The Voice of Many

“Speak now.” 

The antechamber echoed with a brass tone; chimes strewn across the floor still held their tune. Wiry hands now found their way to the boy beneath them. 

“You have been given an order boy, speak now.” 

“You would have me speak for what? You have heard my voice and seen what it can do.” 

The hands gained weight, pushing painfully now into the boy’s shoulders. Groaning in disgust, the man turns to the door behind them, the gold lacquer on the handle worn to brass.  

“I would have you speak only to assuage the courts,” crooked fingers point to the door behind “only to appease the masses.” The hand now finds itself on the boy’s head, the cold grasp trickling down his neck. “You have brought here a plague of doubts, an infestation of skepticism, a goddamned uprising.” 

A cool clasp moved to the boy’s neck jolting him to his feet. If it were not for the blaze coming from the man’s eyes the hands would have frozen him solid. The boy managed to choke back his fear, but the man could still sense it. 

“I have done what was needed of me. Whatever threats you throw towards me, whatever deal you try to pull from me it will not be enough. Martyr me or murder me, pick your poison.” 

Temperature returned to the boy’s body as the man storms toward the door. The man’s hands pound the door like thunder, his hands grasp the handle like lightning. With a sickening screech the debris is carved away from the door. 

“Martyr or murder,” muttered the man, a sneer forming on his face “you have lost so much already little one. What would it be to lose just a bit more?”  

A silent scream escaped the boy, color leaving his face. Lifeless hands pulled from behind the rubble shifting the sound now from a grating ring to a deafening thrum. The door could hardly hold the mass slithering through it, even the man began to show worry. 

“There is nothing left of me to tell! I swear of it!” The boy stumbles backwards, heels begging to find their mark. Weaponry was not a choice; this was beyond even the mightiest warriors. 

“Pray tell, young boy, have we come to an agreement? Will you speak?” The gold slowly dripped from the handles; a mirage of colors defied the eyes. The boy’s mind came to a numbing halt. Behind him stood the people he swore to protect, the people he swore to liberate. Yet before him stood death, a dark and uneasy being whose only motive was to erase. The boy’s heart now finds a beat, then a rhythm, and finally a pulse. Hands shifting like the sands search for an escape, no rubble would distract this behemoth, not even the man who released this cataclysm had a way to return it. 

Solemn chants formed behind the boy, dragging his soul back to his body. Citizens, clergy, heroes, and enemies alike gathered behind the boy, the women wrang their voices raw and the men pounded their chests flat. The boy felt a vibration run through the floor and witnessed the beast trilling through its body. Acrid stenches punched the boy’s nostrils and tears filled his eyes; hell stood face to face with him and yet he felt relief. The man was shouting something, eyes blazing, and lips curled, but the boy heard nothing. The people seemed to wash away behind him as if swallowed by their own fervor. 

The beast lunged and the boy knelt to prayer. Calling to the powers above, to his mother, to all those who had hurt and helped him. Words failed him, even song failed him, yet he felt a warmth come over him. The boy was no longer in his body. “Am I to be punished for what I have done here?” The wind never heard his voice and the hand on his shoulder lent him no solace. Horns blared through his consciousness, deafening his thoughts. Kinder now came the hum of a song he had heard as a child. “Shall I sing this for you now? Like mother used to?” 

Though faint, and now distant from his body, the song began. 

“O Fortuna, velut luna statu variabilis, semper crescis aut decrescis” Light flooded the room as the chant continued, the boy’s body now faced the beast with arms open. “Sors immanis et inanis, rota tu volubilis, status malus” The man raced alongside the beast, blinded with fury. Time began to slow, and a faint scent of myrrh filled the air. Language blended and cloth became skin, a draft formed behind the boy’s body so fierce it felt the cathedral itself would crumble. Eyes no longer viewed but decreed, a voice so distinct the very stones submitted. “Quod per sortem sternit fortem, mecum omnes plangite!” Nothing more than a sinewy flag, the body now a mark of final resistance. 

“Saint of Resistors, a boy to you but a hand of God. There will be no sacrament for you or for those who surround us. The Lord has had his fill of this mockery. From dust to dust you shall return.” Wings filled the antechamber, and a blast of heat came at the beast and the man who now hid behind it. There were many eyes, and many more hands. Spears fell from the sky in a wash of holy retribution. The beast was pinned atop the man, the angelic entity placed its hand to its head. “O brother, how far you have fallen. Return now to Him and find yourself a seat amongst us.” 

“Sinner.” Voices echoed against the air itself, tunneling to the man. Crushed legs and broken ribs forbade the man any movement. “You will take his seat. There will be no rest.” 

Crimson skies, pillars of salt, earthquakes and hysteria ravaged the city. A blinding light rose from the cathedral, wings of gold wavered above the people of Sodom. Martyr it is.