In his dreams, however, he could fly, again.
Loki, a hawk, flew over the green plains of his homeland. The walls of the fortress of the Gods rose before him. He saw them all there, at peace. He had been with them, once, welcomed by Odin, his blood brother, tolerated and, occasionally, even embraced by the others. He had sometimes been happy here, sometimes discontented, but that was his nature.
Then, he was flying over great Nut-House that was Hollywood. His face fifty feet high on a billboard overlooking the city, advertisement for the latest of his movies.
Lucifer stood there, on the little ledge before the billboard. Loki landed and became a man again, his form shifting smoothly and almost instantly. He was breathing hard from the exertion and the adrenaline and Lucifer smiled, a bit enviously. The Cast-Down
One's wings were unable to carry Him through the air since the fall.
"Welcome, Loki," Lucifer smiled. "Or should I call you Louis?"
"Call me what you will." Loki ran his hands through his red hair, cheerfully. "Call me Hollywood's greatest hit!"
Lucifer took a seat, His bare legs dangling off the ledge, casually. He watched the people below, and was pleased that they could not see Him. "Yes, I saw your last movie. Entertaining. Interesting to see you play a hero, considering your usual role."
Loki laughed. "If only they knew." It amused him to think of his dark lord in a movie theater with a bucket of popcorn and a large diet cola.
"So, you are enjoying your new life?"
"Immensely," Loki smirked. He looked carefully at Lucifer. "But let me guess, you are going to ask your favor now?"
Lucifer smiled, a beautifully evil smile on perfect pink lips. "I cannot fool one so close to my own nature."
Loki plopped himself next to his Lord and hawked a spit wad onto the head of one the silly mortals passing beneath. He laughed like a child. "They're amusing little monkeys, aren't they? What deviousness do you wish to unleash upon their unsuspecting heads?"
"These people believe in you. They will do what you do. Do you know that all over the world young men are scarring their eyes and lips in emulation of you?"
Loki was as smug as he could be. "So I have heard."
"Well, we shall take advantage of that, shan't we?"
"How do you mean?" Loki asked.
"They will do whatever it is that you do," Lucifer smiled. He produced a vial filled with several small pink crystals. "And, this, Louis is what you shall be doing."
Loki took the vial and looked at it, disgusted. "Drugs? You granted me life so that I could spread drugs around like a common street pusher? Really, I think I can do more than that."
"In your mythology, you put fire in the peoples' blood." Lucifer leaned close. "This will put a new kind of fire in their hearts. They will literally sell their souls for another taste of this new magic that will destroy them from the inside and the out. One taste and your legions of admirers will be mine.”
Suddenly, Loki was again bound to the rocks that had been his prison in the Old World. His limbs were stretched wide and lashed so tightly that the bindings cut into his flesh. He looked up and saw the serpent fixed firmly above him, his fangs open. The venom hung in a thick golden drop ready to fall onto his upturned face, to blind and burn. But Sigyn did not stand there to catch the poison this time. No, she was at rest, as she should be. Instead it was Lucifer who leaned over Loki and murmured, "This is your fate if you fail me, Mischief Maker, Fallen Godling."
The golden poison fell and splashed in Loki's eyes.
Louis Keye woke up, with a cry, startling his bed companions. He sat up, scattering them, rudely and rushed to the mirror. There was no sign of the venom's mark on his pale face.
"Shit." he murmured. Bringing his fist to his face, he found something clenched within it.
The vial that Lucifer had given him. Loki sighed and turned to the frightened faces watching him and smiled. "Don't look so distressed, my children. Papa Louis has a treat for you."
7—Judas's Dream
The compound was up and running. Over a hundred men and women had come to hear Jude Carillon's preaching, to receive his healing. Most had stayed and more were coming every day. They slept in barracks that some of his followers had erected quicker than Judas imagined possible. They ate in a communal kitchen staffed by volunteers. The little ones were watched in a group school where they were taught by missionaries who had appeared without warning to help him spread his word. Even The Christ had not reached so many so fast.
