Condemnation

by Kell Inkston

  He doesn't miss a beat, however. "It's equally impolite to walk in on people."

  She raises her brows with a put-on, almost ironic sass. "You know more people than just you live in here?"

  "And you know about something called knocking, right?"

  The two share a snide grin; there is surprisingly good chemistry between them, despite the wide gap in age and experiences.

  "Well. Please have a nice day then— and tell Pattie I said hi," she adds, back to her usually deflated tone.

  "Thank you."

  "Also tell her that she has great taste in men," she sneaks with a glint of humor just as she reaches for the knob.

  "Now, just a moment there. What is tha—"

  But the door slams, punctuating him awkwardly. Still shirtless, and with his letter dangling from his hand, he sighs. "What a strange woman."

  He looks back to the envelope— radiant in its pure, snow-whiteness— and flicks his index finger along the top to tear it open. The young officer produces the notice— and it's just as the rumors tell:

  —

  Oswald Carrington,

  Congratulations.

  You have been formally invited to The Upper Echelon, by his Eternal Majesty and Savior of Mankind: King Victor the Luminary. You are hereby relieved of all duties and responsibilities until this is complete. You will do well to arrive post-haste to the gates and produce this writ to the challenging official.

  Best to you,

  Royal Quarter Inactant Leopold

  —

  He looks up from the note with clammy skin, a cold sweat brewing over his strained body. This is literally beyond his wildest dreams— and he considers himself an ambitious man. He was told ever since he was a little boy that Victor would probably never call on another person— that too much time had passed since the last one— but now, he knows that he's about to enter the annals of history.

  Soon, he will be the one with the big rank on the badge… he will be in charge of the misgoverned public works… and he will purify the disease of the streets. He will be the one that will give a damn about the little people— the infirm, those that cannot work, those who are too sick to even lift their heads from their bunks… he’s going to save them all. If tradition follows, he'll be successful because he's been chosen by Victor— and for that, he'll gain the exalted Class Seven standing. He'll be a god among men— and join the others of The Priesthood in their eternal worship of the Eternal King.

  With a trembling, uncertain, rare trepidation, he gets his uniform on, straps his La'Coss Mk. Four to his waist, and steps on. At the other side of the door, he looks completely normal— as if nothing had happened— but on the inside, he is at a complete lack for words. It is one of the rare and beautiful moments in life that must simply be lived and experienced: savored to the very last second it will allow.

  But first, he must pass by the processing and inquiry desk at the front— where Officer Creighton spends most of his time drinking coffee and flirting with the coquettish attendant, who is neither one to dislike his constant pestering, nor have the guts to stand up to him if she didn't.

  "Where you off to?" Creighton asks with a direct, authoritarian glance, poorly concealing his hand around the lady's waist.

  Oswald just looks over with a blank stare.

  "Never seen a lass before?" Creighton asks, gently shaking the giggling desk worker.

  The younger officer holds up the writ, and his superior's jaw drops. Everyone knows what it’s supposed to look like, and forgeries don't happen, on pain of death. It's no question to Creighton that Oswald would never try and pull a fast one on him; he's too honest— or, perhaps— too scared; Creighton would like to think the latter, but rather expects the first.

  "Th..." he stammers only a moment. “Well, fu-... you best get on then," he directs excitedly. “Go— shit!"

  Oswald nods sharply and starts off, leaving the wide-eyed idiots to their games.

  He exits The Constabulary and looks across the three blocks separating it from The Royal Keep's Outer Echelon— servicing to The Royal Academy of Sciences and Engineering, among many other purposes. He passes through this area without trouble— no one paying him any mind until he steps through the busy crowds up to the practically empty front of the Inner Echelon gates.

  Right away the four guards move to set him back. What the hell would he have to do there, after all?

  "Turn around, si-" the foremost starts; he cannot even finish his sentence however, before Oswald produces the writ. All four of the men witness the seal— and the small crowd of snide onlookers from behind are instantly put back.

