An Immortals Tale (Original Series)

An Immortals Tale

The March to Heaven

Chapter 2: The Rumor of God

Two men sat in a diner down the street from a destroyed building, one with short cut blonde hair and green eyes, the other with hair bordering the long end and grey eyes. They were still and silent for a long time, staring into their cups of coffee, soaked to the bone from the rain. The restaurant buzzed with noise and life, flowing all around them, but the two paid no mind to it. Even as the waitress came back for the the third time, asking what they wanted to eat, did they barely respond. Through the sky was already dark from rain the night managed to make it even darker, hiding the moon behind thick clouds, lightning brightening the world when it felt like it.

Jon broke the silence, finally, "Bob? What happened?" Without looking up the angel responded, "Before I answer that I have to ask, Jon: Have you heard the rumor?" Lucifer's words rang through his head, but the rumor was left out, "No. I heard there was one. Lucifer-" Bob scoffed at the mention of the name, "Him. Oh, I bet he enjoyed playing out that tale for you." Jon shook his head, "He didn't tell me, Bob. He said I wouldn't believe him." Green eyes stared in disbelief for a moment, studying the Paladin's face, "He's up to something, I know it. You mustn't get caught up in-" It was Jon's turn to interrupt, "Bob. Please."

It took some considering, and another bit of time, but the blonde man answered, "It's...they say...God is no longer in heaven." The words were as confusing as they were disheartening, and it was Bob's turn to sit in silence and await a response. Jon's mind raced through all the reasons that the rumor would exist, but he couldn't narrow just any single reason down. When he looked up to his friend, he answered without being asked, "Jerusalem. The rest of the world's memory was wiped away, the horrible things never happened, all those people didn't die, but the rest of the world. The Angelfolk, Demonfolk, the Attuned, we didn't forget. And some of them took it as a sign that God no longer is in his throne." 

The idea was suddenly very clear to Jon, "And now everyone wants to occupy it." Bob nodded, "By sword or by favor everyone wants to claim it." Once again the scale of the problems of the world was more than any one man could combat against, but he wouldn't be alone, Jon knew there were other Paladin. "So that's why I was woken up? To join the others of my kind and try to keep the peace?" Bob emptied his cup and shook his head, "You're the last one, Jon." The immortals cup was already empty, so there was no buffer, "What? What do you mean I'm the last one?" The angel's perfect features wore a scolding look very well, "Who do you think they killed first?" 

"Who is they, Bob?" The moment paused while Lily, the waitress, filled their cups again. "The Angels. They knew that it was you and your kind's job to restore balance. The logic is easy to follow. After they were gone the next targets were our kind: The Seraphims that arm you guys." Bob touched the shoulder where his arm used to be, "I only survived because I was on fired and covered in blood, I'm sure I looked dead. My brothers didn't make it." Jon offered his solemn condolences then asked why he was still alive. "No one could find you. It was like you'd disappeared off the face of the Earth. When they couldn't find you we all assumed you'd died in Jerusalem." 

Jon wondered about how he kept hidden, not aloud, but trying to think why he would be hidden, and then something tripped up his thought process, "Wait. You said 'We'." Bob kept his gaze upon the cup in his hand as Jon spoke again, "What did you mean 'We'?" The Angel's brilliant green eyes were shimmering with tears, "I'm sorry, Jon. They said they'd let me live." The world exploded, cacophony and fire were everywhere. Jon's ears rang, but his grey eyes worked perfectly, he checked his surroundings. The tiny restaurant was in shambles, lights hung from the ceiling, flashing on and off, sparks were spitting from exposed wires. Sterile white walls were covered in dust and blood, gore clung to the moldings, people were gasping and choking. 

The ringing died down to a voice, so pleasant it was almost musical, "Jon. Oh, Jon? Did you live through that?" There was nothing too painful for him, so he stood, brushing the dust and dirt off his suit, "Yeah. Yeah, I lived. And who's asking?" The beautiful voice replied, "Step out of that mess and let's introduce ourselves properly, please." The immortal decided to comply, walking over body parts and bodies to the blown in front, and out into the night. The orange streetlights illuminated the chaos and the single man that stood outside, wearing a smile, dark jeans, and a button up black shirt. Long blonde hair that curled in places reached the middle of the mans back, his body was in perfect shape, skin was like porcelain, and with eyes a shade of blue that was too perfect to describe.

