I open my eyes and cringe. Hindsight is perfect and I see the part I played with perfection. I realize now that I was vital to Yeshua's plan. He used me. How delicious. I did fall to my own temptations but it was a part in the plan. Ironic that I am damned for playing that crucial role.
Jerusalem had changed. The city had expanded and become a fortress. “Not like it was,” I muttered. I walked the path that Yeshua took on that last day. The Muslims have built over that path and before the coming battle was done the path would again be bathed in blood. I meditate on this and hone my blade to a razor's edge. I will baptize it in my own blood and carry out the rites that are necessary for me to prepare. As the sun goes down I weep. Tomorrow is what is now called the Good Friday, though there is nothing good about it. It is the anniversary of my birth as the something else that I now am. I meditate on this fact through the night. I gather my strength, pour it into my sword arm and march out to battle.
The Crusades. I light another cigarette. I will need the clarity that comes with the rush of nicotine to remember it all rightly. Ruth. I loved her, for a while. Until my wrongness came between us. One day she saw that there was no more gray in my beard then five years before. The lines of my face hadn't changed since she had known me. On that day she realized that I had not aged a day in the 20 years I had known her. That though I looked fifty I had the vitality of a man half that. Of course I was already over a milennia old when I met her. The scars on my neck from the day of the betrayal had very nearly faded, but I was not fated for a simple happiness, not allowed to have the simple pleasure of loving someone and being loved in return. I thought I would never love again so that I might spare myself that pain. If only Yahweh were so kind.
“The witch will burn!” The small man in front of me cries to the people. It amazes me that such a man can inspire such zealotry. Bound to this post, on a stack of wood and declared a witch and a Blasphemer. Hilarious. Torquemada continued on his diatribe as he was wont to do and then he hit a sore spot with me. “...It pains me at this betrayal! This priest, this man of god to practice this unholy witchery on one of my most trusted followers! This betrayal cuts me deeply. I AARRRgh!” I lost the rest of what he was saying mainly due to the sudden decompression of his chest. Then I started. “You know nothing of Betrayal! You know nothing of Sacrifice! I was there when The Christ was Betrayed and you know NOTHING OF THAT PAIN!”
I flash back to the present. The fourteenth century had not been a pleasant one. I took the irony of a greater demon helping plan what came to be known as the Spanish Inquisition rather badly. I blasted my way through Torquemada's camp and tore the Demon limb from limb. Then they tried to burn me for witchcraft. Wonderful group of people.
“Break the Gate Down!” The crone leading this mob screamed to all within hearing. I send out a thought to the Bastille. He is there. I muscle my way to the portcullis and begin to climb. Once I reach to top I search for handholds to climb the stone. There are none so I leap to the wall from where I am. Several bullets pass through me but I will the pain away and throw them off the wall. I run to the gatehouse and blast the gate open. The scum of the Parisian streets will keep Gilgamarish busy while I close on him. The mob surges, ebbing and flowing like the tide. The bloodlust is on them. I charge into the main keep well ahead of the pitiful masses, they will simply get in my way. I feel him pressing on my mind from the depths of this place. I run along the passageways of the fortress-prison, a map laid bare to me from the minds of those around me, telling me where to find the thing that drives them to fight, to protect the demon's sanctuary. I now understand why he chose this place, as I decsend further and further into the foul depths, seeing the remnants of his work scattered around, the corpses with the faces twisted horribly in pain, possibly vivisected to sate the demon's hunger. It fuels his power, this nexus of misery and hate and terrible hopelessness. My Righteous fury multiplies my power. The battle is very short. After the battle rage leaves me I realize that my power is not all from the divine, but I grew stronger in this place as well. I flee from this realization with all the speed I can muster.
The pain surges again. I steel myself against the physical pain I'm in and with the ease of long practice I ease the pain of the memory. The pain is lessened by the greater understanding that gained of myself, but the ancient betrayal was felt anew when I realized my other source of power.
The fear drives them all. This hell on earth that we have created for ourselves will not get better. I need to find and kill every one of them in the chain of command. I slide across No-Man's-Land and get closer to them. I hear the laughing of men who are on the edge of breaking, the laughter too loud and hard, they all show the strain by not showing it, making cruel mockery of any man who cannot hide it as well. I feel the shadows scampering around me in the dark, feeding on the fear of the men in the trenches and the desperation of everyone else in the world. Heh, World War. Whomever came up with the notion should be eviscerated for dragging it all to hell like this. I slide closer to the nest and see the shapes inside the pillbox. The demon is there, manning the latest and greatest tool in dealing mass death. The waepon is marvelously efficient but with only a few minor telekinetic nudges it becomes useless. I walk into the pillbox and look the demon in the eye. “Your time has come Yzrael. Why do you fight it so hard?”
“Says the spider to the fly, Betrayer. Have you ever considered the source of your power? You should be siding with us, but yet you fight. Why?” A fair question. Why do I fight? The answer comes naturally.
“An ancient love, more powerful than anything you or your master can offer, Yzrael.”
“Iscariot, I thought more of you than to be a zealot of that blind faith. I-” He finished the statement with some gurgling noises that I couldn't understand.
Love, but not for the love of the father. I fight for the love of my brother and teacher. I fight so that I may feel worthy to enter his presence again. I couldn't care less about the religion, it is the belief that gives me power. Oh Yeshua, how I miss our nights of sitting up with our favorite date wine talking about the girls and politics and the new morality he spoke of. From these fond memories of you I redouble my resolve to take this fight to the end.
The tension in the air sets my teeth on edge. This small space is too confining and the smell of the cordite on the air is sickening after days of it. I raise my rifle and it spits death to another man. The jungle is too hot. Home may be hotter but at least one can escape from the heat. Here in this godforsaken little shit corner of Asia, the heat clings to you no matter where you go. Impact. I see the sky. I look down and see there is a hole in my chest, bringing little geysers of blood with every heartbeat. Fucking snipers. I close my eyes and focus on the bullet in my chest. I see it and follow it back to it's source, the bastard that shot me. I make his death messy and turn my attention to patching the hole in me.
I laugh when I think how many orphans I made over the years. I try to walk the righteous path but it is hard to do when half are actively trying to kill you and most of the others won't listen to your calls for help.
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