The End of All Things

The shadows built upon the air and formed substance. A battle-scarred and weary Ozzob stepped forward. Ingrlo acknowledged him but stood petrified.

“My son…”

“Here, the chair, rest.”

As he collapses into the chair, “I was in hell.”

“You mean that literally or physically?”

“The first, another world exists beyond this one… That place has division, good and evil, heaven and hell.”

Handing his father a drink, “Was it as bad as folklore would have us believe?”

“I did not get that impression… but after I left it was.”

“What now?”

“The system of life, shared by the two worlds is damaged. I… I killed them all, all the demons in hell, and all the men that served demonic masters. I don’t know what happened to me. Once things started I just, could not stop.”

“With evil gone, that world will be better for it.”

“There not really evil! Demons are just another species… were another species.”

“None survived?”

“No.” Ozzob admits with a meek voice.

#

Ozzob sits in his study; he pours out his mind with an inked quill, searching for answers to questions he dose not know. The written words are equally important as self-examination and historical document. Serphyn sits on a ledge watching her master write. The words roll out, like long dammed water--finally released.

#

Mortal, immortal… those terms are so relative. I think of myself as alive, the only, ever, living god. The other gods are beings of great power, undisputed, but they only glimpse reality; I am reality, it consumes me. I am a creature of the world, I live on the surface; existence is not there for me. I exist, I must deal with consequences, I must put things back in order, I can restore the balance… the flow is broken, but reparable.

#

Serphyn hefts the fresh pages into a magical storeroom holding all of Ozzob’s written life; the library is a timeless pocket for storing the complacent musing of an immortal human. She sets the pages down in the back of a full booklet; pulling a binding lever, a small steam jet fires, fanning out against the scorched wall.

“I must keep a record, for the end of all things.”

A small metal shelf at the end of one row holds a single book between gargoyle statues. The edge of the book reads ‘The First Purge’. Serphyn rearranges the surface and slides the newly pressed journal along side. Steam rises from the fused binder, labeled ‘The Second Purge’.

#

“Balance… A balance must be kept.”

Ozzob rises from his desk; an audible static accompanies the movement. The sorcerer closes his eyes and slowly begins to tilt his head back. A vortex opens above from no source; he vanishes with a blinding flash of light. All that remains are some golden sparkles tumbling through the air.

#

Ozzob stands on a mountain at the border of heaven; he looks down across the endless rolling, perfect pastures. With no motion, no flinch, no breath, the sorcerer commands hundreds of insipid stones to rise from the ground. Each massive block falls, pulls up, and then falls again; moving around respective areas, the collective effect is the same if he had shot the entire country high in the air, turned the mass over, and released.

Ozzob walks, headstrong, into the vehemence driven countryside. In minutes, the paradise gardens transform to nothing recognizable. A pure being flies in at the destructor, covered in white, feathered wings, golden hue; Dozens of the creatures rise to assail the sorcerer. Some bear massive claws, others, spear-like barbed poles that drip with silver.

Sheathed in energy, colors from every spectrum radiate from the sorcerer’s pulsating hands, blinding rays burn from the gel-like drips. The first creature gets close, a quick rake with a deadly claw; Ozzob sidesteps the swing and lands a simple touch on the shoulder. For a moment, the angel appears unaffected, resistant.

Ozzob dives into the crowd of angelic figures ready to fight. He rockets through the air, commanding everything. The dipped-in-white enemies slow to a crawl; Ozzob floats around in perfect freedom, space and time bending to his will, he touches each of the angels, passing off a ticking infectious magic.

Time returns to normal; the first angel’s eyes flush over in pain, the creature barely has a chance to show emotion before wilting, disintegrating, blowing away as ash on a breeze. The other angelic warriors ready to fight, but time has already played this round--the sorcerer’s taint will win.

#

Ozzob is unable to restore, what he destroys--the demons. He finds an answer to the question he never asked, a way to repair the flow, in the word ‘balance’. When he leaves the divided world a second time, there is no one left, no demons, no angels… For a moment, the voices of the core hold silent, and the land named ‘afterlife’, is completely still.

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