‘You’ve got to fight them!’ Ishtar had cried out to her. ‘Stand your ground! You know you’re so much stronger than the rest of us!’
But she didn’t fight. She just stared at the ground as they led her into her iron box on the wagon. The rope bounding her wrists sunk deep into her flesh. The man’s hand on the back of her neck pinched her skin in. And as the closed the iron door to her box, engulfing her in darkness, she raised her hands to her eyes. And cried.
~~~~
“STOP! STOP! PLEASE!” Jezebel screams in terror as her captor barges into her cell, “DON’T HURT ME ANYMORE!” She throws herself at the farthest corner, curling up into a small ball, her brown eyes two rivers overflowing.
She wears a drab rag barely covering her thin body, the cotton fibers soiled with dirt and blackened by soot from the cell’s floor. Her caramel skin encrusted beneath dust and black ash. Her feet muck black, her face filled with scratches and unhealed lacerations from her split lip to a gash freshly crusted with blood over her right eyebrow. Her eyes clamp tightly together, finding darkness a solace compared to reality. She hugs her knees, her chest rapidly rising and falling as she hyperventilates.
For three months she endured the treatment for her family. For sixty days and nights she bawled and sobbed, their methods of torture knowing no boundary. On the first day they raped her, ripped off her blue sundress and violated every orifice. She lost count after the fifth man used her. Blood filled her mouth, their seamen leaked out between her thighs. The second day they snipped bits of skin off her hips and thighs, then covered them with chili powder to heighten the pain. On and on they took and took and took pieces of her honor, degrading her, emaciating her will. She wanted desperately to fight, to spit in their faces and curse their names to the Aldritch beasts of Hel.
But she did no such thing.
This weakness to not fight back came from a disposition engrained by her parents. Her sister told her to fight, to unleash herself against the oppressors. Her parents would have none of it. They made Jezebel swear on the Council of Eight that she would take no arms against others; a decision she regretted with each passing second.
Swearing to the Council of Eight, the lords above presiding all that is and shall be, is a binding contract without removal. Jezebel respected her parents, respected the solemn vow she gave to the lords above. She understood her sister’s anger and drive, but she also trusted her parents in knowing the right thing to do. She had to just keep her head down, endure the pain, and everything would work out. Everything would be back in harmony.
“Shut the FUCK UP HERETIC!” Roars Gilgamesh, a behemoth of a man. He bolts straight for her after opening her cell, his face stretched with loathing. He grabs her by the hair, coiling it like a whip in his hand. A wad of saliva drips from the corner of his lips.
She screams a higher pitch as he rockets her from the corner, dragging her against the coarse floor to the middle of her cell. She thrashes helplessly as Gilgamesh shoves her face into the ground, his other hand roughly kneading her breasts one at a time. Her cheeks scratch against the dust grains, some slipping between the folds of unhealed wounds to grind into her lush red tissue.
“Like that bitch?” He whispers in her ear with a throttling laugh.
“Enough, Gilgamesh.” Commands a burly rumble.
Gilgamesh sticks his knee into the middle of her back, twisting it to elicit a whimper from her, “Understood, Ma’am.” He clenches his hand one last time on her left breast, enough to leave purpling-blue imprints, his other hand unraveling with a painful pull from her hair. Pushing himself off her, he deliberately steps on her right ankle while walking away, “Gotta keep reminding these magic cunts their place,” he says with a snort.
“That. Is. Enough, Gilgamesh.” The voice says with a hard edge, “You may take your leave.”
“Miss,” Gilgamesh scoffs, “and leave you alone with this—”
Gilgamesh goes quiet. And the terrified girl on the ground hears the distinct sound of lips popping apart before the voice growls harshly, “You. Will. Take. Your. Leave. Boy.”
A discomforting silence asphyxiates the room, a lingering moment dragging its knuckles across the floor. Then, she hears heavy boots storm out of the room. The thuds distance themselves, followed by the slamming of a door rebounding itself across the walls.
Jezebel’s body submits to hysterical shuddering, her breaths short and fast. Her heart bashes at her temples, its pulse felt throughout every particle of skin on her form. She thinks on this foreign voice, this faceless savior pulling Gilgamesh from her. Whoever the voice belonged to had a wealth of power, an esteemed prestige to order such a barbarian as Gilgamesh. Yet, she could not tell if it be a masculine or feminine vocal. Or if this person would be even worse.
“My child, please rise.” The voice gently commands her.
Jezebel sniffles, sucking back mucus up her nose. Placing her palms against the ground, she pushes herself up in a rickety fashion, her frail body trembling from toe to finger. Her right leg bends slightly with the ache in her right ankle. She uses the strength of her left leg to bring herself to full height, where she sways left to right with exhaustion. Brushing her dirtied auburn hair to the side, the girl raises her head and gasps.
There stands before her, a majestic woman with a wide smile. Jezebel is taken aback by her beauty, by the grace she exhibits. The woman wears ornate indigo robing, the stitching perfect beyond comprehension. Immeasurable constellations adorn the fabric, weaving like impeccable strings of Light. These constellations pulsate vivid hues, an everchanging barrage of color morphing to its warm then cool counterpart palette: deep purples to bright yellows, enriched crimsons to grassy greens, oceanic blues to tangy oranges. Jezebel had never seen such complex constructions, these constellations a form of resplendency almost making her weep with joy. In all of this, Jezebel could not make out exactly what forms these constellations were trying to impart, her mind instead racketed by their empyreal radiance.
“It’s okay, love,” the woman assures the young girl, her voice akin to a master bard, “you’re safe with me.” Jezebel’s eyes widen at the last word, finding its ring almost inhuman, an otherworldly sound like waves rushing up shore’s side. She then dashed the thought away; no person could do that—she must have just misheard the lady.
The woman steps closer to the young girl, her smile never losing an ounce of muster. She kneels before the girl and raises her right arm; her sleeve falls down just past the wrist, revealing a pink fingerless-gloved hand with a pristine copper bracelet dangling slightly off her wrist. Jezebel stares into the woman’s shifting eyes, two smoldering orbs deeper than the center of the Sun. They blaze a vermillion inferno with thin wisps fleeting out the corners of the iris that then slender to sliver burgundy before evaporating. Her complexion dark yet smooth, the Sun having given its blessing on this strange woman. The little girl wondered why this woman had such short-wavy hair, usually this meant they were dishonored and of the lower caste. And her hair had an ombre affect, with the roots swathed with a deep purple that then lightens to a bright violet at the ends. Everyone Jezebel knew had either black or brown hair in variations, never a color as strange as the Sun’s spectrum during dusk.