The man stood in the middle of the street, Jon on the sidewalk. "The Paladin Jonathan Ross, I presume?" "And you are?" The blonde bowed deeply at the waist, "I am Epoch, member of the first Choir of Angels, enforcer of the word of Michael. I'm also your executioner, and for that I'm very sorry." He stood back up, still smiling, to his full height of around five and a half feet. Jon knew better than to engage an Angel head to head, so he had to delay to think of something, "So, Epoch. Why did you kill the people in the restaurant? Why kill Bob?" It was enough of a question to intrigue his opponent, who looked back at the smoking wreckage he'd created.

"The humans and the Seraphim? Innocent? Please, Paladin, don't make me laugh. Those people are all sinners, and two of them are atheists. They don't even believe God exists. As for the one known as 'Bob', well...The weak must be culled. Chaff from the wheat and all that." Jon's temper flared, but he was still thinking of what could be in his repertoire that could possibly take down an Angel. "If you're trying to buy time until the police show up, don't bother. I've put this entire city to sleep. Unfortunately, your time has come." Pain took Jon's words before he could speak them, his vision white from the impact he never saw coming.

His head went through the back window of the car, his body crushed the trunk. When Jon lifted his head he was twenty feet or so from where he was standing previously, the Angel was on the sidewalk, strolling towards the wreckage Jon was now a part of. Anger now flooded through the Paladin, all his powers awakened at once and begged to be unleashed, and he did not deny them. He opened his mouth and let forth a blast of energy, as much as he could expel at once. Epoch held out his palm and the blast impacted and dissipated almost instantly to nothing. Jon focused his vision and let forth another blast of energy as he pulled himself from the wreckage of the car, but it got the same treatment and the angel kept walking forward. 

"Please, Jon, don't embarrass yourself. Just die with some dignity." Anger was a haze clouding Jon's thoughts, but he tried to think. The immortal smiled, his teeth red with his own blood, "There's an issue with me, there Epoch. I'm older than most other Paladins. So I got a few more tricks up my sleeve." With a shaky hand Jon reached into his pocket, where he always kept his vials of holy water, and withdrew one. The smug look never left the Angel's face, even as Jon began to speak a language that had been dead for more than a thousand years. Jon rushed the words, pressed to hit every syllable. As the last of the words fell from his lips the Angel Epoch stared down at him.

Jon shook the vial, the cue for the liquid to do something in reaction to the spell he'd just spoken, then glared angrily at it when nothing happened. The angel reached into the wreckage where Jon was and began to pull him out, prepared to deliver the final blow. Epoch lifted the immortal, his free hand forming a blade, fingers pressed together. Jon shook the vial again, ignoring the immediate threat, a last resort. "Goodbye, Paladin Jon." The liquid finally changed, the vial's clear contents turned black, and with that Jon met Epoch's smile, "Goodbye, Angel Epoch." Jon's hand flew as fast it could and smashed the glass container on the angels head. The scream that filled the air was unearthly, shattering windows and glass doors for blocks.

The Paladin was released as Epoch reeled away, he clawed at his smoking face in agony, dropped to his knees by the pain, his screams now just choking sobs. The black fluid melted away the holy beings flesh, sloughing off in chunks. Jon stood over Epoch, adjusting his suit as he spoke, "Black water. Deadly to Angelfolk. Luckily, though, this isn't enough to kill you. This, however, is." The immortal plunged his knife into the heart of the angel, twisting the blade. The world went silent again, but so did Jon's hope. Angels were hunting him, and now, even friends weren't to be trusted. With Epoch dead people began to wake up, and that was the immortals cue to leave the scene and try to regain a sense of self.

