In Whispers - Part Dio

They walked together, hand in hand. Father and daughter. The king of the Greeks and his child. Her long hair flowing behind her, her feet taking each step so very softly, she was breathtakingly beautiful. She looked at Agamemnon and said "Where is he Father? Has he come for me? Are you taking me to him?". "He will come my love, but you must call out to him. Achilles will come to you when hears your beautiful voice. He will, of that I am certain." replied Agamemnon.

Agamemnon had to look away from his child, he could not bear lying to her. Lying to one as innocent as her, one who drank every word her father said, one who believed him.

But he had to, for the greater good. The dignity of Greece was on the line. They would hail him, as a true king after this. They would not question one who sacrificed his own blood to destroy the Trojans. The loyalty of the Greeks would be undivided now.

"Iphigenia, my dearest. You must now pray,close your eyes and pray. Ask Artemis for Achilles and he will be yours.". Iphigenia did as her father told her. She knelt, closed her eyes and willed the goddess of the moon to give her, her hearts desire.

Agamemnon unsheathed his blade. Looked up into the sky, with tears in his eyes, he screamed "I come for you, TROY" and struck. You could hear the dirt around him echo his words, in whispers.

Void

The darkness of the night was complete. He managed to make it to the mansion without being seen by it's inhabitants.

The wind had masked all sound of footsteps or cracking twigs.

The same wind that prevented him from hearing his own labored breathing. He stared into the crystal walls that housed the final phase of his journey. His destiny.

He could see his ghostly pale reflection through his hood, on the onyx glass. The wind whipped his long coat around his body, his sword at his side.

The light that shone out from within whispered out his name, called to be in his possession. He placed his cold fingers on the colder glass drawing closer to the barrier, watching his breath fogging up his view.

The wind masked his longing moan, as he looked back at his trail.

The same wind that muffled the yells of the guardians he put to death, the swords he shattered. Yet he could hear even the slightest sounds of their blood dripping off his coat and onto the marble porch. He could hear the insects and other crawlers that watched him warily from the trees, their squeaks and scurries halted as they held their breath.

He could hear the cautioning words of his mentor, declaring his goal impossible. His response to this was the same that everyone received, it was inevitable. And now, he could hear the cries of the many who perished where he had succeeded.

He managed a weak grin as he remembered his mentors defeated expression.

And yet here he was, three feet away from his acquiring his deepest desire, three feet and countless days of torment, away. He looked at the skies, staring at the moon through the ominous floating mist that cloaked the stars. He cringed as he removed his gaze from the bright light and took a deep breath.

With one last glance at the ethereal glow that emanated from inside, he turned away, slipping his sword into its scabbard and disappeared back into the darkness.

The Tiber Flows

Caesar was a man, a mortal.
A man who in death, became immortal

A man who dreamt
A man whose dreams lead to his fall
A man who will be remembered, 
Remembered as long as the Tiber flows.

To bleed in war
In the hands of a foe
And then vanquish him
There could be no
Greater glory


But to bleed at home
In the hands of friends
And then die
There could be no
Greater treachery


Caesar ignored the omens
But that was fate
It was written, It is
Something none can evade
That night was bad
The Ides of March it was


Caesar went to the capitol
Expecting judgement
Instead Caesar received
Judgement of his fate
A cruel one


The seeds of jealousy 
Had grown long
Fellow romans saw Caesar
As a tyrant, a dictator, a monster
That was their excuse


And from Caesar's body
Did sprout, fountains of crimson
And as the great general fell
He looked looked the snake in the eye
And whispered - 
Et tu Brute ?

Although the flesh is long and gone
Whose name has lived on and on ?
Who in this tragedy has been wronged ?
Hail Caesar, The savior of Rome.

The Burning candle

Disclaimer: Suggested that this is read only in a state of intoxication (weed, music, or otherwise), as it may not make much sense otherwise. Also because it was written in such a state.(suggested background music- padmasana-buckethead. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Nj1D2y-PY8)

A burning candle that illuminates only itself. The choking darkness snuffing the rest. The sick smell of incense licking the air like sinister fog.

Twisted metal smoldering with the heat of its own screaming conscience. Ashes of the forgotten hurled blindly into the sultry night sky. And all that’s left to criticize is the men themselves.

The candles that melt onto the metal, soothing its violent crevices with the warm wax, flowing seamlessly into the wounds, nurturing what was once lost.

Humanity is whole. Partly.

The six horsemen stare at it through the fog. The morbid melancholy of the monster. One falls into insanity. The others wail hysterical.