  "W-" the man mutters a moment with a wide, dopey gaze while another, more eloquent guard takes up for him. "Is that a summons?"

  "It is," Oswald says, pulling up the writ and displaying it cleanly to the shocked onlookers.

  "By?" The guard asks with an expectant tone. Of course he knows, but he wants to be sure that this genuine-looking article does in fact hold genuine information.

  Oswald glances at the addresser on the note. "Royal Quarter Inactant Leopold."

  There's a set of looks exchanged between the guards. He can already see them shaping up to grant him the appropriate respect towards his rank. Of course, The Royal Guard as a whole loves to dangle the only authority they have over the heads of the agents of The Secret Police: access within the Royal Quarter.

  "Please excuse my... companion's presumption," the guard starts, his dark eyes shining behind his fully-dark helmet visor. "By all means, be on your way."

  The guards step aside; one of them accesses the gate box, and the way to The Inner Echelon is opened.

  By now, the entire thoroughfare behind Oswald has gone silent. Dozens upon dozens, just a second ago passer-byes, are now chosen witnesses to the entry of The King's next great pawn upon the chessboard of humanity's ultimate game of survival.

  Oswald takes a short, readying breath, and starts through— the onlookers continuing to gaze in awe at the young man climbing the stairs.

  The way up through the ivied, open-aired halls is all as if a strange dream to him. He remembers the stories his mother told him time and time again at his eager request, every intricate detail of the process. Those summoned would enter, and simply know the way to Victor. The reality isn't quite as mystical as she led him to believe, however. The paths, though they do split and twist, all have one direction that is always not only more linear, but also better lit— and marked clearly with steps of the same, luminescent marble construction.

  For a place simply meant to act as the boundary between the mortals and the divine, it certainly seems a beautiful waste, he feels.

  A far cry from the cramped and dirty streets below, this place is calm, clean, and without a person in sight. It is the loveliest thing he's ever seen. The feeling of distance between him and the city below is now so vast, that after only a minute of walking, he can hardly hear a single hint of his former life.

  "I guess you'll be seeing this a lot more from now on— eh, Oswald?" he mutters to himself with a smirk. He's certain of himself, only because no one who has been summoned has ever failed in their quest. Each and every one of them withstood their trial under King Victor's blessing— and as a reward, he granted each of them everlasting life for the sake of defending the city. In the king's view, those that produce a great service deserve to do so forevermore — a perpetual, endless expectation of honor.

  Oswald remembers crying about it in his bed one night as a boy: the thought alone that one could do their best in life and still be forced to work— but he’s long-since grown out of it. The young officer has come to understand that there are some forms of honor that are only gained through difficulty, through pain— and it is all Victor’s kind of honor.

  Climbing the gilded steps now, Oswald would admit he's nervous as to what the challenge might be— but his confidence in his god is unshakable. He knows it will not be so above him that he'd fail. He can do it.

  O
swald reaches the last flight of steps before the Everlasting Throne, and spots an armored figure dressed in a white robe. A far cry from his own modern, sleek uniform, this person looks more like a character from one of the ancient tales of before the world flooded.

  "Oswald Carrington," the man addresses, starting down the steps to meet him halfway.

  Oswald kneels. "My Lord."

  The figure scoffs good-naturedly under the branches of the many evergreens potted into centuries-old architecture. "Do not humble yourself to me, Chosen. I am but the gatekeeper to your house."

  The boy flinches at the thought of such a technical, yet inspiring realization. Yes— as one chosen by Victor, this keep is his now! At least, once he completes his quest it will be his— but regardless, the thought is incredibly exciting.

  "Th- yes, thank you."

  "And you should not thank me, for I am your servant. You may tell me to carry on, and that will be gratitude enough."

  "S-" Oswald takes a few seconds to compose himself to the thought. "Carry on, then."

