Saturday, February 22, 2014


Today, the 22nd of February, The Rapture should have occurred. Ragnarok. It didn't, all because of the sacrifice of one man. He had arrived to the clearing in the forest, or The Stand as they call it, equipped with weaponry he chose, and he chose well. They waited for him before noon, and before noon he came. Seven of Servants and their Master, clad in armor, looking down on the child that stood beneath him. The most foolish of the servants went down first.

Antioch swung his sword, only to die of it, even his fellow servants smiled at his death.

The old man came next. He stormed at the young man, only to bounce right back. He couldn't hurt him, and soon he was vanquished too. The watchers were becoming tense, even though they did not like the man.

Then came The Lady, cold and confident. She gave the child a struggle, since he had issues hurting a lady, yet she was cast down as well.

Timothy, forever quiet, raged at the loss of his loved one, but his demise layed in his anger.

Gerald came next, heartless, muscular, and dangerous. He took the young one's ear, finger, and broke his leg, however, he was still unworthy.

At the sight of death, an unlikely one fled: Death ran from death.

At the end came the most faithful one, and the youngest as well. The Traitor, that was his name. Even though he had changed much, it gave him pain to see that he must take down his old friend. He fought reluctantly, yet fiercely. But, in the midst of battle, his Master lifted his many arms, and ordered him back. The Traitor smiled at the young one, but it was a false smile, and he knew what came next.

It was time for the end-game. The Master let the lesser ones play their game. It was time for the real battle. He did not care much for the Slaves, they were expendable.

The Master saw that the child's arsenal couldn't do him no harm: a piece of earthly steel and a firestick, all toys in his eyes. What he didn't see, was the water. The child hurled water at The Master, to the other one's horror. A scream was heard, and the child's ears bled with juice of death. There was more water to be thrown, as The Master flailed about. He had to change, yet He couldn't. He used a brief window of clarity to change, and now the water did him no harm. Now he was the raging fire no water could stop. But the child was smart. He had brought another weapon The Master didn't notice, and it was pure luck that He turned to the shape he did: the child shot the cold powder at The Master, and it was too much for Him. He was gone, and the child thought he had won. As he went back through the woods victoriously, he felt cold. He was back to torment him once more, for the final time. The Master took him, ripped him apart, scattered his limbs, detached his head, and burned it all in his rage. As the False Hero burned, all his pride burned with him. He succeeded, yet he failed. The whole forest was destroyed, yet He felt content. The Rapture would have to wait, but what is  time to Him? Now, he must recruit new forces. He was alone, and when he is alone, he is infinite, he is everywhere, and everywhen. He enjoyed it.

And where was Robert? Casually sipping tea in London, on the February 22nd, 1878, thinking about dead Heroes and broken weapons.

And you, dear readers, should stay for more. For even though this is the epitaph, it doesn't mean it is the end.

-J (not the real one!)

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