Hope is lost like a rusted anchor in a storm ridden ocean. The cruel waves crash mirthlessly onto the creaking floorboards. The men hold the candle to the storm, begging for mercy.

Humanity is whole. Partly.

The fogs clears, the storm maiden is shown. The impeccable reflection frightens another. His cries echo across the silent storm. Insanity has taken another.

The others sink to the wet hull, the candle long since extinguished. The darkness kills absolution. The water drowns rehabilitation.

Humanity is whole. Partly.

Leaden weights float miraculously through the water. The maiden cries softly. The moist second hand falls to the floor. The water takes another. His breath robbed by the distorted reflection.

Humanity is whole. Partly.

Slivers of land clawing through the relentless waves. The fires of netherworld beckon quietly, the obsidian cornerstone shining malevolently under its writhing reflection. The hollow spirit of the candle takes another.

The anchor floats to, rust and grime cleansed. Silvery light of the moon shone on the contours of the familiar messiah.

Humanity is whole. Partly.

Dead cries echo across the sands. Greed and lust forgotten, water and hearth craved. But the sinking sun grants solace to no one. Six that yearned, six that lived.

Two absolved.

Humanity is whole. Partly.

Ravenous gleam of the dying embers. Raw stench permeates the fibres. Six inch nails dug deep into the sand. Forsaken rites revoked. Incense lit once more.

Fingers intertwined. Mistakes remembered. Remorse guiding past the damned mines. Candlelight seen once more through the fog. Hazy mist endured. This time.

Humanity may just be whole.

Morality

Man is flawed.

That is the truth. The absolute, unequivocal, undeniable truth.

Many say that the age of lawlessness is upon us. That man shall break free of all bonds placed upon him, and descend into corruption, baseness, and sin.

This is patently bullshit.

There has never been a time, nor shall there ever be a time, where men are free from their impulse to rape, steal, murder, and covet. Sin is a part of us. It is ingrained into our memories, it flows in our veins, and it beats alongside the rhythm of our hearts. We are flawed.

That is the truth.

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The night sky had never seemed sharper to him than it did this night. Every point of a light, a diamond, cut and polished. The heavens seemed to overflow with light.

But he did not gaze up at the stars, did not allow himself the moment of solace he so sorely craved. His head was tilted downward, bent with shame. A tear slid down his cheek, to land with a soft patter on one of the thirty pieces of silver he held cupped in his hands.

He sobbed softly in the darkness. He could not muster the courage to look to the sky, for the stars were witnesses to his crime, accusers that he could not face. His mind cast itself back.

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The day seemed to shine brighter in his presence, the light of the sun, seeming to coalesce around him, a cascading waterfall of light, reflected off his golden-brown locks. His face was lit up, by the wisdom that was his birthright and by the halo that was his mark. His eyes sparkled in the knowledge that, by mere existence, he had brought succor to his fellow man. He was loved by his friends, feared by his enemies and held in awe by all.

This was the man that he sought to betray.

The day seemed surreal, the air thick, resisting his movements, as if the natural order of things sought to work against him. Perhaps it did. As he walked towards him, his heart screamed to him that he was the harbinger of the end of the age of the goodly man, the herald of a future dominated by death and lawlessness.

He did not care.

He approached his teacher, and as he did, he felt the eyes of the paragon settle upon him.

The crowd of people around them seemed to melt away before him, as did butter before a white-hot knife. He did not pause to acknowledge the greetings they issued forth. He was fixed in purpose. He was steel.

As he drew closer, the world around him seemed to darken, the figure before him glowed brighter, to the exclusion of all else.

His quarry made no move to respond or greet him, as he drew closer. He stood still, as if waiting. His betrayer felt fear, for his plot’s uncovering. But he did nothing. Merely stood. As would a mountain, from now till the end of time.

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On his lips played a sad smile, of foreknowledge, of acceptance, and unbelievably, of forgiveness.

“You know why I am here?”

“I do.”

“Then you know why I do this.”

“That as well.”

“What say you?”

“Friend, do what you are here to do.”

He leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek.

And the world burst into fire and panic.

۞ --------------- ۞

The oak tree stood, magnificent and tall. It bore the weight of years with a silvery grain. A leaf, shriveled and dry, fell from its place, and drifted to the ground, ever so slowly. The first of many, in that cold, dark winter. And as it fell, a drop of ruby red followed it. It came from the mouth of the man swinging gently on the lowest branch of the oak. His neck broken, his mouth foaming red. As the rope twisted and turned, the tree seemed to shiver, and as a faint clinking of silver on silver sounded, every leaf on the tree withered, and shriveled away to nothingness.

On the tree, hung Judas Iscariot.

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