Half a block from the dead angel and the chaos that was left behind something happened that Jon couldn't believe: A woman walked into his path, fully awake, and seemingly unaffected by the sleep spell Epoch had cast. She looked one way, then the other, and laid eyes on the immortal walking her way. Both paused, staring wide eyed at each other, both just as confused as the other. Jon broke the silence, "Attuned." She startled and turned away, and began to walk quickly, muttering to herself, "Oh, my. Oh, no. Oh, goodness." Jon began to give chase, "Hey! Hey! Come back here!" 

An Immortals Tale (Original Series)

An Immortals Tale

The March to Heaven

Chapter 1: Everyone has One.

Jon drifted through the void, black, endless, nothingness. His body weighed nothing, his senses were non-existent, nothing mattered. He was finally comfortable and at peace. For a long time he remained there, happy to be a part of the void. Then something disturbed the emptiness,  buzzing like an angry fly in his ear. It was a voice, pushing through the thick shell of his sanctuary, saying something he didn't recognize. 

The voice repeated over and over, but as moments passed, it changed its tone. The annoyance that it carried fell away. The words were soothing, sweet, soft, and comforting. With every repetition they made more and more sense, revealing themselves to not be words, but a name. 'Jonathan Ross...Jonathan Ross...' it was so familiar, yet so distant. Slowly the name began to pull the immortal from the nothingness, towards the light, the pain, the world outside.

The smells of the world came first, soft and serene. Wood, books, a leather chair, and somewhere in the distance: gun grease. His body ached, each movement was met with resistance, his muscles complained. Finally sight came in, slow at first, then blinding, all at once. Still the soft voice cooed his name, gently, softly. The name. It was his name. Jonathan Ross, the immortal, the Paladin. And this was his home. He craned his sore neck around, took it all in. He stopped abruptly when the source of the voice revealed itself. 

There he sat, on the arm of Jon's chair, as the immortal lay on the floor: Lucifer, himself. He was tall, with perfect skin, a perfect smile, and long blonde hair, dressed in a gray suit with a red shirt and tie. While Jon struggled to get his body moving Lucifer smiled down at him with glee. "Good morning, sunshine! The earth says 'Hello!'" The groan that Jon emitted was unclear if it was from disgust or from the pain he was feeling. "Oh come on, Jon. Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Another groan came as Jon sat up on his floor.

The immortal worked his mouth, trying to dispel the dryness making it impossible to speak. His hand bumped into a glass of water, sitting next to him. He picked it up and shot the only other person in the room a look, waiting for an explanation. Again, the former angel smiled and tapped his throat. "Sleeping for two years tends to dry one out. I know, trust me. But, having your soul nearly sucked out will do that to a person." Jon sipped the drink, trying harder to make the roughness dissipate. "A 'thank you' would be nice, there, Jon." The immortal nodded and croaked one out, his throat still dry, as Lucifer continued.

"That's better. Now..." The immortal chimed in before the former angel could continue, "What are you doing here?" Lucifer's face wore annoyance, but with a hint of grace, said, "I was getting to that, Jon. Let's get you all woken up and fed before we continue, yeah? Chinese or hoagies?" With a spry hop, he left the chair's arm and helped Jon off the floor and to the chair. The Paladin's body was still waking up, pain throbbing through him. He knew he couldn't do anything against his visitor, so he could only answer, "Uh...Hoagies." 

Lucifer clapped, "Yes! I guessed right! Hold on a second." Jon watched him leave the room, and examined his surroundings. The single room apartment was not as he'd left it. The windows were back, the walls repaired, all the damage that had happened during that fight outside had been made right. He turned his gaze to his own body, checking for grievous wounds, but found none. He suddenly became aware of the fact that he was utterly naked, just as the blonde angel returned. Jon's hands instinctively went to cover himself as his guest returned, gently bumping the door open with his hip.

The blonde angel had two white bags clenched in his perfect teeth, a folding chair and a small folding table under each arm. He placed them in front of the immortal, setting up the dinner, when he noticed the self-censorship of the holy man. With a scoff he smiled at Jon, "Oh, please, Jon. I've been waiting a while for you to wake up. There's nothing I haven't seen at this point. And if it makes you feel better I can get naked, too." Rising out of the chair he began to undo his tie, but the immortal objected, "No, no! It's...it's fine. Just a reaction." Lucifer shrugged and sat back down, doling out the stuff in the bags. "Suit yourself. Let's eat. We've got a lot of catching up to do." 

