says. “That running these drills doesn’t really change anything about you. He believes that I should change things up.”

  Something about his voice is starting to sound a little ominous. It’s as if he doesn’t really believe what he is saying. Instead, he masks his real thoughts with a shroud of fake and distorted reason. Less like a lie and more like a theatrical performance.

  “Auro,” he says. “You always seem so smart. Come forward.”

  Auro complies.

  Raph smiles. “After all this time, have you actually caused anyone any real harm?”

  Auro furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t think so. I mean maybe a little when we sparred with wooden swords.”

  “Ha!” Raph laughs. “Those were just games. Have you ever pierced the skin of an enemy?”

  “Have you?” Auro says.

  I laugh under my breath. Auro’s quick wit expresses exactly what I was thinking without it being completely subordinate.

  “Oriphiel,” he says. “You are new to our group. Fresh from Sal’s clan. Let’s start with you.”

  I examine the short and stubby recruit as he saunters forward, looking unsure of his steps. He is one of the few angels I have not really met, but I am struck by the youthfulness of his look. He carries an innocence similar to how I used to be back before I encountered the Rogue in the Oasis.

  “Now, Oriphiel, lay out your hands.”

  Oriphiel does as he is told.

  “Now,” Raphael says. “Let’s learn what it feels like to pierce skin shall we. So much different than the scrolls you read. Go ahead and slice him open with your blade.”

  Auro realizes what he is being asked to do and looks over at Raphael.

  Raphael laughs and shows Auro the stone. “Do you really want to pick this fight?”

  Auro’s lips turning downward into a frown, he turns toward the soon to be victim. “I’m sorry.”

  Oriphiel closes his eyes. He clenches his teeth while Auro slowly takes the sword and lays it flat on Oriphiel’s palms as Raphael directs. The blade rests still on Oriphiel’s hands for a moment.

  “Now,” Raphael says. “Cut him.”

  Auro’s tormented expression mirrors off the silver.

  Then with one quick swipe, Auro rips the blade and the skin tears open and blood pours onto the stone.

  “Good!” Raphael yells.

  Oriphiel’s screams contrast exactly with Raphael’s glee.

  “Good idea, Michael!” Raphael says. “Ripping skin is more fun than tearing bags!”

  Many in the company turn toward me, shaking their heads back and forth or biting their lips.

  Ceremonials swoop in and pick up Oriphiel who is rolling back and forth on the ground.

  Auro walks back into line. His eyes look expressionless.

  “This isn’t what I meant,” I say. “This doesn’t do anyone any good.”

  “I know you think you are something special,” Raphael says. “But I was the one who was chosen, not you.”

  “We chose you!”

  “Semantics.” Raphael puckers his mouth. His skin bulges as he rolls his tongue behind his cheek. “Shall I send you to the Prince as an insubordinate?”

  I despise myself for it but I know the importance of his vote. I must remember the true enemy. It’s not Raphael; it’s the Rogues who killed Terra. And the Frosted because he is their spy.

  “Who volunteers to go next?” Raphael says. “We need a slicer.”

  Baal shoots his tattooed arm into the air. “I’ll taste some blood.”

  “Good!” Raphael giggles. “Who wants to feel Baal’s blade? Who? Don’t be shy. Oh, come on. What’s the fun of having a slicer without an angel to slice? How about you, Uriel?”

  “This is madness,” Uriel draws his sword. “Try and make me.”

  “To the dungeons it is, huh?” Raphael says.

  Ceremonials approach from behind.

  “All this drama,” Raphael says “over your fear of a little scratch?”

  “This is evil,” Uriel says. He brushes his forehead with his arms.

  “Lift those palms,” Raphael orders and Uriel complies.

  Baal slides his tongue over his tattooed lips. He hops back and forth as he lifts the sword out in front of him.

  “No,” Christine says. “Don’t do this, Uriel.”

  “Don’t worry, love,” Uriel says. “No pain could feel as bad as listening to this arrogant idiot try to teach.” A smile battles to rise up on Uriel’s face, but it is conquered by the intense frown that he clearly can’t suppress.

  I can’t watch. I close my eyes.

  I don’t escape even in the darkness. The sound of Uriel’s screams and curses flood my ears.

  I open my eyes.

  Raphael dances in front of me, shifting his weight from side to side. His hands clap. Baal walks back towards the group. He smiles as he rubs his blood-covered hands together. Behind him, the Ceremonials carry off Uriel.

  Raphael spots Christine crying.