The woman’s fingers touch Jezebel’s left cheek, gently caressing with tiny swirls, “My name is Elizabeth von Dalkhu, what is yours, sweetie?” Elizabeth smiles warmly, her pale lips separating to flash bright white teeth.
The little girl stands entranced, a comforting sensation coiling around her heart. She felt that she could trust this woman—Yes, she knew she could trust Elizabeth. “I’m Jezebel.”
“Jezebel,” Elizabeth drawls out sensually, “what a lovely name. Do you have a last name?”
Jezebel nods shortly, not wanting Elizabeth to remove her hand still caressing her cheek. “Bashir. Jezebel al’Bashir, miss.”
Elizabeth laughs, a joyous sound Jezebel wished to never cease, “No need for such formalities my sweet. Call me Elizabeth, or Lizzy, or whichever.”
Trust continues to swell in Jezebel’s bosom, that and warmth which weaves itself through her veins, “Lizzy…why…why are you here?”
A sadness overcomes Elizabeth’s eyes, “Yes…my reason.” Tracing her fingers along Jezebel’s cheek, she softly slides them down to the side of her neck, “You live in a rather backwards society, my child. Your leaders despise magic, view it as some grotesque abomination needing to be snuffed from existence. I believe this stems from the belief your society holds on this Council of Eight,” she names with much venom in her throat, “that only these eight Gods and Goddesses may have power over reality, yes?”
Jezebel nods in affirmation. Elizabeth looks away for a moment, behind the young girl. Strangely, Jezebel feels as if the woman is actually looking at someone, but that would be impossible, only they two occupied the cell. After a couple seconds, she sets her smoldering eyes back onto the girl, “I hold no such views, and neither do my people. We revel in our divine power, a beautiful manifestation bestowed by higher powers beseeching us to implement them in the namesake of progress for humanity. Your people’s disdain for magic removes the foresight in its practical applications which can restore your society to a prosperous nation and rejoin those around its borders instead of being such a closed-off island in a sea of forward thinking.” She shakes her head with a sly smirk, “I’m rambling, sorry.” Her face falls to a serious set, her eyes piercing through Jezebel’s, “The important thing is,” she rubs the girl’s left shoulder, “that I’m to represent you before your leaders. I have been sent as your defendant, to claim a case where I whisk you off to my land and your peoples will have no further worry to trouble you, my dear. Would you like that? You would live under my care. I have a home in the woods with two dogs and many other sisters and brothers who think as I do.”
Jezebel’s face brightens up, her eyes shining and lips curling up, “Yes!” She shouts excitedly. She would be free of her torment, free from her parents, free from everyone looking down at her and calling her names. “But-” her lips droop down as she thinks, unconsciously licking her upper lip before saying, “what about my sister? Can I take her with us? Please?”
Elizabeth sighs and grabs the little girl’s hands, stroking the palms with her thumbs, “I give no guarantees. First, I must plead your case…” the woman frowns lowly, “Jezebel, be stoic when you appear before everyone. Give no inkling on what you want or they will seize upon it as wickedness. Be a blank canvas. If they deny my request…there’s…” she inhales deeply through her nose and exhales through her mouth, and says, “there’ll be nothing I can do.”
Jezebel’s eyes widen with panic, all that hope draining away. She thinks of Gilgamesh’s agonizingly persistent drive for torture, the loneliness of her cell, the anguish of being viewed as an abomination. “No-nonononono,” an image flashes before her eyes, that of Gilgamesh unclipping his pants and lowering them, “you can’t let them!” Tears escape her eyes, plummeting down her face as her chest begins to heave, “Please don’t let them!” She grips onto Elizabeth’s hands, grasping for dear life, “They’ll hurt me! They’ll” her breath catches in her throat, “they’ll-they’ll,” she hyperventilates, anguish stricken across her face.
(Pain. Anguish. Submission.
Mortality. Organic. Feebele.
Cast away Doubt. Give Faith.)
In a flash Elizabeth releases her hands from the little girl and stands. She envelops the apprehensive girl in a loving embrace, pressing the child’s face against her stomach. Jezebel clutches onto Elizabeth’s robes, sobbing her little heart out. Elizabeth gently rubs the child’s back, while softly whispering, “Shhhhh, shhhh, it’s all right Jezebel. Shhh, don’t cry my dear. I’m right here. I’m right here.” She kisses the top of the little girl’s head, continuing to hold her for a time. Elizabeth stares out behind the girl for a couple seconds, her eyes unwavering on a particular spot, before sliding back down to the girl, “I have a plan.”
She pulls away from the girl with some difficulty, finding Jezebel’s grasp extremely firm. Carefully she pries off the girl’s fingers from her robe, who continues to sniffle and whimper. Kneeling before her once more, Elizabeth mischievously smiles, “Listen closely, my dear, okay…” the little girl continues to cry, “okay? No more crying, you need to be strong.”
Jezebel rapidly gulps in air then expels it. Her body shakes with dread and fear of the future. The hair on her arms and legs bristle, goosebumps line up the nape of her neck and lower back.
Elizabeth holds Jezebel’s left cheek with motherly affection, “In through your nose,” she breathes in deeply, holding it as she watches the girl copy her, “then slowly out the mouth,” they exhale together.
After a few more repetitions, Jezebel gathers herself to quietly say, “Okay,” before engaging her mind to calm herself once more.
Elizabeth holds the little girl by the shoulders, “If, by some chance…I lose our case—I have a trump card. I” she puts emphasis on the first-person pronoun, “cannot do something, but You,” she squeezes the girl’s shoulders reassuringly and to get the point across, “can. I know you’re scared, frightened, downright distraught about all of this, but have faith in me, my child. You will know the right moment to act. It will be apparent. I cannot describe the occurrence for it must grow organically, but,” Elizabeth wipes away the tear stains on Jezebel’s cheeks, sliding carefully the side of her fingers beneath the eyes to sweep away the pooling droplets, “you will be safe, Jezebel. You will be safe.”
