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The Eternal-Last Request by Joshua Babcock
My name is Sofi. I did not always wish my father dead. For most of my young life, I served him faithfully, dutifully, as his chronicler. My father's name is Kratos. Throughout the width and breadth of Bahkshir, he was known as the Eternal.
I have been privy to many of Kratos’ famous stories, either seeing them unfold myself or having them told to me from a firsthand perspective. My father never told me the tale of his genesis.
For generations, Kratos protected the countryside of Bahkshir from the Bahkshirin Sea to the mountains we call the Cradle of Antreous. He conquered the undead armies of the Beshevite necromancers, sealed away the malicious Archduke of Vengeance, and defeated the reptile goddess Severina. He was responsible for dispatching Orgus, the master of the onyx golem, and the demon steeds of Celops. There are thousands of other tales as well, and they have all been writ elsewhere, some even by my own hand.
Much of the courage and unquenchable altruism that my father had personified was dashed when the armies of the western Kingdom of Naskil arrived. They were headed by the great magus Malnorant, Tome of the Time-Siege gripped tight in his withered hand.
Kratos the Ageless had met with nothing but victory in his previous adventures. Yet, against the powers of the Tome, he found himself as weak and defenseless as we mortals.
Along with the rest of our stalwart fighting men and women, our sage priests and mages, Kratos the impenetrable was stuck where he stood in time and space, rooted fast to the ground outside the shining walls of Viljir, our city. There was naught for him to do but watch with eyes that could not cry as our army was slaughtered to a man. The western forces marched on, unopposed but for the frozen statues of proud warriors.
Our land was enslaved, ruined, shamed, as was fine Kratos. My mother and younger sister were both found dead in the aftermath. Kratos was discovered enfeebled by malnourishment and was easily fettered. He spent the remainder of the occupation in a dungeon.
Eventually the city was freed. Not by an immortal, not by a battle-hardened warrior, but by a girl who had seen no more than fifteen cycles. Somna the Speechless, quick of blade and silent in movement, defeated terrible Malnorant in single combat. Soon afterwards, the forces of the united eastern lands swept away the evil plague.
The depths of Kratos’ ensuing depression were as outstanding as the heights of his preceding fame and glory. He took up drinking with as great a passion as he had ever demonstrated for acts of kindness. His days entire were spent at the local taverns. Payment was never an issue; every inhabitant of Viljir owes their existence to one or more of mighty Kratos’ accomplishments.
Some nights he would stumble his way back to our house in a drunken stupor. It was, and is, an enormous construction of an elegance only belonging to architecture of bygone eras, gifted to Kratos by a queen whose face has been lost to history. He would wander the sparsely decorated hall clutching my mother's adolescent romantic poetry, moaning like a specter. The dismal sound battered away at the dreams and nightmares of the numerous inhabitants.
The house was not the luxurious palace it had surely been before my father owned it. He had no need of gaudiness or ostentation, as some other heroes do. The house was filled with people who had no other place to go: the poor, the dispossessed, and the tragic.
From the robust, mighty-thewed hero appeared a haggard and decrepit example of human wreckage. His proud muscles began to atrophy and sag from disuse. It was not long before he was stranded in the bed that he had once shared with my mother. This, of course, did not improve his mood.
The inevitable day came when the well-wishers stopped entering the house. They could not bear to look upon his fallen form, though their alcoholic gifts continued to pile up outside the massive oak doors. It did not matter. My father wanted to be left with his ruminations on failure and his liquor. The task of transporting said items to his bedside was left to me.
"What is it you are after, father?” I asked on one of those delivery missions, just after Kratos awoke to find himself sadly still living, and sadly sober again.
"Nothing you can give me, daughter.” I could hear the spite in his voice. It had become as familiar as his amiable tones had once been. He had begun to resent the mortality of everyone around him, only suffering my visitations because of what I carried. “I desire nothing but death, which the gods have forbid me."
"I think that what you need is the realization that your death will serve no one, but your life and return to form will serve many."
"I did not ask for your thoughts on the matter. You are not long-lived enough to know anything. I am sick of serving the many. I wish only to serve myself now. I have earned this much selfishness, I think. If you cannot bring me death, then be gone."
"As you wish, Father."
This was the basic consistency of our infrequent interlocutions in those ending days. My familial devotion rapidly drained away from me. Much of my time was spent putting the final touches on the tales of Kratos’ better times.
Once I had completed the chronicles, there was nothing left to distract me but plans for my father's murder. I say murder, but I am not certain the term applies strictly to the circumstances.
I have since convinced myself that the obsession, and the machinations themselves, were brought about by my earnest desire to see my father happy. Yet in my darker hours, I admit that there were gears of egocentricity driving both of our wishes.
I knew that no blade that had ever met with Kratos’ flesh could pierce it, slash it, or bruise it. Not even the most enchanted or divine weapons would be effective. I knew that no poison that passed his lips could conquer his physiology. The only method which held any shade of success was suffocation.
One night I picked up his body and carried it to the wash basin, his body light as mine own. I held his head beneath the water until air no longer bubbled forth.