Jon ate in silence, enjoying the beef hoagie as best he could. Lucifer, however, commented often about the taste of the sandwich, and the fries, following it with a sheepish smile. "Hey, I hardly get to enjoy things like this anymore. Usually it's all work, work, work." Jon smiled politely as they both finished their meals, giving another 'thank you' for the food. The tall blonde man smiled brightly and gave an enthusiastic, "You're very welcome, Paladin." Still wearing the same smile, Lucifer cleaned up the meal and returned from tossing the empty remains with two cups of tea, placing them on the table.

"I love tea. Such a wonderful concoction. I was there when they invented it, you know. Humans. So inventive. Feel better, Jon?" Though he was on high alert in the presence of the first fallen, Jon had to admit that he did feel much better. Lucifer nodded, "Good. Let's begin, shall we?" The immortal nodded his agreement as he sipped his chamomile tea. "You've been asleep for two years, Jonny boy. And, believe it or not, almost nothing has happened. Demonic activity here on Earth has fallen to microscopic numbers, all because of the example YOU made of that cult.

"But on the two-year anniversary of your little escapade, things have begun to heat up. Angels are coming down here and making a mockery of your work. Have you ever met an angel?" Jon wanted to reply, but he kept talking, "They're...well, for lack of a better term, dicks. They're so black and white, it's infuriating! Innocents have died in their little crusade - on both sides, mind you. And I thought I'd be here to lend you a hand for what's going to be coming up, there, Jon." Jon was reeling. The news that he'd been asleep for two years was a serious blow.

"What's coming up?" was the only thing Jon could get out. Lucifer looked surprised at the question and finished his sip. He answered as if his host was supposed to know. "The end of the world, of course." Another shock to Jon's system left him, once again, only able to utter a few words, "What do you mean?" The fallen angel finished off his tea, and sat it down before turning to Jon once more. "There's been a little rumor circling the world, and it's caused massive tremors. And now, unlike last time, there's a single entity leading this entire movement."

"No one knows who they are or what they wants, and truthfully I find back stories boring. Everyone has one, Jon, everyone. And they're all so cliché. Momma didn't blah-blah, daddy was yadda-yadda. I'm just no longer impressed with them. Anyways. Demonfolk and angelfolk, alike, have all begun their march to the Pearly Gates." Jon looked confused, by more than one thing, but asked, "What's the rumor?" Lucifer smiled, "Now, THAT I can't help you with, Jon. But I can tell you where to begin."

The angel got up, folded his chair, adjusted his suit, and walked toward the door. He turned around as he opened the door, a mischievous smile on his perfect face, making his green eyes shimmer, "I'd tell you what the rumor is, but, the question is: Would you believe me? Oh. How long has it been since you've been to Constantinople?" With that the door closed, and Jon was left to ponder if this bizarre meeting really happened. With a bit of resolve, the immortal found his feet and walked to the shower, taking his time to get himself back in order. After shaving, showering, and donning one of his black suits, The Paladin walked back into the world, unsure and unready for what was going to happen next.

After a short distance, getting his stride back, Jon found himself not wanting to take a cab, but to exercise his muscles. The afternoon was waning on, the sky darkening, both with rain and night. The immortal kept going, none the less. What was a forty minute car ride turned into a two hour walk back to his old friends' place: The the three angels. Hope swelled inside Jon at the sight of his destination, then was dashed to nothing as he saw something he didn't expect: The Angels' building was destroyed. It looked like a bomb had gone off, taking apart the structure like a cardboard box that a firecracker had gone off in. 

Jon's hand pushed through the yellow tape sealing off the entrances to the place, worry deep in his mind. His new senses didn't smell or see any real reason for the demolition, but he knew the reason almost instantly: Divine Fire. On what was left of the floor where the angels stayed was almost nothing but debris, pieces of the giant metal door that protected them scattered throughout the ruins. The immortal prayed silently that his friends escaped the conflagration intact. As he finished his 'Amen' the clouds above roared and opened up, pouring their contents upon the world. And in that moment Jon felt truly lost in a tumultuous sea.  