The door outside the cell creaks open and slams shut, like dropping a large-bound book in a silent room. Heavy boots thud their way to the cell, then stop, remaining outside. “Miss Elizabeth, it is time.” A gruff voice calls out.
Elizabeth gazes into Jezebel’s eyes, seeing the pain and agony the little girl tries with much difficultly to swallow. “Follow my lead. Do not speak unless spoken to. Keep your eyes on me or the ground. Nod if you understand.”
Jezebel nods, her body shuddering with trepidation.
Elizabeth turns away from the small girl, cracks her neck left to right, clenches and unfurls her hands—then ambles her way out the cell. Jezebel shuffles meekly behind, her eyes glued to the back of the imposing woman before her. Her eyes trace an unusual symbol on Elizabeth’s back, different than the constellations marking up the rest of the indigo robes. The symbol is drawn in a tar-like black, exhibiting no light or warmth. There is a vertical line dragging down, with one short black line crossing just underneath the tip, and another longer black line below that. Then there was a looping symbol at the bottom of the vertical line, like an eight put on its side.
Elizabeth stops, with Jezebel coming up to her stay just behind her right hip. “We are ready,” she says coolly, her eyes boring through the man before her.
Jezebel flicked her eyes up then rested them back onto the ground. It was Archdeacon Gabriel whom Elizabeth spoke to, a withered old man with sagging skin and a persistent scowl skewering his face. He was wearing his crimson robes with embroiled gold patterning along the sleeves and down the sides. And Jezebel knew he only wore these clothes when a human sacrifice was to be held. A festival before—
(Upon thy ire draw forth resilience
Call upon thy faculties amongst thy flesh, Drown out their petulant lies through My voice
Conceive unto Me thy brilliance
And I shall rot what treachery besets thee)
“Jezebel?!” Elizabeth shouts at her.
Jezebel opened her eyes, staring deep into Elizabeth’s two orbs of tar. Eyes of darkness. Of despair. She could make out a faint face screaming in agony.
The little girl rapidly blinks away the visual, finding Elizabeth’s eyes returned to their normal vermillion. The small child then becomes consciously aware of her predicament, finding herself being lifted to her feet by the majestic woman from the cold ground. Her right arm and hip prickles with a sting. She must have fallen on that side.
Finding her throat parched, her mind foggy, Jezebel asks hoarsely, her eyes wandering with fuzziness, “What happened?” She presses her palms against her temples, pushing the fog in her mind away. But something lingers. An almost human voice. The feeling remains. Warm, embracing…soothing.
What had they said?
She hears Gabriel scoff and mumble under his breath, “Vile bitch.”
Jezebel’s eyes find their way back to Elizabeth’s, who warmly smiles down at her, “You fainted, my child. It’s only natural in your position to—”
“Can we get,” Archdeacon Gabriel cuts in, “a move on. She’s clearly stalling for time.” Gabriel crosses his left arm over his right, setting them underneath his chest with a disgusted sneer plastered across his face, “Everyone is waiting. King Mormon distastes waiting.”
Elizabeth wounds upon the Archdeacon, her upper lip curling as she bellows into his face, filling the entire room with her voice, “She’s a FUCKING CHILD YOU MAGGOT!”
Jezebel’s lower jaw slackens, her eyes wide gaping at Elizabeth raise her voice against the second most powerful man in the entire kingdom. Second only to the King himself.
The sagging flesh constituting Gabriel’s face twists with unbridled anger, his eyes radiating focused beams of hatred. Jezebel catches a short movement by his right arm, then her attention switches to Elizabeth stepping closer to the Archdeacon.
“Do it.” Elizabeth growls, a reverberating sound deep and filled with gravity. An inhuman sound. “I fucking,” she steps closer, barely an inch away as she presses her face close to his, “dare you,” her unblinking eyes bore through his skull, “Boy.”
Gabriel audibly swallows and retreats a step back from Elizabeth. “A-apologies,” he stutters, the anger behind his eyes draining to a fearful regard, “Adjudicator Dalkhu, I-i humbly request your ff-forgiveness.”
“Ahuh,” Elizabeth glowers. She retracts her body to a relaxed position, her robes hanging comfortably off her form. She feints a thrust forward with her body as if to strike his body, her eyes popping out their sockets, a manic smile splitting apart her face.
Archdeacon Gabriel flinches back with a start, his arms flinging upward. Jezebel watches a shining object slip out his right sleeve and clatter onto the floor. It was an eight-inch dagger.
Elizabeth grins, deliberately showing him her teeth, and jeers voluminously, “Know your fucking place. Trash.” She giggles, her shoulders shaking up then down then up then down.
“Y-y-yes,” Gabriel nods frantically, trying to fake a smile which shatters to a trembling quake. He glances at Jezebel who does not meet his eye, for she keeps her own upon Elizabeth in a reverent stare. To witness such a power dynamic filled the little girl with much needed hope.
“Well?” Elizabeth drawls out her mouth, “The door ain’t opening itself.”
“Of course!”
Gabriel races for the door, finding it good reason to not face such a wretched woman, his red robes whipping behind him like fleeing prey. He grasps onto the rusted doorknob for dear life, twists it clockwise, and flings the door open. Without looking behind, he marches down a dimly lit corridor. Deep red flames flicker from cylindric lanterns suspended by iron chains jutting out the ceiling, bathing the entire corridor in an ominous blood-imbued binding shifting and molding.
Elizabeth turns to look at the small girl, Gabriel’s footsteps losing their thump to a distant patter. “You okay?”
Jezebel nods, “Yes, Lizzie.”
Elizabeth smiles gracefully. Lifting her arms up, she stretches out her back with a wide yawn, “Do’ya know,” she wooshes out a long breath, “what happened?” She lowers her arms, smoothing out her robes by sliding her palms down her chest to her abdomen, “When you fainted?”
The little girl shakes her head, “No.” Briefly she tries to recall the moment, but a blackness blankets her mind. An impenetrable fortress blockading her. “One moment I was standing. Next…you were picking me up from the floor.” She scrunches up her face, lifting her head toward the tall woman. She determines the incident as a byproduct from her own inner-turmoil. From all those negative emotions weighing her down. From her inherent weakness. “But it won’t happen again. I’m not scared anymore.”