My hands remained there on his neck and head for a long while, yet his heartbeat did not slow and his chest continued to heave in a mockery of breathing. My ill-conceived attempt did not even wake him from his slumber.
It was then that I understood just what it was my father requested. Surely it was a thing beyond my capabilities to acquire for him. I should have known that if it were that simple, one of his ancient nemeses would have thought of it long before I was born.
Possessing intimate knowledge of my father's countless subdued enemies should have aided in my quest for a means of killing him. For days I sat amid piles of parchment copies of Kratos’ adventures, some worth several fortunes to the right collectors. I reminisced about the days when I followed my father over the countryside in the balladeer's pursuit. I found no help in the texts.
After days of sifting through more modern myths and legends, I settled on one entity the likes of whom Kratos had never before faced. I promptly set an unforeseeable chain of events into motion.
* * * *
In the cellar of the house, locked behind stern metal bars, was Kratos’ collection of enchanted items. I entered this forbidden area, using a key swiped from my father's neck chain. I brought with me an old wooden chair.
I searched through the items for one weapon in particular. It was a short sword named Woodcutter. The blade had been carried by the rogue Glaski, who had used it to silently cut small entryways in the walls of houses, barricades of forts, and fortifications of cities. He had succeeded in numerous acts of thievery, vandalism, and treachery before Kratos devised a trap that ended his misdeeds.
I soon found the weapon tucked away between a great axe and bastard sword with whose appearances and histories I was unfamiliar. I made sure not to touch those arms, as they might have possessed strange powers that could have harmed me grievously.
I promptly set to work cutting away the back and legs of the simple wood chair I had carried down. The unassuming blade cut through the wood as easily as my hand would pass through the waters of a brook.
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I carved the flat seat of the chair into the mark of Banish, according to the pictorial representation in the paper regarding that creature's summoning. It consisted of two open eyes, with one of the twin crescent moons cutting vertically through each.
I then went and hung the sign to the side of the grand doors in front of a lit lantern, so that the light of the lantern was cast in the shape of the mark. According to the myth, which had some root in fact, the mark was supposed to call a creature, half-man and halfdemon, to the doorstep lit by its shape.
The creature was known as Banish the Unsleeping, Banish with the Eye of Dark-fire. According to local superstition, he was a spirit capable of curing the slumbering plague. It was an illness I had heard spoken of by travelers passing through the city, but the blight had not yet penetrated our shining walls.
The accounts said the emblem had to be hand-carved by the caller. One's desire for assistance needed to be fused with the meaning of the mark. This kept people from carelessly purchasing pre-made marks to call upon the creature, thereby wasting his precious time.
Various members of the court soon called upon us to give their respects and condolences. I did not allow any of them to disturb my father's rest, and they were all quite understanding. Once evoked, the sleeper's plague commanded deep feelings of fear and awe. No one could be certain that it could not finally prove the downfall of good Kratos.
Unless someone actually witnessed his waking groggily each morning, my deception would hold.
* * * *
I am still unsure as to how Banish managed to escape the many guardsmen's watchful eyes, how he circumvented the defenses of the shining walls, and how he slipped the notice of the vagrants and nightwalkers patrolling the darkened streets of the city, but within a fistful of days, he arrived.
It was at a late hour uncustomary for a visitor; the sibling moons were both at the zenith of their crisscrossing arc. When I heard the light rap on the door, I was certain of the guest's identity.
Banish did indeed appear not quite human. A long, billowing black cloak covered his body, making it difficult to discern its shape and stature. Yet his face, hands, and forearms were almost skeletal in their thinness. I did not imagine him adept at violent arts and immediately began to second-guess my plan.
His face was similar to depictions of the mythological fairy folk, though none of their kind had been reported by the scribes for as long as even my father had lived. It was a gaunt and pallid visage, haunting in its eerie beauty and angularity. He had one eye of inchoate blue, giving him an air of naiveté, which was offset by the rune-scarred leather patch covering its mate. His cowl covered his head, but I spied wisps of silver hair peeking out from beneath it.
"I am Banish,” he said in a gentle, becalming voice. “I have received your summons."
"Well met, Lord Banish. Please come in."
"My name is simply Banish, Lady Sofi."
"And my name is simply Sofi. My father's deeds and renown have afforded both of us privileges befitting the aristocracy, but we have received no lands nor titles."
"My apologies, Sofi. If I may say so, I am confused as to why you have called upon me. I do not sense here the sickness with which my fate is bound."
"Oh?” I said, beckoning him to follow me to my father's quarters. “I must admit that you were led here under false pretenses. You need not fear foul play, however. I do have need of your peculiar services. There is a sickness here that I surmise only you can cure."
"You would have me kill your father,” Banish said flatly.
I was caught off guard. I railed against myself inwardly. I should have known better than to take any strange being at face value. “How did you know?” I stammered, turning to face him squarely.
"I could hear Kratos crying out for release from within his dreams. His existence is a torment for him.” There was tenderness in his voice, as if he had some personal experience with such problems.