  "Of course, Chosen. We have been expecting you. This way, my Lord," the gatekeeper offers; even the inside of his helmet visor glows with a bright, holy effervescence; as if he were a being of pure light within the armor.

  The two ascend the steps, Oswald just a meter behind the incense-scented gatekeeper as they approach the way to the Center Echelon. The keeper raises his hand to the gate: an iron, flora-curled entrance. As if well-accustomed to visitors, it begins to creak open with an obedient ease. Years’ worth of vines and bracken snap away at what is truly the gate's first awakening in a very, very long time.

  "Just how long has it been since someone's been through here?"

  "Since the last Chosen completed her quest— about eighty-nine years ago. It has never remained shut for this long. I am intrigued to see what may be waiting for you on the other side, myself."

  The gate continues to swing open unto its widest range, revealing the long-fabled Center Echelon— with that great shining throne at its heart.

  "Enter, and embrace your destiny," the gatekeeper encourages him amidst the cold, cloudy air.

  For a second, the young man is frozen in place, consumed in an utter failure to comprehend what he's looking at. It only lasts so long, however— and then Oswald, making a leap of faith with every step, goes forward. God waits for him.

  He crosses into The Center, and looks finally upon the scene.

  It is a well-lit room— without windows or doors— constructed of ancient stones, sculpted to a smoothness beyond his wildest imagining. The view from the rotunda's peak reveals the great round wall of Everhold with spectacular clarity. He can see it all through the breezy openings: the markets, the farms, the homes— and the impoverished. While the view alone is inspiring, what lies in the center is far more captivating.

  Each sitting with their legs crossed is a group of men and women cloaked in white. They're sitting in a perfect circular formation around it: The Eternal Throne.

  Everything in Oswald reels in shock while he dares his eyes to look fully upon the luminescent seat.

  Arrayed in celestial fabrics overlaying his sacred armor, King Victor sits as he has sat for decades— motionless and in waiting for the next Chosen. His armor suit, bearing his eternal crown, is twisted into a secure spot atop his head by its set of black-steel horns— a visage simultaneously erring on good and evil. Oswald isn't so removed from the human condition not to recognize a demonic appearance— but of course, the legends say it was in fact King Victor who slew the last Demon God who caused the great flood. He then led mankind to create Everhold: the only way to survive. Victor rests on his throne, an awe-striking reminder to the people that they are still out there— in the form of the ocean monsters, of the diseases that strike the populace— and of course, in the minds of the insane, corrupted Separatists. In humanity's constant battle against the forces of darkness, only Victor can light the lamp.

  Oswald kneels. He would flatten his face into the floor if he could— but he knows that Victor does not want groveling, just obedience; how very humble for the savior of the human race.

  The officer-turned-immortal-hero clears his throat— and begins with the line memorized by all the academy children: "God-King, Cherisher of Humanity, Wisest Seer— I am Oswald Carrington, son of Herman Carrington, and Wyste Carrington. I present my entirety for your service."

  A full minute passes; the nearest of the cloaked Chosen looks to him.

  A second minute passes, and another looks to him. Minute by minute passes, with each one turning another Chosen’s gaze upon him. Twelve minutes go by, and finally all of them are looking right at him. His head is bowed, so he can't make out their faces— but he can feel the golden light coming off of them: a clear mark of their holiness already shedding their graces upon him.

  The final, thirteenth minute passes— and for the first time in many decades, King Victor moves. From his leaning, restful place upon his throne, he twitches as if back to life— slowly, gradually hovering his head up to look down upon the boy.

  "I hear you, Oswald."

  From the god's gravelly breath, even such a short, almost flippant phrase strikes through the officer like a bolt of pure, white lightning. He muffles a gasp, his ruler continuing to speak:

  "I have stirred from my rest to save mankind once again. You have been chosen, because you are fit, and you wish to know the truth. I have read the reports from your recent reconnaissance." Victor stands up from his great chair to his full, majestically-tall height. "Were you aware that Separatists are roaming our streets?"