Elizabeth’s eyes darken slightly, “Of course.” She then stares out over the girl for three seconds, before turning away, “Come. Remember what I told you earlier, my child.” Promenading into the corridor, she holds her right wrist with her left hand’s thumb and forefinger, then proceeds to roll her right wrist in a counter-clockwise fashion, “Your trial starts the second we arrive.”
Jezebel skips after the Adjudicator, but as she passes into the corridor, she glances behind her—to where Elizabeth’s eyes had been. She sees nothing. Just her dank cell and blank walls. An emptiness fleeting behind.
“Why do you keep doing that?” Jezebel asks, stopping her prancing for a reserved stroll behind the adjudicator. The pair pass dead-bolted iron doors pressed into the walls three inches deep. The little girl eyes each one, wondering if they be filled by criminals or magic inclined people like herself. And if they received the same treatment as she.
Elizabeth cocks her head back to see the small girl, “Doing what?” The blood flames above swath over her dark complexion into curdled scarlet. Her eyes drowned in tar.
“Staring off.”
Elizabeth chuckles and turns her face back forward, “I space out sometimes. Nothing to worry about.” Jezebel takes the answer at face value, finding no alternative to raise suspicion. “What’s an adgudactor?”
“Ad-ju-di-cay-tor, my dear. Try once more, please.”
Jezebel overexaggerates her facial movements as she sounds out, “A-dju-di-cay-tor.”
“Much better, sweetie. An adjudicator, where I live, is a person who rectifies and deals laws when needed. I’m like a walking law book, so to speak. When someone breaks the rules or is suspect in doing so, the city or village or wherever need be requests my assistance in handling the matter appropriately. And if I find the person guilty, I, myself, deal whichever punishment be suitable for their digression. Understand?”
“I think…so?” She scratches underneath her chin, the soles of her feet going cold from the icy floor.
Elizabeth flicks her right hand to the right, “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get a formal education on my people’s society once we leave this abhorrent kingdom. Ya’know, once we’ve—”
A voice whispers into Jezebel’s membrane. A voice devoid of life, of deliverance. A voice like rock dragging along the sea’s depths. Boisterous as an exploding volcano, more ravenous than the sweetest of pleasures. Painting vivid images upon a canvas of tar before her mind. Crafting explicit sounds and sights as if she were really there.
[the waves crash against the ship’s rickety wooden hide. the sailors upon the deck perform their duties, shouting calls and directions for their fellow men to battle the unyoked sea. bright purple lightning fractures the soot clouds, creating magnificent webbings that shudder back into darkness. the captain roars orders over the sea and grasps onto the vibrating wheel, trying to steer with the waves, not against.
below deck, black bodies cry and rave in foreign tongues. their ankles and wrists chained together. some lie next to rotting carcasses of loved ones or strangers. one black man vomits onto his face. a black girl shits herself. a black boy weeps for Anansi’s help. but Anansi will not help. for Anansi cannot stretch forth his grip from the motherland. the small god must remain behind. he must remain and protect what people be left on his continent.]
“—okay, put this on.”
Jezebel blinks, finding herself standing before Elizabeth. “What?” Heavily armored men encircle her, holding iron shields and steel spears.
Elizabeth slides the blindfold over the child’s eyes.
[a human sobs, their teeth grinding together, snot dribbling out their nose. they crawl through grey rubble splashed with the blood of their fellow comrades. fresh vermillion liquid leaks from their scalp. the human grips onto their brown rifle, saliva oozing out their mouth as they weakly move. a foreign voice shouts. the human rolls onto their back. cocks their rifle. a bullet blows apart their face, emaciating their features.
beetle-like machines spouting flame and smoke roll the the rubble. a human pushes a latch up, poking their head out from the machine. with pleasure twinkling in their eyes, they gaze upon the littering carcasses.]
Jezebel feels herself rocking right to left. She tries to move her arms but finds them bound together by something cold. Possibly iron cuffs. She cannot see. The blindfold prods at her open eyes.
“Stay strong, Jezebel,” she hears Elizabeth whisper on her right, “we’re almost there.”
(Look. Child. Witness what injustices havoc existence.
See the Man butcher his Wife over her adulterous ways.
Gaze upon the Female raped by her Uncle whilst her father smokes on his pipe.
Examine the still-born infant, the father hugging the mother in shared misery.
Look at the huddled humans crying while flying constructs expel death with ease.
At the boy slicing open his wrist, wondering why God abandoned him.
Upon beautiful mountains of life now laid bare and brown.
Onto roadside kill rotting with flies.
LOOK!
AS THY PLANET CONVULSES AND FORTHS!
TINY MEN CAST WARS OVER GREED
AND WRETCHED WHORES SALIVATE OVER THE SPOILS!
DO. NOT. CRY!
RAGE!
RAGE AGAINST THE STORM!
CLUTCH ON TO THEIR ENTRAILS AND UPROOT THEIR DISGUST!
DO NOT KILL WITH KINDNESS AND HONOR
RIP THEIR FUCKING THROAT OUT
EXCAVATE THEIR CHEST AND DEVOUR THEIR HEARTS!
THE INEQUITIES AND INJUSTICES OF THY WORLD
WILL
NOT
BE RECONCILED WITH WISDOM, JUSTCE, AND LOVE!)
“Steady now, Jezebel,” Elizabeth assures the young girl, “don’t listen to them.”
For a brief moment, Jezebel believed the woman spoke about the volatile voice inside her head. But as a fog drifted away from her mind, so too did a different volume fill its vacuous space. A volume she blocked from hearing, withdrawing herself back in the one solace she confined in. These voices were human, and so, she drew herself into the Dark, where people rather distance themselves from.
In darkness Jezebel’s eyes be, the blindfold curling back her eyelashes. She interlaces her fingers, the coldness of her binding lost from the warmth of her flesh. Steady her breath goes, repeating Elizabeth’s words to focus air up her nose then through her mouth. She thanked her cell for hardening the soles of her feet, for the harsh dirt grains she plods over would have surely cut through her skin by now.
The voice’s message and images haunt her mind and eyes. Within her blindfold could she witness the man’s head being blown off from an odd instrument held by a different man wearing odd clothing. Within her blindfold could she witness these black-bodied people crying and shouting in their foreign tongues, chained together, bound on the floor, while white-bodied people ran amuck above them. Within her blindfold could she witness green mountains full of four-legged creatures dwindle to an arid brown plot without beauty. She did not, could not, understand just why this voice brought these moments to her attention. Her mind unable to comprehend its message. She thought she should be scared, frightened, downright horrified that some thing spoke to her without anyone else’s knowledge. Yet, she felt comforted. She felt at home.