"I see it is difficult to keep secrets from you. Yes. I would ask you, on my father's own behalf, to kill him. Of course, I have to first ask whether or not there is anything you could do to restore Kratos to his former state. I love him dearly, even in this state, and have nothing to gain from his passing."
"No. That which plagues his spirit is more difficult to cure than the sleeping sickness."
"So you are agreeing to assist my father?"
"I give you my word that I will do whatever is in my power to put him to rest, but I can promise nothing when it comes to killing immortals. You must understand that I have no background in this type of enterprise."
"Not many people have attempted it; none have been successful."
"I am unique in this world, I believe, and may find some method for success."
"Will you wait until morning, so that you can speak with my father and verify my words?"
"There is no need."
"But my father sleeps, and you are likely tired from your travels."
"I have come prepared and am incapable of sleep. I have heard sad truths issuing from his dreams that Kratos may be too proud to express when awake. And my skills are most effective on the sleeping."
* * * *
"Here is the once-proud Kratos, stinking like a drunken transient,” I announced as I ushered Banish into my father's room.
"I am not one to judge how a person deals with his or her misfortune."
"You do not share my perspective on this."
"I do not mean to judge your reactions either, Sofi. This misfortune affects you both."
"Well, what do you need to begin?"
"If you feel comfortable enough, I will need you asleep."
"Me?"
"You are the Chronicler of Kratos, are you not?"
"I am."
"Then I would imagine you wish to see the end of his tale with your own eyes, so that you can recount the details of it some day."
"Of course. Is such a thing possible?"
"If you are soon asleep, then it is. And if not, it will not hinder my actions any to leave you here. I could try to bring you with me conscious, but such things tax my concentration, and I will need my full focus if I am to best your father in his own mind."
"One moment.” I went downstairs, fixed myself a rapidly working soporific, and imbibed it. When I returned, I was already having trouble with balance and speech. It is outrageous that someone would intentionally put themselves at such a disadvantage with such a stranger in their house. But this Banish did not appear the bizarre devil he was made out to be. His mannerisms seemed almost boyish at times, giving one the impression that he had seen far fewer season cycles than his appearance let on.
"Let me assist you, madam,” he said, waiting politely for a response before taking my arms and laying me gently on the floor. “Are you prepared?” I nodded. “Then we begin."
Through bleary eyes, I watched as he traced the rune on his eye patch and muttered strings of incomprehensible words. Then a flash of silver light left me dazzled. The incantation must have been an unlocking spell, for he removed the eye patch after it was spoken.
I cannot trust what my senses told me in that state, but beneath it I saw no ruined eye, no vicious scar. Instead there was a dark fire that burst forth and raged fiercely. It spread till it licked at my face; I remember thinking that I should awake to a house of ash.
Instead, I woke in another world. Or rather a reflection of the world within the world.
"This is the dream of Kratos,” said Banish, responding to my quizzical expression.
My father dreamt an incredible battle. Outside the shining walls, on the wide plains of Ceorcir, two armies, each thousands of fighters strong, were locked in a bloody conflict.
Kratos led the forces of Viljir courageously, charging out ahead of the mass in an effort to draw the blades of as many aggressors as possible. Like the other men and women, he was dressed in an army uniform—a bright blue outfit with reflective silver trim. He never wore anything that would distinguish h
im as Kratos the Eternal. He did not want the enemies fleeing from him to focus on the slaughter of his companions.
The forces pitted against him were flying the banner of the Archduke of Vengeance. “I recognize this battle. It took place within my lifetime, early in my days of chronicling. I watched with a spyglass from the wall. Edzer, the last general of the imprisoned Archduke of Vengeance, thinking Kratos far away, attacked with the rest of the forces still loyal to his lord."
"And how did this battle end?"
"Kratos valiantly fought through the ranks of Vengeance's army, finally reaching the general. He looked around at the carnage and, posing as an unremarkable foot soldier, challenged Edzer to a duel. To the winner would go the victory. He thereby planned to save the lives of both armies. Edzer, not recognizing the gore-spattered Eternal, accepted the challenge and terms. It took Kratos till moonrise to get close to the general, as he was master of many vengeful spirits. In the end, Kratos leapt upon him and clove his head from his body."
"I do not think I could survive having my head struck from my body, even in a dream,” said Banish, pondering my story. “I do not think that I can drag the duel out until moonrise either, but besides those facts, the story can remain unchanged."
I was so astounded by the sheer realism of the recreated battle that I had not noticed that Banish held me by the arm and guided me through the air, like a leaf caught in a swift breeze. I did not have time to appreciate the wonder of the moment, for Banish soon spoke again, pressed for time as Kratos fought his way towards Edzer.
"Where were you situated on the wall when this occurred?"
"Right there.” As I pointed and peered, I was surprised to see myself standing on the wall amid the archers, spyglass to my eye.
Then I was falling, flying. I was no longer embodied, just a bundle of senses soaring in the air. The motion only stopped when I reached my dream simulacrum and entered into her body. It was from this place that I viewed the rest of the battle. Somehow I still could hear the voice of Banish resounding in my head, as well as everything taking place around him.
GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007 Page 14