Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

In a dark room, deep in the center of The Community headquarters, sat three men and one woman. All dressed to impress, all with faces as stern and strong as rock. Within The Community the three men were easily identifiable, the female too. At the round table made of the tree that hung Judas Escariot sat the most powerful men in all the free world: Viktor Taelrith of the House of Lee, the vampire lord, Marcus Johansen of the House of Roue, the final say in the human side, and lastly Eiren Fenris of the House of Lucian, lord of the Lycanthropes. Last was Monica, new Mediator, elected after Lola's tragedy.

It was a tense silence, each lord measuring the other, gauging the other royal members of their race. This was the first meeting between all the races in over 500 years. The last time they'd all come together was to decide the fate of individuals that would do anything to usurp the rule of The Community. It seemed they met again under similar circumstances, though quite different, where the last time it was a group, this was a single man. None of the trio wanted to be the one to speak first, it was seen as an act of impatience and rudeness to the others.

"These are not the acts of a Lycanthrope." Eiren offered to the silence, breaking it, finally. "They are made to look like they are, but the evidence is far from the truth." The other men took a moment before answering, Viktor speaking first, "Clearly they are. We've found sigils of your clan at every attack. If not done directly by a wolf, then they certainly are an accomplice." Marcus followed, "There is no way it can be just one individual as we've been lead to believe. This vampire..." He picked up the notes before him and read for a second before going on, "Michael. Does not have the capabilities to do the things he's done all by himself. It's just not physically possible."

Silence had once again reclaimed the room. But only for a short time whilst Eiren stroked his strawberry red beard in thought with his huge hand. "He could. If he were of the House of Tor." The statement sat ill with the two men across from him. Displeasure at mention of the name sat heavy onViktor's thin face, deepening the shadows on his pale skin. Marcus shared the look, frowning in anger, his perfect skin stretched over his features, betraying his age. "The House of Tor is fallen. There is no one left with those...gifts." The vampire lord sat back in his chair, as if to dismiss the entire thing. Marcus agreed with a nod and turned his attention to the papers in front of him, trying to further the inquiry, when Monica's voice chimed in, "That is incorrect, Lord Taelrith."

Monica sat in her chair, the one designated for the Mediator, in her grey suit, young face and short, black hair. "One of the House of Tor is still alive. And he also sired Michael. You know him as Belthazar. His real name is Amon. He is not the age he says he is, but he did join the House of Lee near 800 years ago." As she spoke the trio of men were fixated on her, hanging on every word. "He now sits on the council in the House of Lee. It is unclear if he has the dark gifts of the Tor, but it is suspected that he does." Marcus and Eiren both turned their angry gazes on Viktor, who stammered his words out, "I wouldn't have known! I've only lead the house for 500 years. This was beyond my time!"

Marcus sighed with disgust, "It seems your house has again let The Community down, Viktor. Remind me, again, of the shining victory over the Tor. How the mighty prevailed and the wicked were vanquished. What was their crime, again?" The vampire shot a look of pure fury at him, the Fire of the Night burning bright, "They were murderers, thought themselves the law keepers of our kind. They were one of the elder clans, but could not conform to The Masquerade, before The Community was founded. Once The Community came along they wanted even less to do with it. This also proves the point that he has an accomplice in the wolves. One of their dark gifts was to control your kind." A scowl was shot the way of the Lycanthrope lord, who growled deeply in response, before answering.

"I am the oldest of the free wolves, last living descendant of Lucian! If he were to be able to control anyone it'd be me." He rose from his seat to tower over the table and the others sitting at it, "Would you care to be more specific with your accusation, bat?" Before the other could answer Monica's calm voice chimed like a bell "Gentlemen. This is an inquiry. Not a battle royale. Sit down, Lord Fenris. Lord Taelrith, be careful with what you choose to say." With reluctance the leader of the Lycanthropes sat back down, Viktor's fire also fading, extinguished by the Mediator, "I accuse no one, Eiren." Both conceded to each other with a nod.

Marcus had grown impatient with the show, "Look. All we know is that there is a murderer, going after all but the wolf kind. I don't know about controlling other species or the such, but I do know that this man comes from a long line of assassins and political powerhouses and is gunning for no one in particular. His random pattern of murder and chaos, accomplice or not, is costing us all. We need to stop him." Eiren pointed a thick finger at the head of the House of Roue, "Wasn't it YOUR hunters that let him go in the first place? Why has no one questioned the men that went after him in the first place?"

The human leader shook his head and dug a handful of photos from his leather bag, sliding them over to the Lycanthrope, "We did. In fact we went this morning to try. This is how we found them. All of eight of them. No matter how creative we humans are we can't recreate that kind of violence." Eiren slid through the pictures, flayed open bodies in almost each one, their faces frozen in terror, or in mid scream, throats torn out, limbs severed, and in the last one another sigil of the House of Lucian on parchment, thrown upon an opened rib cage. The brown paper was soaked red, the sigil barely recognizable. The giant wolf pushed the pictures to the vampire, who refused to look at them. Marcus took them back and asked, "Are you sure you're the only living descendant? Is there another?"

An answer was a long time coming, "I am. During the last great war all my brothers and sisters were killed." Even after answering, he still thought for a time. Silence came back to the room, heavy and lasting. Monica's perfect voice chimed again, "If there is no more lines of questioning then I shall declare this inquiry closed. Any final thoughts or questions?" She looked at Marcus, he shook his head, Viktor did the same, Eiren spoke, "They said they found a piece of paper at the first murder scene with a single word on it. What did it say?" The other two lords didn't know, but Monica did, "It said 'Praelior.'"

The three most powerful men sat in confusion at the word for a while, until Marcus asked, "What does it mean?" Monica once more had three sets of eyes keenly tuned directly at her. With that same congenial smile she'd worn this entire procedure she answered, her body language betraying nothing, her perfectly blue eyes sparkling with life, "It's ancient Latin. Almost as old as Aramaic. It means 'War.'"  

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.