She knew not where she was being led. Did not understand this procedure for trial, had no idea from her years living on its account. She understood, however, that her only friend was undoubtedly Elizabeth in this strange reality she now treads. And possibly the foreign entity without form. An entity calling for blood.
Firm hands clasp onto Jezebel’s shoulders, but then Elizabeth’s voice retracts them, “I’ve got this. Go, I’ll be fine.”
“As you wish, Adjudicator,” answered an unfamiliar voice, followed by several thuds furthering away.
“Be still,” Elizabeth commanded of her. Jezebel held her breath. And the blindfold slipped away free.
Light blinded the little girl, stinging her eyes back closed. Raising her hands, she rubs at her eyes with her thumbs. And opening them, she could not withhold the human volume’s chorus.
“WITCH!” “HEATHENOUS CUNT!” “DEVIL!”
“WRETCHED WHORE!” “PIG FUCKED BITCH!”
She heard these words echo with resounding approval and claps. Jezebel stood at the entranceway into the center-stage of the colosseum: a stadium reserved for sport and festivities. Now committed her as the main attraction.
From her narrow viewpoint through the entranceway, could she gather every seat and crevice be filled with people seeking her death and damnation. Every single person calling for her blood, demanding her head on a spike, her name erased from the annals of history.
Elizabeth laid a hand on her right shoulder, causing the little girl to look up into those two engrossing vermilion eyes, “I’m right here, Jezebel. No harm will come to you so long as I am beside you. Swallow your anxiety, suffocate the fear worming its way inside. Have faith in me. Understand?”
Physically swallowing, the child inhales deeply through her noise, and exhales out her terror. “I understand, Lizzie.”
Elizabeth smiles heartily, “Stay at my side. Eyes forward. Lips shut. And let us begin.” Placing her hand on the girl’s back, she gently nudges her forward, and the two begin an even pace onward into the colosseum.
The Sun’s blazing rays pierce downward, prickling sweat from the pores aligning Jezebel’s skin. The sky is clear and blue, allowing no departure of Light to go unpronounced.
As Jezebel and Elizabeth further deeper into the rotund clearing of the colosseum, the volume’s roar grows louder and deadlier. Together, in a feral chant, they bellow, “KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER!”
From her peripheral, she sees people casting vulgar gestures at her direction. From men acting like they were jacking off onto her face, to women curling their hands as if to rip off her breasts. Even children as old as six screamed along with their parents, frothing at the mouth for her evisceration. Many people hold signs larger than themselves, crudely smattered with lettering denouncing her. Some signs say ‘No Magics Allowed!’ and others ‘All Witches Deserve To Burn!’
One man hurls a stone, aiming for her head. Out the corner of her eye she watches the projectile spear toward her, then within distance where reflex was needed to dodge, the stone curves away harmlessly. Jezebel flicks her eyes up to Elizabeth, seeing the woman’s right arm raised—and a rotating purple vortex resting on her palm.
The act of defending Jezebel heightens the masses fury and hatred. More stones, thousands to be more accurate, are hurled then harmlessly cast away. All the while, Elizabeth does not move her right arm, merely keeping it aloft. Until a voice booms over the frenzying crowd.
“ENOUGH!” Shouts the King.
The volume disintegrates. A hush sweeps through the area. Elizabeth lowers her right arm.
In silence, the pair reach their destination. A single wooden pole staked into a pile of organized timber four meters in length and width. One meter tall. Iron chains dangle down with open claws for her wrists.
“Stop here,” Elizabeth says.
Jezebel halts immediately, and watches the woman gracefully jump onto the wooden platform. Elizabeth lends down a hand she takes and hauls her up with one clean motion.
“I apologize, Jezebel,” she taps the iron cuffs on the girl’s wrists, causing them to snap open and fall to the ground, “but I must bind you once more before the trial begins.”
Jezebel nods. Elizabeth places the girl before the wooden pole, then pushes her until she stands fully erect with it on her back. “Hold your arms over your head.” The girl does so, and the woman clips the claws onto her wrists, keeping the girl’s arms raised uncomfortably high.
Elizabeth turns her back to the girl, walks forward, and jumps down from the platform. At this height, Jezebel can see the King sitting easily in his throne, his eyes focused on the woman. The Archdeacon Gabriel stands on his right, looking as grim and saggy as ever. The King’s blue eyes shift from Elizabeth to the surrounding circus of people, a smile gracing his full lips.
“Adjudicator!” He shouts while standing, his purple robes stretched against his muscular frame, “You may begin your statement!” He widens out his arms, his words directed towards his people, “Explain why we should listen to you! Let us hear your reasoning!” And with that, he falls back in his chair, a mocking smirk lifting up his right cheek.
Elizabeth puts her hands together beneath her bosom and bows to the King. “Thank you, King Constantine.” Raising herself, she stares at him, “I beseech thee to entrust the burden of this girl into my care and that of my people of Erómere. She is nothing and will remain so with me. The agreement between our societies give no quarter to this child any privilege in returning to your most blessed kingdom. I, personally, shall guard and watch over this child. And if I fail, which I have never done, my Emperor shall punish me accordingly and acquit this child of life before thine eye. If you allow me the honor in removing this girl from your lands, my Emperor shall grant thee a thousand cows, a thousand oxen, and seeds for a grand harvest of wheat and berries. I am but a humble,” she kneels down, her eyes never leaving King Constantine’s, “servant, King Constantine. I plead with my heart and soul for—”
Elizabeth’s words lessen to nothing. A different voice glides into Jezebel’s mind and form. A comforting voice with true power. A voice she willingly submits to as her eyes glaze over a black mist.
(Countless worlds and realties confound Truth
Denied hath thy flesh been soiled with Man’s disgust
Lies of virtue and femality constrain thee
Welcome Me, My child
The veil construed shall wither away
Bliss shall thee know forever
Betwixt pleasure and family
I Shall Save Thee
Whereupon deceit hath removed Living
Whereat venom hath corroded thy visage
I Shall Absolve Thee
Welcome Me, My Child
Endless art thy possibilities
Within Me)
“—so willingly, King Constantine,” Elizabeth finishes, her head bowed, still kneeling on the floor.
