Not By The Blood of Beasts
By
Nathanael Gassett
It was only the nineteenth year, but already the world had gone to rot.
It was a quick decay; one man’s sin spreading like rust on iron. Things could have been different, would have been different were the sinner not the King. As any land’s history will tell, debauchery and power are a dangerous mix.
The King was obsessed with the cleansing of his own body, and driven mad by the thought of his soul in danger. Having knowledge of his sin, he was plagued by guilt and tried to cleanse himself with sacrifices. He attempted atonement; beginning with the beasts.
He shed their blood every hour; a continuous slaughter, staining every garment red with the fluid of life, showing the sacrifice for all to behold. All turned from white to red.
Every lamb, every ox, all birds and all beasts were drained on the altar. And though not a sparrow was spared from the slaughter, his guilt did not depart with their death. His hand could not destroy it.
So he slaughtered his people next. Their price was more valuable. He hoped to ransom his life in fair trade.
He killed them all on the once white altar and the earth drank up their blood till her stomach was full. Then she shut her mouth to the cutting block, pooling their blood on her lips, flooding the kingdom.
The King waded ankle high in the bloody wake, hatchet in hand, guilt at heart.
The narrative begins here, a discussion between two of the last living men in the region: the Serf and the King.
Evening was coming to the hall, the sun setting orange colors in the clouds. The guards brought him forth, hands shackled with heavy iron and thick links of chain. The Serf walked forward without prodding, head straight and not bowed. He looked as a messenger, not a sacrifice.
"Are you aware of your purpose?" asked the King from his wooden throne, it's timbers soaked with the blood of all.
"Are you aware of yours?" replied the Serf with unnatural boldness. "Do you think you can save yourself?"
The King mirrored the Serf's counter, "Do you?"
"My life is not the one in question here, it is yours."
The King tensed, "Need I remind you who holds the hatchet?" His right arm bulged with muscles made at the slaughter.
It was becoming dark and the torches were lit. One by one the flames spread, igniting the humid air. Blood sweated from the King's throne.
The Serf replied, "It is not by the blood of beasts that you will be saved, nor by the last screams of your thirty-seven wives. Your salvation is held in one man."
The King's pulse quickened, "Tell me who he is that I may spill his blood on my account, that I may be rid of this burdensome guilt."
"You cannot kill him," said the Serf. "He has already been sacrificed."
The King hurled the hatchet with a shout, embedding it in the gashed altar ten feet away.
The Serf did not so much as blink.
"Have you come to taunt me, to tell me of salvation only to rip it away? I have tried everything! I have given oceans of blood for my sake, but still this burden weighs on my heart! Still it claws at me with iron talons, dragging me ever further to the ground, ever deeper into the Valley of Slaughter! And you, " -the King rose from his throne- "You have the boldness to tease me with your stories of salvation?" He stepped down, descending the stairs into the evaporating pool of blood, the air thick with its stench and heat. Sloshing through the enormous vein, his hand reached out for the axe. "Let us see if your blood is any better for atonement!" Grabbing the Serf by the collar he slammed the man on the altar's surface, raising the hatchet above his head.
The Serf spoke, calm and unafraid, "He was sacrificed for you."
The King brought the crisp blade close to the Serf's neck, "I will not play this game much longer. I will kill all if I have to, I will sacrifice every living being on this earth for my sanctification." Torchlight reflected wildly in his eyes.
"Our blood won't work. It cannot cleanse you; it will only add a layer of filth to your skin. You need a different kind of blood. God's blood."
The King stepped back, surprised.
"God's blood? Could one obtain such a thing?"
"Many have tried. Towers built, wings constructed, ways to the Gate contrived; but all have failed. It must be given to you."
The King dropped the axe. Ripples of blood circled above the sunken hatchet.
"Then all is lost. For who is worthy of such a gift? Who can earn it?"
The Serf sat up, blood staining the back of his white tunic, "None can. There is no ritual or sacrifice than can equal the price. There is no fair bargain."
"So there is no hope for me."
"No. Not in that way. But remember that God's blood is a gift, and he may give it to any that he wishes. To all that He loves."
"So there is salvation for some, for you... but not for myself."
"Why do you say that?"
"Could you love someone who has killed so many of your children?"
"No, I could not."
The King turned from the altar, "Neither could I. And I do not expect that much of God."
"But you should expect it, that and much more. God is incomprehensible; his ways are not our ways. He is still committed to you. He still loves you."
The King was filled with grief and tore his bloodstained robe. Weeping, he cried out in his loudest voice, his throat cracking with his heart.
The faces of those whom he had killed were brought to mind, the sound of their pleas echoed in his ears. The blood cried out from the ground, shouting for justice.
The King sank to his knees, the juice of his fruitless sacrifices rising to his waist.
The Serf took a wine skin from his side; his clinking shackles were mute against the wailing king.
"Drink this," said the Serf, placing the skin on the altar.
"There is no use," the King replied. "The blood of beasts could not save me, nor the blood of man; why then should the blood of grapes be any better?"
"This isn't wine. This is the blood of God."
The King hushed himself, "You acquire it? But how?"
"I didn't. Weren't you listening? It was given to me; and now it is given to you."The Serf removed a scrap of bread from the fold of his cloak and broke it, giving thanks to God. And the Serf and the King ate and drank, the bread melding with their flesh, and the wine with their blood, cleansing them. The King cried out in repentance, and the Serf replied, "Go now in peace. You are forgiven."