As he stood there, in the cool rain, another voice rang out, a familiar one. "Oh Jon. What a mess of the world they've made." The immortal looked down the alley way, his eyes resting on a sight he'd never expected to see: A man with blonde hair that had been shaven to the scalp, beautiful green eyes, perfect skin covered in grime, and missing his left arm. "Have you come to help, Jon, or to finish what my brethren started?" The soft British accent, which was so nice to hear, before, was heavy with pain and hopelessness that left Jon all but speechless. When their eyes met Jon could say but a single word: "Bob?"

An Immortal's Tale: Final Chapter

An Immortal’s Tale

The Man In The Black Suit

Part 12
“The End Of All Things”

He didn’t remember the impact, the flames rushing into the cabin, or the screams of people around him. It was drowned out by the cacophony of the plane he was in, being torn to shreds and falling to the ground below. Hands roughly pulled Jon from the flaming wreckage. The Cult shot it down, they had been watching him, and now they were retrieving their prize. Jon’s eyes fluttered open and shut, between consciousness and blacking out. His last thought before the world turned black was, “The air is on fire.” 

Sounds couldn’t push through the fog of the crash or the pain he was feeling. He would slip back into the black, and resurface only for a moment to take in what was around him. He heard voices and felt hands tearing at his clothes. Nothingness returned. A silencing muzzle was forced over his mouth, his hands were wrenched behind his back, and there was a smell of ancient iron. Back into the void. Orange light, chanting, winds. He awoke.

He was on his knees in the dirt, upon a hill overlooking Bethlehem. The horizon was red with the violence below. Pillars of smoke and fire crept up from the city. If Jon concentrated his hearing, he could discern screams, heavy rocks falling from different structures and thudding to the ground below, crushing many. Mushroom clouds from things exploding would rocket up. Tears stung the immortal’s eyes as he watched, but couldn’t speak. He couldn’t believe it was happening again.

“Do you like the ritual, Paladin?” a voice behind him growled. The iron muzzle stopped his speech, the mittens of the same material stopped his powers, but he looked over his shoulder and leveled a smoldering gaze at the hooded man. Jon’s powers were suppressed, but his physical strength wasn’t. Despite all the cuts, bruises, and possible broken bones, hidden beneath his torn and tattered black suit, he began to twist and pull at his restraints. He would be free. He would avenge the innocent. 

The hood, flanked by four Cult members, looked down at the Paladin on his knees and laughed, “What’s the matter, Judas? I thought you enjoyed a little chaos?” The other hooded ones chimed in and repeated that name. He growled at them all, trying to let his eyes do the talking. He told himself to keep twisting, keep pushing, you’ll be free. “No? It’s OK. Only a few thousand or so need to die. Then you. And it’s all over.” Jon could hear the smile hidden by the hood. 

“Let’ssss kill him now! He owesss me an arm!” It was the scratchy, inhuman voice from the bar where Ricky worked, that reptilian creature that named him Judas. Two of the others hissed their agreement, but the one at the head of the group silenced them with a wave of his hand. Jon was taking inventory: one woman, one creature, two men, one leader, and the others doing the dirty work. “Get our guest up. It’s almost time.” The two men grabbed Jon under his arms and hauled him to his feet. "Keep twisting," he thought.

They began dragging him away from the horror he could do nothing about. One of his captors whispered in his ear, “Soon you’ll meet the one that made all this happen.” His arms were wrenched harder for no reason as they went. It was barely dusk as they set out, walking on and on until dawn broke. They walked through miles of desert, the dawn breaking a hearty red in the distance. Only then, against the glowing crimson, did he see other pillars of smoke, other cities burning to ruin.

With the day banishing the night, Jon saw their destination: a pile of rocks in the middle of the sand, golden colored to blend in, with a crack through the middle to act as a door. He said silent prayers for all the souls lost in the fires and the Cult’s acts of destruction. Just as the first rays of gold crawled over the distant mounds of smoke and sand, it was all taken away again as he was shoved head first down a long staircase.