The black mist uplifts. And Jezebel looks up at the King, praying to this unnamed voice for her salvation, for her to be whisked away with Elizabeth.
All is silent. Not even a sniff or cough interrupts the quiet atmosphere.
The Archdeacon Gabriel leans in to speak to the King but is stopped by a raise of the King’s hand. King Constantine rolls his fingers slowly, evidently mulling over his decision. His face set gravely, lips pressed tight.
Then rising slowly, cautiously, he sets his hands on his hips, “Adjudicator Elizabeth!” He hesitates, his eyes flicking from the woman to his surrounding citizens. Each eagerly awaiting verdict, the need for blood shining within their eyes. “Rise! Please.”
Elizabeth stands at her full height and looks up at Constantine.
“You have plead your case, and admirably so. I now understand why your Emperor has sent you for this proposition. You speak with great eloquence and even greater resolution. And for that, I thank you for your words. However,” Jezebel’s heart sinks into the pits of despair as it races faster and faster, “I cannot allow this child to go free.”
“WHAT?!” The little girl cries.
“Please,” he raises his right hand, open palmed, and sweeps it around over his people, “understand that my people have come for a single purpose today. To see this child in sacrifice for The Council of Eight. And removing her would disrespect both my people and The Council of Eight, who have been promised this child. I thank you again, Adjudicator Elizabeth, and I mean no ill-will toward you. Take my regards to your Emperor, let him know I do this not out of contempt or hatred for your society, but as a duty bound individual for my own. Do you have anything to say?”
Elizabeth nods shortly, “I thank you too, King Constantine, for in least hearing me out. I shall take your respects to my Emperor without distaste. I,” she bows, “understand completely.”
Jezebel shakes her head, “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.”
The King, smiling, motions at Elizabeth while shifting his eyes around the colosseum, “May none say that Adjudicator Elizabeth has no spine and honor. Just as I am to you, so is she to her Emperor.” His eyes find Elizabeth, “I give you my blessing, Elizabeth. May none hinder you in returning to your realm. And may your travel be safe and swift.”
Elizabeth bows again, “Thank you, King Constantine. I shall take my leave.” She turns to face Jezebel, her eyes betraying the anger raging inside. Clenching her fists at her sides, she and the little girl share a long look. Jezebel stares aghast, trembling returning to contort her body, her lips quivering with fear. Elizabeth mouths soundlessly, ‘You will be fine,’ then removing her eyes from the girl, she stares forward, and marches away.
“No,” Jezebel says, tears funneling out her eyes one at a time, “No,” she watches Elizabeth pass by, and cranes her neck to keep her in her line of sight, “No, No, No,” she rattles her chains, tears now pummeling out, Elizabeth passing out of vision, “No! Please! Elizabeth!” She cries out, thrashing her body, the wooden pole rubbing at her exposed skin. “Elizabeth! ELIZABETH! DON’T LEAVE ME! DON’T LEAVE ME!”
The King sits back in his seat, watching the Adjudicator disappear. After a few moments, making sure she has gained some distance away, he looks toward Gabriel. And nods.
The Archdeacon Gabriel grins victoriously, and with a puffed chest, steps in front of the King, holding his hands high, “Lords! Hear our prayer! Welcome us into your grace and Light! We have prepared four sacrifices for you, our Lords upon high!”
With these words the masses explode in a triumphant outcry. They cheer while clapping their hands, stomping their feet, hugging those beside them, sending their love to their most gracious King.
Jezebel collapses, but the chains hold her up. With her head bowed, she weeps, conniptions taking hold. “Elizabeth,” she sobs, “why? why…”
“May you receive our sacrifices! O’Lords above!” Archdeacon Gabriel yells toward the sky.
The little girl hears heavy thuds, clanking metal, and pattering feet come closer and closer. Raising her head, she blinks away the blur of tears, and screams in horror.
There, three armed men push her father, mother, and sister toward her position. Her family is gagged with thick clothed stuffed into their mouths and secured inside with thick rope tied around their face. Her father stares bloodshot at Jezebel, tears drenching his bruised face, his hair black and coiled, only a loincloth protects his modesty while the rest of him be bare. Her mother also stares bloodshot at her, her eyes furious and resentful, her once proud fair hair cut and frayed, two strips of cloth cover her breasts and modesty. Her sister stares bloodshot, tears continuing to pour, her hair cut and splintered, two strips of cloth cover her breasts and modesty.
Jezebel struggles against the chains constraining her, screaming at the top of her lungs until they become hoarse from strain. The iron claws dig into her skin as she wiggles and writhes, cutting in and releasing bright blood trickling down her arms. “NO! KILL ME! KILL ME!” She cries to no one listening.
The three men shove her family to their knees, holding them still by their shoulders. Jezebel watches as a fourth man, his armor shining gold and intricately patterned with symbols, clutches the handle of his executioner sword—the tip being flat instead of pointed. And Gabriel’s word rolling over the boisterous masses, “Take their spirit! Take their blood! Take their flesh as penance, O’Council of Eight! You who are wise and immense. You who create and destroy! We are at your mercy! We are at your call!”
“DAD!”
Lining up his sword with her father’s neck, the shining knight raises his executioner sword, and cleaves through muscle, tendons, and bone with one stroke. Blood gushes out. Jezebel shrieks. Her mother gazes at her daughter, hatred flowing from her eyes. Her sister fights futilely to break free, bucking her hips and swinging her shoulders.
Her father’s head hits the floor and rolls. His eyes still wide, staring up at the sky.
The shining knight moves to the mother, huffing heatedly out her nose. Jezebel looks into her mother’s eyes. Eyes blaming her. Eyes frothing with loathing. Her mother closes her eyes. The sword whistles down. Her head bounces on the floor and rests with the eyes facing the ground. The man holding her form pushes it forward. The dead carcass slaps onto the ground, the feet flicking up then falling back down.
“For it is You! Council of Eight! That giveth us life! And bringeth us back in your embrace in Argul!”
Jezebel lurches forward but the chains whip her back. She flails her arms. The iron claws dig deeper into her flesh. A spiral of blood coats her arms, sliding into the armpits, down to the hips and thighs. “ISHTAR! I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!” Her jaws tense shakily, causing her teeth to rattle together. Her face hurts from the constant stretch in agony, sweat dampens her skin, more tears stream from her eyes.