  “I believe parallels should never be separated,” Raphael says. “Why don’t you go next, Christine? We will let our favorite son, Michael, do the honors.”

  “No,” I say. “I won’t do this. Nothing you do can make me.”

  Raphael points to his stone, grinning.

  “It’s okay, Michael,” Christine says between whimpers.

  We walk up slowly and face off.

  Christine bravely lifts her palms up into the air. Her eyes water with tears and her arms shake. “I can take it.”

  I lift my sword and let it rest on Christine’s hands. I try to apologize but my mouth feels sealed shut.

  “Whatever it takes to earn the stone,” I mutter to myself.

  I can’t allow the Rogue or even this sadistic maniac to have control over me ever again. I must do what’s necessary to avenge Terra. In the long run, hurting Christine will give her, as well as the rest of us, an escape from this evil leader’s grasp.

  I pull the sword and rip it to the side.

  But I don’t harm Christine.

  No, I lodge the blade into Raphael’s fat arm. His tendons pull and tear as the blade digs deeper and deeper.

  The captain screams out in pain.

  I pull it out and jab it into his other arm. “How’s that feel, huh?”

  “How dare you!” Raphael shouts as he falls to the ground. His agonized screams are muffled by the swarming Ceremonials who attend to him. Red blood splotches against the concrete.

  My comrades cheer in delight as I stand over his writhing body. I hold out my sword. “I put you into this position, and I can take you out of it.”

  The sound of footsteps comes from behind me. I turn to see four Ceremonials approaching.

  I turn to fight.

  “Take him to the Prince,” Raphael demands.

  The Ceremonials don’t carry any weapons. Instead they cower backward as I raise my blade. They look pathetic and weak. I can kill each of them in a matter of seconds but I lower my weapon. Too much blood has been spilled today, and I know what must come next. I let go and the metal blade clinks against the stone.

  “Lead the way. It’s about time the Prince and I had a talk.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Gifting

  THE CEREMONIALS LEAD ME OUT onto the tile design of the green shooting star and then exit the chambers. They leave me to stand alone before an empty throne.

  Bubbling sounds rise from the streams of water flowing before me. I stoop down and take a taste of the water. It feels as sweet as ever on my tongue. I could drink this every day and never feel thirsty or hungry ever again but instead of reaching down for a second taste, I remember what Sal told me.

  I stand back to my feet and the moments pass as I silently wait in solitude. I recall the way that Uriel and Christine used this water to heal Auro. We have come such a long way since those early days.

  I grow restless and I shift my weight as I look along the walls. A large portrait of the Prince decorates the
backdrop behind the throne. I don’t remember it. Perhaps I was so nervous the last time I visited this chamber that I overlooked it, or maybe it is a new addition to the room. Either way, I find the large mural to be extremely imposing; the eyes feel as though they are casting judgment upon me for my weakness.

  Perhaps he doesn’t know I’m here.

  “Hello?” I say into the empty room. “I’m here.”

  No response comes.

  I scrunch my eyebrows and search the room.

  Did he not hear me? Do I shout my presence?

  A rushing sound starts to reverberate through the chamber. I turn toward the source, the pools in front of me. The water swirls into smaller and smaller concentric circles. Waves build and crest over the tiles where I stand, soaking my feet.

  A splash surges up from what looks like a whirlpool in the shallows. Suddenly, the Prince rises up out of the spiraling center. The water drips down off him as he flaps his wings in the air but he appears to be completely dry.

  “My Prince,” I bow my head.

  “Don’t supplicate.” The Prince descends down onto the tile. “I know what you did.”

  I look at the ground. “I know what I did was wrong.”

  “Wrong?” the Prince asks. “Is anything that we do truly wrong?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “You defeated him, did you not?” He brushes his cape to the side. “And you did it because you believed he deserved it.”

  “Yes, he was harming your soldiers.”

  “And your friends.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you did exactly what your urges told you to do,” he says. “You see, I am growing to think it’s best to just do whatever it is that our urges tell us. Why do we constantly refrain ourselves from doing the things we want? The Origin created us the way we are, knowing in advance how we would act. Surely, he must have sanctioned our actions.”

  My mind races to try and discern if this is another one of his tests. He has the power to cast me into the dungeons, but if he already wished to do that, why would he engage me like this? He may not be intending to punish me. I should speak cautiously but the warrior in me takes over.

  “Is that why you promoted the Frosted when he attacked me? He was acting upon his urges?”