Each carved, sharp rock step bit into his flesh and muscle, bruising here, cutting there, ripping his clothes further, as he descended the near hundred stairs, landing with a grunt on smooth stone. He was too dizzy to count the broken bones and whatever other damage he’d received on his trip down. Everything was a blur in his beaten vision, only the laughter coming down the same steps behind him rang true. His mind scattered again, but his body was already healing itself; he could feel it. He was suddenly being dragged; to whom, what, or where, he didn’t know.

He heard his name. Heard his name being spoken by a voice that was from long, long, ago. He figured he must have passed out. Then it came again. “Jon. Oh, Jon. Jon, Jon, Jon. Look at you, my son, you’re a mess.” With the world spinning in his head, the immortal opened his eyes and peered up at a face that couldn’t exist. The world stopped swirling, his body and its aches were forgotten, and even the iron clasps were a distant memory. Smiling down at him was Arthur’s face. King Arthur. 

The young ward that Jon had escorted to London stood before him; same head of curly hair, same boyish looks, the same height, and smile. But where there should be a childish charm or a kind of exuberance, there was age and hate. Behind those shimmering blue eyes, where there had been life, lurked evil. The Boy King knelt down, dressed in the Cult’s robes, and caressed the iron mask over Jon’s mouth as he spoke.

“Oh. I know you’re confused, but I did promise to never let anyone try and unite the three kingdoms again. And I intended upon keeping that promise. But the Cult, or the Brotherhood, or the Order, whatever name you choose to give them, took me under their wings, unlike you. You abandoned me, left me to a life of a king, a puppet on the strings of the church. But they told me about you. About what you were. About how you’re the greatest betrayer of them all: Judas.”

As the boy king walked away, Jon finally looked at his surroundings. The room was a circle, with runes, ancient and dangerous, drawn on the floor. Twelve circles, carved and not drawn, were amongst the runes. The stone that made up the room was amber in color, rough and dry. The ceiling soared fifty feet above, runes also drawn into it. Torches hung in iron braces and colored the rough stone with greasy, black smoke. This place was a ritual chamber designed for a great sacrifice. As Jon took it all in, Cult members dragged in others, placing them on their knees in the various circles. Twelve, including him. 

“You see, Paladin, I promised to never let anyone unite the three kingdoms, but after you threw me into a life of contrition and servitude under the guise of a church, the Cult began to teach me the truth. They gave me eternal life, and showed me that uniting the kingdoms would bring peace to this world; end its violence. But there needed to be a sacrifice: the blood of the twelve apostles of the Son of God.” Jon studied the other people in the room, all different ages and sexes, each with a Cult member behind them. 

Jon tried to protest, but his voice was nothing but murmurs, muffled by the muzzle. “Oh? You don’t think we should? Well...WHAT DO YOU KNOW?” When Arthur shouted, a wind swept over the immortal, hot as fire, scalding his unprotected skin. “YOU’RE A TRAITOR!” Another blast. Jon could feel his forehead and cheekbones begin to blister. 

The young man fixed his hair, the rage leaving his youthful face, then adjusted his dark orange robe. “No matter. It ends now. All of it. And now the three kingdoms will be one. And I, King Arthur, chosen by God, will have done it and given this horrid world peace.” He walked to the center of the room and pointed at the twelve to be sacrificed. 

“You eleven are descendents of the men who walked the Earth with the Son of God. He, however, is of the bloodline of Judas Iscariot, an immortal soul brought back to serve for eternity. Since the Great Betrayer did not have descendents, we reached to his lineage before him. You’re paying penance for that bastard grandchild of yours, named after you.” Oddly a great sense of relief washed over Jon, but at the same time he was filled with dread as the young man threw his hands up and began chanting. 

Torch flames flickered as the words poured out. Jon could only gaze in horror as each apostle was named, a person pointed at, then a stone blade was pulled hard and fast across their throat. As bodies fell and blades became coated in the spilled blood, the members of the Cult, one by one, gathered around Jon. A buzzing sound in the back of the immortal’s head suddenly appeared. It grew louder with each second. It was a voice, whispering to the Paladin. “Do you want to live, Jon?” 

