MANDATES OF DIVINITY

EPISODE 12

EPISODE TWELVE

He that instructed the fish to avoid land,

Instructed the beast to avoid the sea.

The spirit is always true,

Its words, just for you.

-Saint Petros

First ecclesiastical council.

Robes that evoked the night. Faces that reflected the moon. Voices that shrilled like owls. The energy that protruded out of the conclave was epic. They were about 40, all encamped around a fire that burned white, which didn’t radiate heat, but burned faster than a c*****e when in contact with any object. They called it the fire of the moon.

They were casting dust into the white fire, called The Essential Gratitude, in appreciation to the Giver for the essence of their human nature. An essence that meant they were worthless unless they submit to the Giver. They had more reasons to be grateful this night, however.

Their founder had appeared to them with a new charge from heaven. A charge that was all too heavy. A charge not for the normal-minded of the flock but those that were more interested in sacrificing blood than dust. “Just like the Godling,” evoking their motto. Their founder, Timos, revealed that the church had already taken a maddening swerve. A swerve that was leading them to the edge of a cliff. And, Timos concluded, the church is still immature to stand on a delicate edge much less handle the fall that results from it. Fax Nocturnos, the conclave of light in the night, was charged to prevent the church from falling off the cliff.

How? They almost didn’t dare to ask cos they were certain Timos wouldn’t tell. He always told them that if they are really of the giver, then the spirit within them would guide them towards truth. A spirit that didn’t contradict itself among its members. The lady who mentioned the question was pardoned, which is basically a base punishment, to minister to the sick. She wasn’t punished, which meant suspension or cutting off, because she was new into the fold.

After the thanksgiving rite for the gift of dust, they all rallied around Antos, the head of the conclave. He was smooth. Clean shaven from his head to his feet, as a tribute to the dust which was his essence, a vow to always carry his dust about himself proudly.

“You yourselves have heard the Immortal Timos. This confirms that the spirit we profess in Fax Nocturnos is true- the church is straying far away from the Giver. And now we have been given the Divine charge to prevent this from happening.”

“How?” The lady who asked earlier asked again. She didn’t care one bit about pardons or punishments. The circle too wasn’t in the mood. Her questions rightly reflected the current tense atmosphere about them.

“Well, what do you do when you see a beautiful carriage running towards the edge of a cliff?” He asked with a mild smile.

“You stop it from falling over.”

“Obviously, yes. But how?”

The conclave stared blank at Antos. He sighed.

“Here you are in a carriage sitting peacefully in the main compartment. Suddenly, you look out the window and find that the carriage is headed for the cliff. What do you do?”

“Stop the driver.” There was a cold reply from the same lady.

Antos smiled warmly. The lady would really make a good character in the conclave.

“Interesting Barbara,” he muttered. “You’re right. We have to stop the people guiding the affairs of the creator's children before they meet their destruction. And you Barbara will help us do that.”

“She’s been here just a day.” A shrill voice, an experienced one at that, mentioned.

“Yet she’s fearless.” Antos replied. “We need to infiltrate the walls of the Sanctus Primus in order to correct this malady that’s befallen the church.”

“And she’s supposed to do that?”

“No. She’s to meet someone who can on our behalf. The Silver Devil.”

Quick gasps seemed to tear through the air. The persona just mentioned by Antos was not only famous but likewise feared by the members of the Church and the camp of the Fallen. He refers to himself as “the free one” because he bore no alliances or interests with either party and because of that, he was able to move freely between both lands. Until recently…

Talk has been floating around the Red Provinces that only one man could successfully infiltrate the walls of the church and attack the pope due to his freedom and immense power. While there has been no official statement in that regard by the probe panel investigating Vio’s death, it was already becoming a very likely conclusion after the panel kept coming up with several blanks. And if the panel decides to point fingers at him, the church would have no other choice but to declare him “a spawn of the fallen.” But there was a problem…

No one has an idea of what the silver devil looks like. In his bloom mode, he went all metal. He had the incredible capacity to morph and blend in well into any metal he came in contact with and his high energy levels made him so difficult to detect. Only seen when fighting and after that nothing, nobody could tell him apart from the crowd in human form. Which all added to the fear of the masses over the power tussle currently at play.

“I don’t know him.” Barbara whispered out of fear.

“Even if she does,” the experienced voice refused to address her directly, “we cannot associate ourselves with someone who’s clearly not of the Giver.”

“It’s not in your jurisdiction to pass judgements, Bartheus.” Antos replied in his usual warm fashion. “The church hasn’t excommunicated him yet. Besides, all those that are ‘of the Giver’ have been bought by the expensive silverware of the Sanctus Primus.” He stressed the words ‘of the Giver’ rather sarcastically.

There was prolonged silence for a couple of minutes. Antos was already sick of it. He raised a bouquet of flowers to the members of the conclave.

“Shall we test the spirit?” He asked.