For all of it, though, Judas did not feel right. He felt such pride when he watched the lame walk, the blind see, the deaf hear. But then, he was filled with an overwhelming feeling of shame. How dare he do what was only for God to do? For all his betrayal, for all his self-doubt, Judas was still a disciple of the Lord.
On his cot, beneath the single scented candle that lit the sweltering room with flickering gold, Judas Iscariot had finally fallen asleep. He tossed and turned, tangled in the
rough sheet.
He stood before the sea of crosses, many with rotting corpses neglected in the excitement over the martyrdom of the King of the Jews. Judas had not seen this, not the first time it had happened. Jesus was nailed, through his wrists, the nails so big and pounded so deep that Judas could see the bruises the hammer had left on the soft flesh of the arms and around the feet. But what he did not see was God up there on that rough wood.
Instead, he saw Yeshua Bar-Yusef, Joshua Son of Joseph, the man, the friend who had sat beside him on the rough ground and talked laughingly over foolish things. They were just men together then, making jokes at each other's expense, discussing topics of a ribald nature, speaking of insecurities and doubts over what was to come next. That was the man who hung there, eyes closed, dried blood on his cheeks and limbs. The thieves beside him were silent now. One was dead, if the carrion bird perched on the arm of his cross was any indication. The other's breath came in quick rasping breaths that sounded like the panting of a great beast.
Judas stood at the foot of Jesus' cross. The brown eyes were closed, the long dark lashes barely fluttering against the tan cheeks. Thin trails of blood snaked out from the crown of thorns forced on his head, and etched cryptic messages across his face. Judas looked away. He did not want to see this. He had gone to great lengths not to see this. He wondered instead if he went farther down the road that he would see his own body where it swung from the tree that had so helpfully supported his weight.
"Judas . . . " came a voice, instantly recognized though nearly two thousand years had passed since last he'd heard it.
Unwillingly, the fallen disciple looked up and met the eyes of his master. "My Lord," he whispered.
Jesus's eyes closed and with a grunt of effort he ripped one arm free from the crossbar. His eyes fluttered open and he looked down at the torn flesh of his wrist. "Heal me, Judas," he murmured.
"I can't." Judas gasped, backing away. "What is happening?" He shook his head in horror. "I can't do this! I can't be here!" He turned and ran down the hill, pushing through the small crowd that stood before the Christ's martyrdom. He ran, his sandals slipping on the gravel and the grit that made up the path to this dirty place. He ran and ran until he fell, the rough ground scraping a layer of skin from his bare leg. The blood that pooled beneath him sank into the dry desert sand and from it sprang green grass and a grape vine began to snake it's way towards the sun, fat red grapes blooming and ripening in an instant. “Blasphemy...” Judas moaned.
A pale white hand extended from nowhere to help him up. “Or a miracle.”
Judas followed the length of arm up to the smiling face of Lucifer. He did not take the offered hand, but got up of his own accord. "Why did you show me that?" he spat. "Why did you bring me here to this place?"
"You never wondered?" Lucifer frowned, as if offended, but the twinkle in his eye was unmistakably one of malicious amusement. "You were never curious what happened after your little . . . how shall we say . . . accident wi
th the rope?"
"It was no accident." Judas spat. “You know that.”
"Yes, yes I know it well, " Lucifer said. "So, what do you think of what you saw?"
"I killed Him."
"Yes." Lucifer said, impatiently, "And, now you do His work."
"Do I?" Judas said, bitterly.
Leaning close, Lucifer smiled and kissed Judas warmly on his tan cheek. "How I do love you. You have always been one of my favorites"
Judas recoiled for the Devil's kiss burned like fire. "I'm honored, My Master" he said, bitterly.
Lucifer smirked, "Yes, I'm sure." He passed his hand over Judas's eyes.
The world flickered and suddenly Judas stood in the compound. He and the Fallen One walked along together, silently and invisibly, amidst the righteous who have come here seeking spiritual deliverance. "You have done well. By tomorrow night, their numbers will have nearly tripled, and when the clock strikes midnight, you shall lead them all to salvation."
Lucifer produced a crystal bottle filled with a golden liquid.
"What is that?" Judas asked as the devil handed it to him.