More chanting and spilled blood glimmering on stone knives was all the muzzled immortal could think about. But the voice kept nagging. “Do you want to save the world, Paladin?” Six dead. Jon screamed against the iron clasped over his mouth, trying every spell he knew, ancient and new, forgotten and fresh. Nothing happened. 

Seven dead. Tears of desperation flowed. “Do you want to save them?” Eight dead. More hoods circled him. He pulled as hard as he could, his muscles screaming with pain as some tore, trying to break the iron mitts, but they didn't give. 

Nine hooded figures surrounded him now, hands holding him in place, as he stared at the wide eyes of the recently dead. “Jon, you can save them all. Do you want to?” The voice was almost as loud as Arthur’s as he chanted. Ten knives, dripping with the blood of the innocent. The immortal screamed as the last blade was pulled. Arthur now faced him, still chanting, his voice thundering like hundreds. The boy king’s arm descended and pointed at the iron-clad immortal and stopped chanting. 

The shock of the first stone blade plunging into him arrested his breath. “Jon, do you want to save them and yourself and the world?” Another knife. Then another. Each one going to the hilt, into his flesh. The pain began anew as more were plunged in.

Eleven handles stuck out from the immortal on his knees. A twelfth joined the others. Jon’s vision narrowed into blackness, like the shutter of a camera slowly closing, as he slumped to his side. As he landed, fresh pain from every blade shocked him.

Now the hooded figures gathered around Arthur, arms raised, and the chanting began again. “Save them all, Paladin. Do you want to save them all?” Jon’s view was now a pinhole in a black velvet blanket. With his last breath, Jon finally answered, “Yes.” His eyes closed. The world was gone; only darkness remained. Breath became a faint memory, heartbeats slowing to nothing. Immortality never meant not dying. 

Ululation joined the chants, with Cult of Altu’rang members raising their voices in celebration. Their work was done, their goal accomplished. They didn’t notice, in their jubilation, Jon’s body twitch. They didn’t see it stiffen. Nor did they witness the iron restraints glow white hot and melt, as the blades dissolved into molten glass on the floor. In fact, they only turned around when the final handle clattered to the ground. All of them now paid close attention as the immortal’s body stretched and bent in inhuman ways.

They were speechless as the man in the black suit began to right himself, limbs and head dangling and jerking randomly, like a marionette with certain strings cut. Jon was on his feet, his head thrown back, his body arched backward. A moan slowly rolled forth from the once-lifeless throat, that finally escalated into words as he stood straight and peered at the ones in hoods, his eyes now black as pitch.

“Oh, it feels so good to breathe in the dirt of this world again.” The once raucous crowd stood in muted awe. Arthur shouted “KILL HIM!” and the followers obeyed, shouting war cries. They brandished powers and new blades pulled from hidden pockets, but halted mid-stride and shouted. The man in the black suit raised his hand and mocked them with a frown, “Ah, ah, ah.” Legs that were once stiff now stepped closer. “I bet you’re confused, let me explain,” the man in the black suit said with a voice that was no longer Jon’s. 

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am the first betrayer. I walked the ashes of Pompeii. I swam through the rivers of blood that drowned Babylon. I am the Morning Star.” The man that was once Jon bowed at the waist, one hand tucked under him, the other thrown back in mock grace, “I am Lucifer.” Pitch-black eyes fixed themselves on Arthur as the oldest evil stood erect. The boy king yelled, “You cannot be here! This place is-” His voice choked off and was replaced with strangled noises as he lifted ten feet in the air. Lucifer sauntered over to the first member of the Cult, “Were you about to say ‘holy’? It’s OK. I’ll clarify.” 

The Devil leaned in and carefully inspected the first member as he spoke, his voice smooth as honey, yet grating as granite grinding against itself. “You see. I’m not unholy. Nor am I unwelcome in any holy place. I’m still God’s child.” He blew on the one he inspected, like blowing out a candle. With a scream that could only be described as pure agony, the hooded figure burst into flames and fell into a pile of smoldering ash. He looked up at Arthur, a look of question on his face, “Does it bother you? All those sacrifices. All that searching to find the descendents. All that time. Dashed by me?” 