They knew what he meant. One by one they collected a flower. And gathered round the moon flame, they all casted their flowers into the fire, expressing positive support for Antos’ motion. The spirit had again been clear and consistent among them all.

But this clarity and consistency, like in previous times, was borne out of fear and uncertainty...

*************************************

The generals kept laughing. One of them was pinching his belly button as he wheezed his throat at the obvious humor at play among his fellow comrades. Only one of them wasn't laughing. He had the look of terror mixed with disapproval smeared on his face.

"I promise you the mannequin moved." He said, already feeling stupid.

"Now, isn't that cute?" The chief constable said. "Marcus is promising us something that is gone already. What's gonna happen? Rewind time back to see you hallucinate again?"

The others could barely contain their stomachs.

"Don't you see?" Marcus persisted. "It could be the Silver Devil."

"What?" Everyone else choruses. Their look wore confusion, but it deflated once again and dissolved into laughter.

"How the hell was he supposed to pass through this watch station?" Someone was saying.

"I guess Marcus' new theory is that the Silver Devil is now the 'Thin Air Devil.'" The others laughed at the next response.

Everyone laughed. Save for Marcus. He simply shrugged.

"He's powerful. Disappearing could be part of it."

"And the wailing cross hasn't dripped blood yet?" The chief constable noted. He was already getting irritated.

Marcus could only mutter to himself at this point. Deep down he was angry. He hadn't taken any wine for 2 days now. Meaning he was sober to pulp. He was sure the mannequin knight moved. It moved like a human trying to correct its painful posture. At this point, he decided to just keep quiet. Then he adjusted his position, moving a little far from the mannequin. The others were amused by his change of position and it also made them laugh even harder.

All of a sudden, the door blasted open. A watch guard came in terrified.

"There's something you guys should see." He said.

"What?"

"It's a dead body."

"Whose dead body?"

The watch guard let his eyes roll slowly from officer to officer before he finally remarked.

"That's the question I'm still asking myself."

There was an air of tension around the room. Eye gazes slowly travelled around each other in wariness. After a little moment of awkwardness, the chief constable blurted out.

"I hope you're not infested with the Marcus fever too. Tell me, when was the last time you drank?"

"It's been three days, sir." The officer answered confidently, not knowing the direction the chief constable was coming from.

His reply brought back a light air to the room.

"Gentlemen!" The chief constable said, gesturing his hands like a host. "A new infestation of the Marcus Fever."

""So what did you see? A silver corpse?" Someone remarked.

Everyone laughed heartily at the question. They were beginning to enjoy themselves again.

"No. It's a corpse I believe died today, judging by the location it lay and the fresh redness of the sinews. But for some reason, it's decayed like it's been dead for 30 days."

Now that put everyone on edge.

"We've just graduated from the tale of the Silver Devil to the tale of the Red Devil." One of the officers commented, not out of humor but horror.

"This is looking serious." The chief constable said, easing himself from where he sat and holding his sword's sheath tight. "We've got to check it out."

Everyone else followed him, swords drawn out, as they proceeded to the location of the strange body.

While the watch room cleared, the mannequin finally moved. Vigo sighed as he could finally change the awkward position he had subjected himself to for hours. He cracked his bones and clenched his fists to regain his shape. He was returning to his fleshy form but thought against it and transformed back to the metal mannequin, albeit a mobile one this time as he had time and space to move up the chambers to the Pristine Chapel.

The instructions from the Fax Nocturnus was clear. Stealth. Mortality only when necessary. And that should be made to look like an accident. The 'Divine Impostor' should be made to see his end like his predecessor. Vigo felt like he didn't have all day. He started immediately for the stairs when he heard the doors creak again. It was the chief constable that entered. He seemed to have picked only his sheath and forgotten the sword.

The trepidation that befell him when he saw a moving mannequin. Marcus suddenly made sense. He turned immediately to run for the door but he was too late. The iron armor around him snapped and squeezed him tight, choking him hard. He gasped for breath, rolling aggressively on the floor. After much struggle, he finally gave up. When Vigo felt his last breath waft across the room, he released tension and adjusted the metal armor back into its neat original position.

Next plan was to make it seem like an accident. He went instantly for the jars on the side of the walls and spilled its contents on the floor. Then he smeared the leg of the chief constable with wine to make it seem like he slipped and fell. He banged the officer's head on the floor and added a few winy-mud stains on his apparel.

"Sweet," he thought to himself. "The chief constable slipped, fell and broke his skull and temple."

Satisfied, he was finally ready to put away the burden of the mannequin away from him. He slipped out of the metal like he was not actually a part of it but inside the metal armor. But before he left, he placed the mannequin in the original position he earlier stood when the guards were still present. But not without a little tweak and a message close to the tweak that only one person could detect: the one who saw him move.

And just about when he was done, he went up the stairs. It was time for work!