David J West [West - In My Time of Dying

The Northern slope of the Himalayas: 1874

Biting cold wind held the battlements in a cruel lovers embrace. Moonlight caught on the swirling snowflakes like jewels suspended in midair as the last few torches were snuffed out in the gathering gloom. Breathing too deep in this chill could kill a weak man; yet the armored Knights of St. Germain maintained their silent vigil. Hard men for a hard task, they stood like the Colossus of Rhodes against the gale. Ever watchful, most had been stationed here for ten years at the least. Few reached middle age. Theirs was considered a powerful and necessary duty to a higher mystic power. Only a select cadre of men knew the origin of their order and what the truth of that awesome power yet was.

Far from the outside, yet still swaddled in a frigid cold, a single prisoner slumped, chained to a sloping cyclopean wall deep inside the fortress-like monastery, down into the very bowels of the mountain. An unusual feature for a Tibetan monastery, the dungeon had been built and gradually expanded upon by the Knights of St. Germain in ages past to specifically house and keep this single man imprisoned for all time.

He was an immortal and an extremely dangerous one at that. There could be no execution, no death he could not come back from. There was only containment for a perceived eternity for such a being.

Hanging upon the wall, he was but wasted flesh and bone. Gaunt as a skeleton, he bore almost no resemblance to a living human any longer. His face seemed a skull with some dim dark fire of life yet remaining in the eyes. Anyone looking upon him would have imagined a demon, a ghoul, or a devil, and none living but the highest echelon commanders of the Knights themselves knew his name any longer. Clothed in rags rotting away at his torso, he knew only pain and suffering, having been there long centuries already. Long enough to drive anyone else to madness. Tortured and drained by his captors, there was only the dream to escape. Any semblance of sanity remaining within the prisoners mind came from his astral projection to see the world outside and marvel at the changes of mankind down through the ages. Magical wards of protection, written in Enochian, had stayed the prisoners mind from truly flying free in the astral realm, but he was still able to travel through dreams. Through these means he knew all his friends and family had died generation upon generations distant and the world was a smaller place than it had been. Grim as his predicament was, there was yet hope to escape, to cheat his captors of their prize and finally meet death. But death is a fleeting phantom for those seeking it, while remaining a looming specter for those avoiding it. If he could but escape, death would come for them all.

The creak of the door being unlocked echoed throughout the dank chamber. Torchbearers approached, beating back both the cold blackness and maddening quiet. The sound of armor clanking and even the orange flames licking at the damp air seemed thunderous to a forgotten man so accustomed to the viscous silence and dark.

His own rusty chains clanked softly as he shielded his eye sockets from the murky glare. Before him stood a trio of men.

Two Knights of St. Germain in their gleaming armor and crimson tunics with burnished faceplates of Damascus steel to hide their features like the masks of Greek tragedians. Indeed, they must have known they looked upon either a terrible tragedy or dark comedy. They remained silent as statues, almost afraid to breathe. They had heard horrific rumors of what the prisoner was capable of, only the presence of their commander granted them some sliver of courage.

The Count of St. Germain, their leader, was a handsome goateed man of middle age who wore the finest of silks while priceless gems wrapped in gold rode upon his fingers. His eyes flashed with wicked humor and slyness.

I have a question for you, said the Count.

Ask, rasped the skeletal man.

The Count swung a golden pendulum from his left hand. A solar eclipse happened but a few hours ago, and my pendulum went mad. It writhed without tempo or reason. Not unlike you. He waited a moment to see if the prisoner would give any reaction. I thought to ask you about it, since you are usually so full of answers.

The prisoners voice croaked as it found passage through the unused throat. Aetheric forces, the electrical energies from the sun were blocked by the moons trespass. The magnetic currents were in a brief flux.

Of course, I should have known that.

You were always deluded by your own gifts, said the skeleton with a cackle.

And yet, you are the one still paying me for it, the Count answered smugly. He dismissed his two knights with a gesture, waited for them to leave a torch in a sconce and shut the door behind them. I have missed these visits, John. Its been a long time since I last came to see you, not that you can tell down here. What has it been? Perhaps thirteen years. It looks like you are getting a little more color. Perhaps it is time for another extraction of your vitality.

How much do you think I have left? asked John with a wretched chuckle.

We both know there is no end. You are an Ouroboros who has tapped into the very wellspring of life, the umbilicus of the universe. If I were to leave you hanging there long enough, I am sure you would eventually resume your former appearance and vitality, and that is not something I will ever suffer the world to endure.

How kind. Never mind you reap the benefits like a cosmic mosquito.

Someone has to hold that essence in check.

Do it then, Edward, you parasite, croaked John.

The Count frowned. I no longer use that moniker.

Which one? Edward or parasite? his laugh was a death rattle.

The Count threw his cloak over his shoulder in a show of frustration and wrath. He revealed a golden dagger. I do not use the name Edward any longer. I am the Count of St. Germain, and everyone has called me such for the last two hundred years. Should I use this upon your bones and give you even more pain? He waved the dagger in front of John.

If you think Ill use your latest faux title, you are mistaken. John shrugged in his chains.

It matters not. Ill drain you just the same. The Count put away the dagger, brought his hands together in an intricate and ritualistic finger knit clasp, and concentrated. A blue light gradually formed beside him, taking on the shape of a man, further materializing until it was a near double image of the Count. My Tulpa shall do the work, he said, with some satisfaction.

An almost exact match for the Count, the Tulpa stepped toward John and put his lightly glowing left hand upon Johns skeletal brow.