The boy king couldn’t answer, and Lucifer made his way through each Cult of Altu’Rang member, reducing them to ash and screams. Finally, the Devil stood before Arthur, suspended in the air, hands clutching at his throat to try and pry loose something that wasn’t there. “You see, Arthur... can I call you Arthur? Ah, it doesn’t matter. Look. I can appreciate your little plan, here, but...” Lucifer let loose an exaggerated sigh, “It just doesn’t jive with my plans.” The boy king floated down to eye level with the Devil. “This world, Arthur, is...MINE.” The last word resounded in a voice so dark and powerful, the very walls cracked with its release.

“In time, that is. I know you’re wondering why I’d prevent this happening. How saving this pathetic world would be God’s work. Well, anyone can do God’s work. Anyone. However, since you wanted to unite the three kingdoms, I’ll be more than happy to give you a tour of Hell. Every. Square. Inch.” Lucifer’s hand shot out and gripped Arthur by the throat, smoke and a sizzling sound coming from the touch. “Let’s get started.” One last scream echoed through the chamber of sacrifice, longer and louder than all the rest.

Jon woke with a start. He found himself in the same strange room as before; however, the Cult was gone. His hands were free, as well as his mouth. The immortal searched his body for the knife wounds, only to find none. He looked around for the bodies of the eleven, but they, too, were gone. With confusion heavily weighing on him, he found his way back into the desert, where the sun was setting. Jonathan Ross stepped into the dusk-colored world and walked away from the rocks that should’ve been his tomb. He stopped when he saw a man sitting upon a random boulder.

He was tall, with long, perfect blonde hair cascading down his shoulders. He was clad in a red suit. The man turned to Jon. “Hi, there.” The Paladin was more than confused as he returned the greeting, “Uh...Hello...Who-” The man stood and straightened his suit, facing Jon with a sigh, “I’m the most beautiful of God’s angels. I’m the shadow that roams the earth. I’m-” Jon had to interrupt, “Lucifer. I get it.” The man sagged, this time the sigh real and filled with disappointment, “Oh, come on! I don’t get to do this often.” Jon shrugged his indifference and readied all his power, but it was Lucifer’s turn to interrupt, “That won’t be necessary. I’m not here to hurt you.” 

Jon relaxed himself, but only slightly, as the Devil went on. “The Cult is gone. The eleven returned to their former lives.” Apparently the immortal could not hide his confusion and Lucifer explained, “Their plan was cute. But it just doesn’t coincide with mine. Or God’s. So I took care of it. Had to borrow your soul and your body for a while, there, to get the job done.” The Devil approached Jon and patted him on the shoulder, “Don’t worry. The world is safe. Bethlehem didn’t burn, yada, yada. Your soul is yours again. I have no need for it. All is well. No need to thank me.” The immortal was more than uncomfortable with the gesture and it showed.

“Uh...thank you,” Jon spouted as Lucifer strolled away and peered into the sunset. “I said there was no need for that.” Jon again shrugged, eyeing all that was around him. “Well, it seems my work here is done. I’ll see you later, Jonathan Ross.” He turned and winked at the Paladin. “I don’t understand,” Jon, again, spouted. Lucifer turned to him and smiled, “You will. See you in a few years.” With a wink, the man with the blonde hair and perfect physique, dazzling smile, and voice of nothing but honey, disappeared. 

The immortal, the Paladin, the defender of all, Jonathan Ross, was now alone in the middle of the desert. With a heavy sigh, he headed toward what he thought was civilization, pondering all that had happened. Night was heavy and so were his thoughts as he walked, both breaking, like waves upon a rocky shore, as he finally entered a city. He made his way to the airport and bought a ticket home. 

As the plane took off, Jon adjusted his tie and looked out upon the world below, clouds and blue and people. He sighed a small sigh and crossed his arms, snuggling into his seat, ready for a peaceful sleep. The final thoughts that ran across his mind were, "I almost died. And it would’ve been worth it." His eyes closed and he fell deep into a restful sleep for the first time in a long time, knowing the end of all things is yet to come.