Echo, Chapter II Revelations

REVELATIONS

         “Jakra.”
         Silence.
         “Jakra?”
         Silence.
         Groan.
         Mumble.
         “JAKRA!”
         “WHAT!?”  All of a sudden they were nose to nose, his red locks falling into his glowing golden eyes.  The glow slowly faded, and he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.  “What is it?” he repeated more kindly, and crawled back under his covers.
         “It is time.”
         He laughed mirthlessly, rolled over, and pulled the covers up over his chin.  “Time...Ha!  It’s always about bloody time in this place.  All they do all bloody day long is work their arses off, complain: ’there’s not enough time here,’ ’there’s too much time there,’ and they get off work and come and bloody complain about. The bloody.  TIME!”
         “But-”
         “I’m sick of it dammit!  I want no part in it; go away.”
         “But-”
         “Go away!”
         Damascus Daedolon was a bright man.  He did well in life, or so he was told, and since coming to this…place, he had climbed (clumb?  He wasn’t really big on grammar and such) the ladder of Blasphemy to the position of Grand Heresiarch, leader of all Dark Bishops.  He was the only mortal soul the Master showed any amount of trust in, and he knew more about the Zohar hierarchy and history than the Archon himself.  (Once again, so he was told.  Jakra was a strong believer in positive reinforcement.)  But still…
         But still, the Master scared the willies out of him.
         “Time, Master.  It’s the time.”
         Jakra rolled back to the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes again.
         “Time?”
         “Yes, Master.”
         “The time?”
         “Yes, Master.”
         “Time for what, exactly?”
         “Time for you to begin, Master.  Time for you to rise, to strike, to control.  Time for you to create-”
         “Stop there Damascus…”  Jakra sighed and dropped his left hand.  His eye was starry and red, but gold still shined through his pupils.  “They say that only He can create, you know.”  Jakra pointed halfheartedly at the ceiling.  “All others are the created.”
         “Dash Him.  You can create.  You can destroy.”  Jakra shot him a quick dirty look, and was pleased to see Damascus Daedolon was almost able to look him full in the eyes.  He respected that.  Only the Attic King, as the workers called him, was able to look Jakra fully in the face.
         Half jokingly, Jakra replied, “I don’t like the tone you take with me.”  While Daedolon paused, Lucifer thought about his workers.  Slaves, by all technicalities.  Then he tried to focus on what Damascus was trying to tell him.  Jakra slept for long periods of time, and he was hard to wake up.
         “The absence of time means we are always lacking in time.  All they do here is complain about the bloody time...As if a life on Earth wasn’t sufficient enough...what?”
         “It’s true, sir, they always do complain.”
         “No, you fool.  Why did you wake me?”
         “It is time sir.”
         “So I’ve been told . . . ”
         “It has begun sir.”
         “You’re talking in riddles, Damascus.”
         Sigh . . .
         “Don’t sigh at me here in the dark.  Do you know how bloody annoying that is?  It can be a bit creepy sometimes, but now it’s just annoying.”
         “I’m sorry sir.”
         “Don’t apologize, just tell me what you want.”
         “...You are a bit . . . testy today sir.”
         “Who woke me up?”
         “Dreadfully sorry sir, but there is a war brewing . . . A war you started.”
         “Yes, and with my favorite brother, too . . . Hmm, I know there’s a war Damascus, but why did you wake me?  The war hasn’t started yet.”
         “Actually sir, it has.”
         “What?  When?”
         “As you so eloquently put it sir, time here is not of the essence.”
         “Enough with your bloody riddles, fool.  When did the war start?”
         “It starts with a birth of a child.”
         “Damascus . . . ”
         “Sorry sir, I suppose that was a riddle?  The war starts on the Thirteenth of October in the year of our . . . in the year Twenty-Twenty-Nine.”
         “And what year is it now?”
         “Whatever year you wish it to be.  You are a god after all.”
         “No Damascus.  Never forget: there is but one God.  I am what I am.”
         “Oh . . . and what are you sir?”
         “None of your damn business.  I suppose this child is the one Melchior prophesied about?”
         “No sir.”
         “No?  Then who is it?”
         “It is the one Melchior promised could never be born.”
         Silence.
         “Sir, perhaps if you would like to -“
         ”Silence, fool.”
         “Yes sir.”
         “Are you saying this child is . . . is it Ominlash?”
         “Yes sir.”
         “It is not possible.”
         “No sir.”
         “Do try to be a little more helpful Damascus.”
         “Yes sir.  Um . . . the child’s name is Echo sir.”
         “Echo is not a name.  It is a verb, or possibly a noun, but not a name.”
         “Yes sir.  I believe the name stems from the verb sir.  It refers to-“
         ”Dammit man, I know what the reasons for it are.  I don’t want a lecture on metaphysics, I want to know how this- this creature came to being.”
         “Sir.  I believe that when a man and a woman fall in love -“
         ”Or it’s paid for.  I don’t want that lecture Damascus; I want to know who allowed it to happen.  Who is guarding the child?”
         “Sir . . . um . . . ”
         “Now is not the time to be shy Damascus.”
         “No sir . . . um . . . I could be wrong sir.”
         “Continue . . . ”
         “Well sir . . . I believe it is Azreal.”
         “Hm . . . and you expected me to be what-surprised, hurt, angry?  I have always known where the loyalties of the servants lie.  Well, if it’s a war they want, then it’s a war they get . . . You know, I’ve always wanted to say that . . . ”
         “That’s the spirit sir!  You do want to win this war don’t you?”
         “Oh Damascus . . . it’s not about winning.  Life is not about whether you win or lose, it’s the choices you make to get there.  The choice to sacrifice your own well being for the well being of others.  The choice to abandon your hopes and dreams to pursue new opportunities, and finding that perhaps you are better off with your new decision, perhaps happier.  Life is not a game.  There are no players, no pawns.  Just you and your relationship with God.  You must embrace your life Damascus.  Love yourself, love your god, and please- find someone to love you the way you deserve to be loved.  Love is the only equal force, the only perpetual machine.  Life is what you make it Damascus.  Go and make your donuts-never you mind about the holes.”
         “Of course, Master,” Damascus replied, biting his lip, unsure of more was expected.  “That’s beautiful sir . . . who said that?”
         “I did.  Just now.  Were you not listening?”
         “No sir, I mean yes I -“
         ”Well don’t believe a word of it, it’s complete rubbish.  Come Damascus, grab my coat.  We’ve a war to win.”
         And thus began the beginning of the end…