  "Y-yes, my Lord."

  Victor approaches, only a few steps away from the wide-eyed Oswald, who is doing his very best to hold gaze to his majesty's feet. "They have been tricked by the remaining demons. They cannot infiltrate our shielding walls physically— so they devise ever-more-ingenious schemes to sway the minds of the baser among you." Victor motions Oswald to walk with him to one of the huge openings along the rotunda, serving as a window to the striking city scene below. "As the separatists sway ever further into their grasp, so too do the depravity of their methods develop." He turns his ornate visor to the lad with an ever-considering slowness. "How do you feel about this?"

  Oswald sharpens his gaze, forming his words to give his most honest answer; it would be foolhardy to put on airs in front of a god, no doubt. "I... I think that The Constabulary and The Secret Police has done an admirable job in preventing people swayed by the demons from going over the wall. All those vocal about it are put into prison at once; it's been that way for decades. I don't doubt there are more. I had a case today of a run-away girl, no doubt to join some separatist underground movement— just waiting for a time to try and cross over— but they don't know how many we have posted along the outer stairway. They'd never get through. The entire population could rise up, but The Secret Police wouldn't fail."

  Victor cranes his head with a steady, knowing poise; appropriate for a god, Oswald would admit. "This is what you have been called for."

  The boy flinches, his eyes instantly wide. "W- the entire populace, my Lord?"

  "Hardly," the god-king gives a friendly chuckle, going so far as to reach his arm around Oswald's shoulder and grasp him tightly. It's firm, but not intimidating; it is nothing like Creighton's constant, stupid man-handling nature. It reminds him more of his dad, back when his father could still move his arms to do such a thing. "The people of Everhold are righteous— but there are always those among them that would rather cast themselves into the chaotic ocean than pay the price of being the part of our union, as you know well, Oswald."

  The lad nods, his eyes trailing along the thousands of people below. He can make out the academy orange and blues clearly: happy-go-lucky students more focused on their sheltered ideas than the true seriousness at hand.

  "The demons have led one particularly-depraved individual to escape from the eye of the community— not for the sake of her own salvation, but as a paw
n in the demon's plot to destroy Everhold."

  Oswald looks next at the graying workers: those of the three and below class. They're clueless, miserable and wishing for anything to grant them succor amidst the brutal extended shifts required to produce enough food for the populace. "How can Everhold be destroyed, my Lord?"

  Victor peers out over the cloudy fields of their world with perfect composure. "From below," he answers with a dramatic inflection, as though it were all from a storybook; this doesn't seem to worry the god in the least.

  Oswald racks his brain at the sheer lunacy of the concept. "But... the ocean..."

  "It is time you knew the truth, my Chosen. The stories you were taught were true— but only in the basest, simplest terms. We have done everything we could to prevent the populace from becoming suspicious and going down for curiosity's sake."

  The boy's hair starts to stand on end. "...Down, my Lord?"

  Victor nods. "Everhold is not a simple walled city— but a tower."

  The God-King and the other Chosen watch with some bemusement at Oswald's shifting expression from confusion, to realization, to horror. "So then— where is the rest? ...What is the rest?" he questions warily.

  "You see— Everhold is not the simple work of a few three hundred years. It is my proudest achievement. As the water level continues to rise, so too must we build higher."

  Oswald looks out and across to the wall. At the highest point in Everhold, his position is still just barely too short to see over it. He sees only the wall patrol— fully-armored, well-armed, and solemn in their twelve-hour shifts up amidst the coldest mists the kingdom has to offer. "So... the water's not going down, then."

  "No."

  The boy needs a moment to process the thought of it. "And that's... that would explain why The Wall Guard remains anonymous."

  "Precisely. If anyone were to recognize one, the citizen could interrogate them about the water level. They do guard the wall, of course, but that is their greatest secret— to conceal the knowledge of the water level."