Falling from Grace

[Viktor]

Over two centuries ago Milton had written his perception of the opinion and views of the Morning Star. Before and since he had endured the endless, corroding tides that crashed against him, resisted the downpour that never ceased.

And now the rain fell heavily, staining where the gas and lantern light reached a shade of grey until the shadow and darkness beyond swallowed it whole. What little light made it to where he sat, perched high above, did not even seem to touch the sodden white ribbon he slowly turned in his fingers.

Below the streets were empty save for a lone figure moving from shadow to shadow, from cover to cover as they avoided the rain and the expected patrols alike. But even the army greens and police blues had darkened to black in the downpour, the tempers and demeanour's of those wearing them changing to match.

No-one cared this evening, at least, not enough, not as much as they should. Good and evil both turned away from the vast, bleak ocean; wickedness in the blackest of hearts and compassion in the most giving alike unable to find the strength or the will to brave the desolation laid before them.

It was a world in which it was hard to see and accept God, even though their existence was irrefutable. In the absence of hope, ignorance is said to be bliss.

He had not been ignorant for centuries. Like many things, it is not missed until it is long gone. Many nights had been spent in debate upon such matters, sharp minds and sharper words scratching and clawing at the reasoned arguments of both sides.

Reason and logic were a poor comfort, nor the safety and security that such things brought when acting upon them. Both the High Road and the Low Road lay bare and devoid of tracks. The Middle Ground lay similar, barren and unused. For those who could accept it, for those that could see it, above the High Road yet below the Low Road and behind the Middle Ground lay another.

The way ahead was littered with pits and steep slopes, savage descents and jagged cliffs, burning deserts and frozen wastes, and countless horrors and deadly temptations yet to be seen and navigated.

Behind it lay covered in rivers of blood and piss; bridges built of flesh and bone, stuck together with bile and held with ties of sinew; way-points, cracked and pitted, once adorned with signs of wood and iron, burnt and melted, had shown the way, now no more than gravestones and cenotaphs of remembrance.

Across the river, hidden in the night’s blackness, he knew water ran down the front off the Abbey. Across the rungs of Jacobs Ladder and over the bodies of the angels upon it, water spewed forth by the gargoyles and watched by the grotesques.

But they were rungs that could never be climbed. Not in this life or the next. There could never be any forgiveness for the sin his Sire had bestowed upon him. Even the inanimate, leering faces knew this to be true, the cruel fact etched into their very being. He was condemned to Hell, as all Kindred were, and he had, with difficulty, unwillingly accepted his fate long ago. The depths to which he would be consigned was to be far, far deeper than he had naively thought of in the years of his youth.

Heaven had become Hell, his Paradise had become Lost.

“Ha egy embernek egy makacs és lázadó fia, aki nem engedelmeskedik a hangja apja vagy a hang az anyja, és bár ők megbüntetni, nem hallgat rájuk, majd az apja és anyja megragadja őt, és hozd ki a vének a város kapujában a hely, ahol él, és azt mondják, hogy a vének a város, ‘Ez a mi fiunk pártütő és makacs; ő nem hallgat a mi hang; ő egy falánk és részeges ember.’ Ezután az összes férfi a város kövezze agyon kővel. Így kell tisztítsd ki a gonoszt a középen, és az egész Izráel hallja, és a félelem.”

The whispered words joined the final thread of ribbon as it was carried away by the downpour, as he too, fell from the top of the tower.