"Poison." Lucifer said, bluntly. "You shall lead them in what you are most familiar with . . . suicide."
Judas nearly dropped the bottle as if it was a hot coat. "What?"
"Tomorrow night they shall believe they are going to meet their Lord. Instead, they shall come to me."
"Why?" Judas gasped. "Why should I bring them so far only to kill them? How could that possibly benefit you?"
"Each senseless death brings the faith of the living down a notch. Each betrayal brings the world closer to me." Lucifer smiled, beautifully. "You shall not just destroy three hundred or so Heaven-Seekers. You shall demolish the hopes and dreams of a hundred thousand more who will speak of this tragedy in hushed tones, and each disillusioned heart shall touch others, and My Word shall be spread."
"No." Judas moaned. "No, I can't do this."
Suddenly, there was a great bolt of pain through Judas's wrist and he found himself nailed to a board. Agony blasted through his feet. And the cross that he was nailed to was raised into the desert sky.
Far below, Lucifer looked up and said, "You shall do as I say, or you shall know the meaning of agony."
With a cry of phantom pain and very real despair, Judas sat up, and shook the pain from his wrist and feet. There were only slight red marks on his dark skin to remind him of how real the nightmare had been, made not by illusory nails, but real fingernails embedded in clenched fists. "Forgive me, my Lord," he murmured, and for an instant he did not know who he was talking to. He turned away and reached out to snuff the candle, which was now just a stump of scented wax.
Sitting next to it was a crystal bottle of golden liquid.
8—Mordred's Dream
The night was quiet for once. A ragged group of men huddled together in the desert cold of a makeshift camp, somewhere on the edge of the war zone in a country that they didn't care about one way or another, except for the fact that they were ordered to protect it against its own people. Some of the men were writing letters home. A couple were talking in hushed voices about anything but what they had experienced that day. One wept in a corner out of fear. Several patrolled the edge of the campsite, guns in hand.
And one slept, his strawberry-blond head propped on a pack, his hand curled as if he held a sword. Mordred murmured in his sleep and anyone who listened might've wonder that his otherwise flat, unaccented voice folded itself into the lilts and melodies of a long ago England.
The battle raged around him, screams and the clash of metal upon metal, horses and men screaming out in fear and pain. Mordred stood on hill, littered with his men and Arthur's, and removed his helm and pushed his long curls out of his face. Sweat and grime streaked down his fair cheeks and made him look like the mad man that he was, driven to insanity by despair and rejection.
"Thou art somewhere down there, Arthur," he spat. "I can taste thee."
"I am here, Mordred." Came the voice behind him. Arthur stood there, his once-shiny Armour now dented and striped with blood. He held a pike loosely in one hand, its point waving back and forth as the man who held it swayed in exhaustion and despair.
Mordred smiled, grimly and raised his sword. "Where is your sword, Arthur?"
"I will not stain its blade with thy blood, Mordred." Arthur said. He was not an old man, but his face was already lined with cares and unhappiness. "Put down thy weapon, boy. Let us end this."
"It is too late for that." Mordred hissed. "I offered thee the chance for peace. I tried to play good son and thou didst deny me. I showed thee the treachery beneath thy very roof. I sought the Grail for thee. I did all that thou didst command, and still thou didst hate me for the accident of my birth!"
"I do not hate thee, Mordred." Arthur admitted. "But I cannot love thee. I am sorry for it. I am a good king, but never let it be written that I am a good man. This is where our story ends. It is fate. So must it be."
Mordred's blue eyes, so like Arthur's but so full of his mother's fiery temper, blazed in loathing. "Then let us not struggle against fate! If it is written in our blood, then let us give the storytellers their ink!”
With a cry, Mordred ran at the king, his sword upraised. An echoing call came from Arthur's throat and the long defeated king caught the oncoming warrior with his pike. The sharp point slid between the chinks in Mordred's chain mail and plunged into the boy's chest. Gasping at the sudden pain of it, the impaled princeling's empty hand flew up and caught the hard wood of the pike's shaft. The fire died in his eyes and he turned his tormented gaze on the man who should've been his father, should've loved him. He opened his mouth to speak and blood bubbled from between his lips, coloring his words in gory red. "I asked thee only to be my father, Arthur, only to forgive me for the sin my mother did commit."