Ishtar loses her fight, her chest heaving as she draws in breath. Her eyes express sorrow and acceptance. Jezebel wails, “I’m so, so sorry!” But Ishtar shakes her head, dismissing her sister’s apology. Jezebel believes, in the moment, that her sister meant that she had no need for apologizing. But she would never fully know.
For the shining knight’s sword drops. Ishtar’s head separates. The crowd applause. Ishtar’s head bounces on the floor, rolling toward Jezebel. Resting with her eyes staring up at the sky.
(RAGE! RAGE! RAGE AGAINST THE STORM!)
Jezebel had no rage inside her. Her broken heart sapped what strength remained in her limbs. Limp, she hangs on the pole. Her arms stretched high up. Her head lowered.
She wanted to die. For it all to end. She had enough.
“And now!” Gabriel cries out happily, “Our most precious offering! The fourth! For you, O’mighty Light! You who give warmth and substance! You who banish the shadows! You who gives us sight!”
The armed men put their arms behind their back, widen out their stance, and face Jezebel. The shining knight holds aloft his executioner sword for the roaring masses. Twirling it in his hand, he slams the blade into the earth and steps away. A fair maiden runs toward the shining knight, brandishing a flaming torch in her right hand. Once reaching him, she passes on the torch, bows to King Constantine, and runs back into the colosseum.
“Now! BURN THE WITCH!” Gabriel orders, pointing a crude finger at the shining knight.
“BURN THE WITCH!” “BURN THE WITCH!” “BURN THE WITCH!”
The masses chant.
The shining knight marches steadily toward Jezebel, the torch’s flames writhing like a contortionist. He lowers the gold and crimson fire at the base of the wooden pile. Jezebel lazily lifts her head, her tears dribbling from her bloodshot eyes. She watches the torch’s fire snag onto the wood hastily, consuming the fuel greedily and exponentially. Black palls fly into the sky, carrying with the stench of scourge.
Jezebel coughs as the flames race toward her, the smoke lifting into her nostrils. As the black smoke encompasses her, enclosing her from the outside world. So does a black mist form in her eyes once more.
[Jezebel stands alone on the pile of wood. The colosseum completely empty. No cheering masses, no sneering Gabriel, no onlooking King. The blazing Sun beams down from the clear sky.
Stepping forward, she sweeps her eyes around. Searching.
Twisting around, she faces where the pole should be. Instead, a tall humanoid being replaces it. Its face obscured behind a helmet crafted from pure onyx and obsidian. The helmet elongates toward the back, its curves and shine impeccably perfect. It bends the Light around it, causing the wavelengths of reality to splinter forth in an inconceivable spectrum of hues the human eye cannot register. Its body is enshrouded in a black suit, blacker than coal, pitcher than absolute night. The suit pulls in the Light, devouring and consuming it, causing the being’s form to appear as if a chunk of reality were ripped asunder and left gaping. Its body is proportional, except for its fingers, which be long and curved.
Jezebel gawks at the being. Its presence presses against ever fiber of her existence, splicing her flesh through to the soul. She feels her body scream in blissful agony, a resounding pain unlike anything she could ever fathom. This pain, this agony, this horrific torrent of strife was not uncomfortable nor tortuous. It was a release, a freeing.
“Who…What…” she whispers, finding herself walking toward the being.
She stops inches away, her head titled up to gaze upon its reflective helmet. She saw herself. Her face battered and sore. She saw her drab clothing tattered and soiled.
“Are you the one who has been talking to me?”
The being shakes its head, the reality around its helmet fracturing like broken glass then piecing back together unevenly. Lifting its left arm, it touches her right cheek, sending pleasuring tingles throughout her flesh. Caressing her cheek with its thumb, it burrows its fingers into her hair, holding her firmly rooted.
“Then…who are you?”
(Submit)
Edgingly the being slides their left hand closer to Jezebel’s mouth while raising their right hand to cup her chin.
(And I shall grant thee strength for performance
Submit
And thy villains shall tremble
Submit
And I shall bequeath onto thee my own extension
Let Rage Fill Thee
Let Anger Inspire Thee
Let Ire Configure Thee)
Jezebel listens to the voice, even as every webbing of her existence shrieked for retraction. Desperately did depression wish for her withdrawal. To buckle and fly from the being before her. To crumple and cry. To accept her fate. To beg forgiveness from The Council of Eight.
Then she evolved. This depression this sadness this despair leeching onto her thoughts were weaknesses. They the emotions of a coward. They the tenderness of her parents.
She envisioned her headless sister. The one person who told her to fight. Her corpse on the ground. All those people. Cheering. Applauding her family’s death, her sister’s death. Shouting out for her own. Shouting out for her blood.
They did not deserve to live. None of them. Not the children they brought. Not the elderly. Not anything in between. The Council of Eight be damned. All of them be damned.
(Yes
Use it
Let it fill you
Allow it control
Give in
Submit
To Me
AND.
THEY.
SHALL.
ALL.
BURN!)
Anger, Hatred, Rage, all faculties of human infuriation compiled in a converging stew to compound themselves within Jezebel’s mind. The black mist smothered her eyes. But she could see clearly through. The Council of Eight were frauds. Her King was a fraud. Archdeacon Gabriel was a fraud. They all deserved to Burn. They all deserved Torment. She inhales. Black clouds block the Sun above. The air whisks a frozen hand across her face.
“I submit.”
Using its right hand, the being sticks its fingers into her mouth and clasps onto her lower jaw. Before she can react, it rips the jaw from her body, tightens its hold on her head with its left hand, drops the flesh covered bone, and shoves its right fist down her throat.]
Jezebel opens her tar-eyes. Eyes swallowing Light. Eyes exhuming no life.
The lacerations and cuts on her face and body heal impeccably. A newfound sense of meaning blossoms within her, carrying forth the might of invincibility.
She hears the masses continue to chant in their intoxicated stupor as they drank from her expunging. “BURN! BURN! BURN!” They bleat like sheep. Like the worthless maggots they are.
She couldn’t help but laugh.
As her laugh grows louder, bolder, so too did the colosseum quiet. Her laugh is deep and inhuman, a powerful reverberation of the throat. The flames kiss her bare feet and legs, yet they do not burn her nor the pole holding her. Throwing back her head, Jezebel cackles at the Sun still bearing itself down upon her. Her tar eyes staring defiantly at the Sun’s form. Challenging it. Daring it.
