Defenestrate The Masses
Father, Oh Father
Edward leafed absently through the final Volume, “Heal Thyself”, and he knew it - he was falling ill.
Something inside him had given up. Something inside him made him unwell. He was failing, he was falling, but ultimately he was losing. Isolation, it seemed, had taken a toll on him. Being separated from the Rook was draining him, and being unable to prevent Axon’s death was too much to bare, even as Helena’s betrayal sapped his resolve. He was fading and it showed.
He couldn’t seem to understand the plans in this Volume. They seemed to be a platform, devoid of anything notable. It was at the top of the Pyramid structure, in a small room, with windows instead of walls. Perhaps it demonstrated the ideals and ideas of the Builders, where one was able to see Above, to some extent Below and most of the Riddle, so as to show what could be achievable with such high ideals and the motivation to pursue those dreams? Except now it simply drew attention to the pain and suffering, the rot and decay, the fall of those high ideals and good intentions when faced with overwhelming opposition. But perhaps it allowed for the hope of what could still be. And Edward realised, knew he wasn’t going to see it. He was already gone, a corpse animated.
He recalled the verse from within the Volume, that at the time he barely took in, “Being one when one is many Makes sense within a family, Where giving time Is part of life, Advancing all as one.” Family. A concept. A truth, for many. For him, just a concept. He was created, by one man. Family was something alien to him. Perhaps it always would be. Perhaps it was supposed to be. Perhaps this was his fire, to find a family to love and for they to love him in return? He fell unconscious from weakness, something he hadn’t managed in a long time. When he woke, he wasn’t in an infirmary, or in the same position he fell, as he had presumed. He was in a large room, open to the elements. A railing squared the room, a handful of benches dotted around its interior. A couple of those were occupied. Edward turned his head slowly to the figure that loomed a shadow over him. Proctor Tennant.
“This is becoming a habit, Mr River.” he chewed.
“Not a pleasant one, I assure you,” croaked Edward in reply. He tested his balance by rising to his feet. He staggered a little, but even through knotted tired muscles he managed a semblance of upright standing.
“Get on with it them. Walk around. The sooner you are compos mentis the sooner you get back to work. Don’t make me kick you, scum. Move!”
Edward did so, more out of compulsion than instruction. His limbs begged for movement, so the healing could begin, the blood could travel to its destinations and the fixing of his body could kick start. He shuffled at first, bent slightly, even as his posture began improving and his stride became longer and more certain - all to the insults of Proctor Tennant, now letting his frustrations out on Edward knowing there was no Rook to break up the party this time.
Edward’s legs were feeling delicate but active. He felt the desire to stretch, to help the blood flow unimpeded, so he rested his right foot on a bench where a huddled collection of rags spoke with a voice older than speech itself.
“Sit down, son. I would have a word with you.” Edward continued to stretch, “We have little time, my boy. Please, sit.”
“You have a familiarity to your voice, sir, and by familiarity I mean a presumption.”
“And you have an obstinance to yours. Indulge me?” Edward sat, but continued stretching.
Proctor Tennant had begun a conversation with another lesser Proctor, the time seeming right for a brief uninterrupted diatribe.
“The old times have long passed. The future looks uncertain, even in this much divided present. Tell me, is the world still in despair?” asked the old man.
“These are the words you would waste in this instance? Of course the world is in disease, distress and destructive self loathing.”
“But there is hope?”
“There was hope. That hope is chained.”
“But it still exists?”
“Yes, but tethered. What’s your point?”
“Edward, do you not know me?” The old man revealed more of his face. It was cracked, wrinkled and beyond its lifespan, yet there was a familiarity to it, the eyes still blue and twinkling with unfulfilled desire.
“Should I?”
“Son, I am your Father.”
“My Father is dead. He created me then left the world. This much I know.”
“Then you were misled, my son. I am Conrad Miller.”
“How – “
“It is true that on the day of your birth I left, with the intention of becoming one with the world, but I was waylaid by a woman, calling herself Helena Romaine. She brought me here, and here is where I have been. Is he inside you?” Conrad put a hand to Edward’s chest. Edward did not resist.
“The Rook is, but these chains prevent it coming forth.”
Conrad smiled in delight, his eyes becoming misty and welling with tears, “I knew it. And he has fulfilled his purpose?”
“He continues to. We came to an agreement. It worked, but I had to tether it when I was required to surrender.”
“To solve the riddles of the Volumes?” Conrad chuckled to himself, slapping Edward on the knee, “My son, they don’t contain the answer. They point out where the answer could be.”
“What do you mean? Tell me where it is hidden!”
“I cannot, my son. It is something you have to solve for yourself. Trust me, my answer would be incongruent with your own.”
“Father, I am sorry I disappoint you. I try to do my utmost, but I fail. I try and I fail.”
“You do your best, my son. I know. I have heard of your exploits, you and the Rook. I know you do what you can with the limitations I gave you. If anything I should apologise to you.”
“Oh, no, Father. You gave me life. I do only what you asked, because you asked it. I saw your intentions and I ran with them. I pushed myself when all seemed lost, and all for you.”
“If it’s absolution you want, my boy, you can have it. But it comes at a price. A price you may not be able to afford.”
“Anything for you, Father.”
“I feel I have now completed my work. I believe you are complete and this was the purpose for why I still lived, to see this day. I tell you this; the answer is the City itself. The people of the City. They are the mathematicians of the Builders. It is in them that the answer to your question lies. Now, and I ask this out of all acceptance, I want you to kill me.”
“What?”
“I know it is a great burden for you, my son, but only you can do this. It is an imperative. It is a requirement. You must kill me because I cannot.”
“How can I do this to you?”
“You must. I will not and cannot resist. There are no sharp objects, vials of poison that will kill me. You must, and by your hand.”
“This is ridiculous. I cannot – “
“You don’t have much time, and this is the only opportunity you have. I beg you, son, as my last command to you - kill me.”
Edwards mind was in turmoil. How could he kill his own Father? His creator? They had only just met and he asks this? And from within, the Rook awoke. It pushed and pushed, trying to break free. A low level mist escaped Edward’s pores, no more than an inch or two high, but it was desperate, forceful. It recognised the requirement. It had no conscience, it had no desire. It simply wanted to follow the instruction of the master. It was only Edward who resisted, creating pain for all in an instinctual act of selfishness. He relaxed and let his body be compelled to act as instructed. He couldn’t watch. He couldn’t react. This had to happen.
The hands of Edward reached for the mouth. One hand covered, while the other held the head. The black smoke wrinkled over the face, searching into every crack, some filling the nostrils. Conrad jolted.
With each shake, a fresh tear engulfed the previous one on Edward’s face. Conrad shook, and Edward responded with an escaped cry of anguish, until the body shook no more. The hands removed from their grasp were now returned to Edward’s control. The collection of rags that once was Conrad Miller now held Conrad Miller no more.
But Edward had no time to react. He was knocked unconscious by Proctor Tennant.
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