"That is the one thing I cannot do for thee, Mordred," Arthur said, and his tone was regretful. "It is the one thing I cannot do for myself."
Mordred's eyes turned hard then, and his destiny pushed him forward on the wooden shaft. Sword in one hand, strength of the damned in the other, he forced himself along the length of the shaft. He ignored the great pain as his insides were torn out. He ignored the sickening sensation of the wood piercing him from fore to aft. He ignored the sheer horror on Arthur's face as he saw his Death approach on unsteady legs. Indeed, Arthur knew what was coming. Indeed, he welcomed it. He must have for he did not drop the pike. He did not turn and run. He did not defend himself as Mordred swung his sword.
The metal bit into Arthur's skull, and cleaved his brain in two. The King fell, and the hopes of all Britain fell with him. Mordred sank to his knees, and with a tremendous push, thrust himself free of the pike. Blood and worse gushed from the now open wound, but the boy was beyond feeling it. He crawled on his hands and knees to his victim's side and kissed him, gently on the lips. “For my part, Father, all I did was love thee...”
Arthur opened his eyes and they glowed with dark light.
Suddenly, it was Lucifer who lay there on the muddy battlefield. He rose and shook the dirt from His long golden mane. “How beautiful, young Prince, what drama, what spectacle. A timeless tale of loss and betrayal.”
Mordred looked down at himself and his Armour was gone. He was in the drab uniform of the modern army he now fought in. His death wound had again vanished. He scrambled to his feet. "My Lord . . . " he gasped. His voice was again the flat voice of the American Soldier he was supposed to be. “I thought... I thought I was there again. With Arthur...”
"You were Mordred," the Devil said, “It is important not to forget where we came from.” He looked about them. The battle was over, now, and the bodies were left to rot. But they no longer wore Armour and mail. Now, they were the corpses of modern solders, their swords
and pikes now guns and grenades. "Or where we are going. Good work, my boy. Such misery and waste of life." His smile was broad and evil.
"It is war." Mordred said
, simply.
"Do you enjoy killing, Mordred?"
"No." Mordred admitted. "But, I am proud to do what it is my duty to do."
Lucifer smiled. "You are a prince, Mordred!" He laughed. Then, He realized what He had said. It made Him laugh harder. The silver bells in His voice rang in discord and Mordred felt a wave of fear course up his spine.
"My Lord, why are you here?" Mordred finally asked. "Will you now tell me what my payment is?"
Lucifer, still chuckling in His mirth, touched the boy's arm and suddenly, they were not on the battlefield. They were in the ruins of a village, houses blown apart from above, fires still burning, bodies scattered about like broken toys. "By tomorrow you will reach this place. Here, Mordred, you shall find a group of refugees. I want them dead. All of them."
"That's it?" Mordred frowned. "You want me to kill a group of people that should be dead already? Why waste the energy on sending me back here to do a job that anyone could've done?"
Lucifer smiled that unpleasant smile again and said, "Because I so choose. I want every last man, woman and child dead by tomorrow night, Mordred. This is your duty and I expect you to follow it."
"Yes, Sire," Mordred said, with a shrug. "I must follow your commands, but I still don't understand."
"Do as I say, and you shall be hailed a war hero, a patriot to make your fickle father proud." Lucifer said. Then, His face lost that cheerful radiance and became dark and wicked. "Fail me and you shall suffer agony worse that you have ever known."
Pain filled Mordred's chest. He looked down and the great hole where his heart had been was back, oozing black blood down his uniform shirt.
Mordred sat up, startled out of his sleep. His hands flew to his chest, but there was no blood, no gaping hole.
It was dawn.
"Drop your cocks, and grab your socks, Ladies. We're moving out!" came the voice of his commander. The soldiers were alert in an instant. "There's a village sixty or so miles down the road. I want to reach it by 1300 hours, so you better get your lily-white asses moving. Do I make myself clear?" the commander barked.
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