Clenching her mouth, she widens out her lips to bare her teeth at the heavens above. Angrily she whips her arms down, breaking the chains from the pole with ease. The flesh on her face shakes as rage escalates behind her eyes. She does not feel the many wooden splinters bounce off her back and shoulders. With her right hand, she grabs onto the iron-claw on her left wrist and tears it off, the severance of skin from earlier heals instantly. Holding the claw in her right hand, she hurls it over the plume of smoke—bringing with many astonished gasps and horrific screams. Tearing off the claw on her right wrist, she hurls that one as well then gleefully howls for all to hear.
She steps in an unbalanced nature forward, the crimson and golden flames parting for her advancement. As she makes her way to the edge of the wooden pile, the flames horde upon the pole, scorching it to dust in the matter of seconds.
Reaching the end of the wooden pile, she casts her right hand to the side, causing the encompassing smoke to alleviate itself. So she may tilt her face up and gaze upon the King. So they may gaze upon her as well.
She grins psychotically at him, allowing him time for terror to wash over his senses. “Look!” She bellows while widening out her arms, “And Despair!”
The rattling of armor snatches Jezebel’s attention. The shining knight, having unsheathed his sword from the earth, sprints at her yelling at the top of his voice.
She does not move. She does not fear him. Keeping her arms widened out, she watches him near. Thrust his sword up. And run her through with his executioner sword.
No applause ring out. No stamping of feet or weightless whistles. For the masses look on in fear, as the little girl lowers her arms. The same grin sculpting her face.
The shining knight calls for his fellow men in arms as he tries wrenching his sword from her chest. His blade does not budge. Black blood oozes from the wound, swirling around the blade with long strokes. And still. She stays grinning.
The shining knight tries to unhinge his hands from the pommel of his sword but finds them tethered without budge. The three other armored men stomp their way toward him. Before they reach him, they witness the small girl raise her left hand. And the shining knight implode into chunks of metal, bone, and viscera. His blood and guts drench their armor a browning scarlet.
The armored men run for their lives. At once the masses filling the colosseum flee, shoving and punching to get ahead. The King stares transfixed upon the girl. The Archdeacon Gabriel drops to his knees, painfully vomiting noisome bile.
Ink veins pulsate across Jezebel’s face, down her neck, and throughout her form. The veins wiggle underneath her skin like thick spasming worms. She watches the feeble humans flee for their lives. It did not matter if they escaped the coliseum. She would find them all.
Raising her face once more toward the Sun, she growls, “May the Light forever be marred by the Truth of its indecent decadence rotting what beauty had been!” Flinging her left hand toward the heavens, a purple vortex births from her palm, “The LIE YOU HAVE WROUGHT UPON MY WORLD,” her voice shifts thousands of octanes deep, deeper than any organically conceived being may produce. A voice without warmth. A voice without life. A voice knowing only vengeance, fury, and Wrath, “WILL NOT GO WITHOUT PUNSIHMENT THOU PUTRID PUERILE EFFLUVIAL MEMBRANE OF MINE BODY! THOU BASTARDIZED,” manifesting darkness bolsters forth great impenetrable plumes across the sky, fantastical crackles of black blot lightning clashes torrents of cries that split the fabric of sound, “SELF-RIGHTEOUS INCARNATION OF MY WILL AND TESTAMENT! BEHOLD MY IRE AND WORD! BEHOLD THE LEVITY LONG OVERUDE!”
Jezebel clasps onto the blade still stuck inside her chest. Gripping the metal hard enough to mold the steel to her fingers, she plucks the sword from her body and snaps it in half. Black bolts crash down from the sky, exploding apart segment of the colosseum, disintegrating vast volumes of people.
“I!” She pounds on her chest, the wound there but seconds ago already healed, “AM. THE. TRUTH. THE WAY. THE END AND BEGINNING.” She contorts her body, flailing her arms and torso in a rhythmic dance all but she understands. Her skin cracks and splinters, fraying into grey that then flakes like dust in the air, “FUCK THE COUNCIL OF EIGHT! FUCK THE LIGHT! FUCK THE ELDRICAE AND ARCHITECTS! I AM THE ONE! I AM THE TRUTH! I AM THE REASON FOR THY EXISTENCE! VORBUER A’E-LA MAHUR!”
King Constantine stands slowly, tears crawling out his bloodshot eyes. Looking upon Jezebel dance and rave, her words louder than thunder, rattling his brain, punching his heart, breaking apart the seams of his being, he slips out a dagger from his right sleeve. And slices his own throat.
The Archdeacon Gabriel continues to retch and retch and retch until he vomits out his lungs, until he expels his blood, until every pore bleeds him a dry husk.
“VORBUER A’E-LA MAHUR! VORBUER A’E-LA MAHUR!”
Colossal bouts of violet and deep purple fire burst from underneath the colosseum, washing over the humans like dense lava. Many people fling themselves out the open archways to splatter the ground. Others stomp on their baby’s heads, strangle their wives, husbands, and children. Others succumb to their knees, praying to whatever god be listening.
“VORBUER A’E-LA MAHUR! VORBUER A’E-LA MAHUR!”
A new Sun emerges from the darkness in the sky. A red Sun with a thin swirling mass of tar seeping from its bottom to the earth below.
“VORBUER A’E-LA MAHUR! VORBUER A’E-LA MAHUR!”
Jezebel gasps for air, her eyes returning to their normal brown hue. Her skin rejuvenates to its natural caramel, displacing the grey flakes like a snake shedding its dead scales. Falling to one knee, she takes her time breathing. Listening to the gargantuan explosions and rippling screams of death surrounding her. Her body is afloat a pile of condensed fire, for the wood from before has already been masticated for its fuel.
Her eyes wander to the trio of her family. Their bodies untouched.
Jumping from the pile of fire, Jezebel walks calmly toward her sister’s head. Gently she picks up the severed head with both hands and places it beside the body. “Ishtar,” she says, “I know you can hear me. I’ll find you, one day, sister. When we are all returned into the One. I will find you. We will be together again. As it should be.”
A pair of feet close in on Jezebel, then stop a foot away. She can see the indigo robes sway with the wind. Looking up, she smiles at the adjudicator.
Elizabeth smiles warmly back with her tar eyes, “Are you ready?”
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