sins of Their Fathers

Suspense Stories | Dec 5, 2012 | 16 min read
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Suspense Stories

sins of Their Fathers

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The youth Ramses, pressed himself against the cool mud brick wall. His eyes closed wishing the apparition would disappear with the light. Silently he whispered a prayer to Horus. A sweat soaked linen robe stuck to his skin. He prayed feverishly that the god of light would take away this intruder.

The night chill made the wall cold. An unsettling sweat trickled down his tender skin. He involuntarily pressed himself away from the icy embrace.
He squinted with one eye open and again he saw his bedchamber's unwelcome tenant.
The man at the end of his bed had not moved. He seemed impossibly still. The scared youth did not scream; for to scream was womanly and not becoming of a future Ra. The youth finally opened his eyes completely to take in this surprise visitor.
He stood almost twelve hands high, much taller than most full grown men in the palace. Even Orris, the captain of his Father's guard stood only eleven hands tall. The man's stillness gave Ramses a sense of unease. He wore a simple black cloak. The fabric seemed frayed at the edges although the color remained pure. Yet there was something other-worldly about this apparition. Light seemed to bend around him without ever touching him. Ramses slowly grew bold and leaned forward finally breaking the silence the two had shared for several minutes.
"Who are you?"

The man did not respond. He didn't even seem to be breathing, he was so motionless.
"I asked you a question, and the son of Ra deserves an answer," the boy's boldness was growing. "Tell me who you are --- s-subject."
The figure in the dark robe finally lifted his head. A pair of eyes peered out from the shadowy hood. The faint smell of copper drifted over the room. The boy leaned in closer to see who this man was. He peered deeply into those eyes that pierced through him in the darkness. They shone with a dark gleam like polished ebony. The clouds shifted, briefly letting the moon cast its light into the night chamber. On the man's sunken cheek bones were moist red droplets. The stranger was weeping… blood.
#
Orris was tired. He had served his time on the overnight watches when he was younger. He slouched slightly now as he had experienced more than 35 wet seasons. He still had broad shoulders and stood nearly a hand taller than most other guards. Only he knew that his size and bulk were no longer backed with nearly the same strength he had when he was younger. Fortunately, he was the captain of the guard, and generally that meant he could be afforded what few creature comforts such a rank afforded.
Recently a Hebrew turncoat named Moses had tipped the Pharaoh on edge for weeks now, and when the pharaoh was on edge; his guards were held even more to task. Orris had of course suggested simply killing the Hebrew. Then the plagues and sickness he had caused would go away. Not that he would question the God-Pharaoh's judgment, but this last threat from the lips of Moses' brother was against Pharaoh's eldest son. Orris' had threatened to have the heathen's blood wet on his sickle sword before the man could have finished his words.
The pharaoh was more prudent than his captain of the guard. Orris knew that a part of pharaoh feared the Hebrew; or at least the Hebrew's sorcery. Even Orris, had to swallow the lump of fear when the sorcerer turned the Nile to blood. The latest threat had forced Pharaoh to double the guard on his son. He believed a leader should lead from the front line. That and half his guards had refused the guard duty. They claimed they weren't afraid only that they couldn't fight the Hebrew's sorcery. Orris admitted they had a point there. Still lost in his thoughts he wandered the halls of the royal estate. He continued to check on his guards and try to keep their morale up during this tense time.
A shrill shriek cut the calm night air, sending chills up his spine. It was a scream of terror. It was a scream of pain. It was a scream of death.

As the captain of the guard breathlessly entered the bedchamber of Ramses, the god-king's son, his heart stopped. The spray of blood traced from the ceiling to the head of the bed. The young man's body limply slid off the bed, his head fell on the other side.
With his curved sword in hand Orris spun to the corner of the room. A shadow sprang from the darkened corner perching oddly on the balcony's ledge. The tall figure held a curved sickle sword still dripping with blood. He peered closer into the dark corner and couldn't believe his eyes… From the intruder's shoulders stretched a pair of black wings. Orris quickly restored his courage and charged forward with a yell.
The intruder extended his wings and jumped off the window ledge. The movement was so fast the aging Captain couldn't do anything, but gawk in amazement as his sword cut cleanly through nothing but the night's air. The stranger shot straight back up beating his wings --- the captain stared helplessly as the assailant flew away. Faintly he thought he heard the creature say, "I am sorry".
#
Azazel landed on the bluff overlooking the city. He set down and quietly waited for his rendezvous. He silently wiped the boy's blood off his robes and his own bloody tears from his eyes.
"You should not have been seen," a voice sang to him. The beauty of this voice masked the malice it usually contained for Azazel.
"I had a hard time with this assignment," the winged guardian growled back. "It doesn't sit right, murdering innocent human children."
"His father had a choice," the sing-song voice of Gabriel responded.
Sins of their Fathers thought Azazel gloomily.
"What makes these Hebrews so special that God has ordered us to intervene on their behalf – again? They are weak, and fickle. We should strengthen those who have made themselves strong already." Azazel asked.
"It is not our place to ask," replied the messenger of the Lord. "Only obey."
Azazel replied matter-of-factly, "The Egyptians will not relinquish their hold on these Hebrews because a single child died. A score of them already perished from the disease we unfurled. They did not bow. They did not bend when the Lord turned the water to blood or destroyed their crops with pestilence and locus… they will not bow now. They are a strong people."

"Then you have failed the Lord's command," the floating voice thinly veiled the contained threat. The "again" didn't need to be said aloud.
Azazel stood and flushed out his wings, his indignation and rage rippling through the flesh containing his presence. His presence seemed to soak in the moonlight creating a dark haze around his darkened wings. He pulled his sickle sword and pressed it into the darkness.
"I have never failed the Lord's commands. I flew into the pits of hell to pursue the fallen star. My wings may have blackened from the pits of Lucifer's hell, but I remain the Lord's vigilant servant. Not all of us were too cowardly to fight Gabriel, and some bear scars for our troubles. Do not presume to judge me a failure."
The other had since left, only the echo of his angry words responded, "failure--- failure --- failure"

Azazel knew these Egyptians would not bend. He knew they were a strong people. A soldier always recognized another warrior's strength. These men would not be laid low by the death of a single child. Azazel knew now what he needed to do. The Lord had commanded him to slay the Pharaoh's first born, but this would not be enough. This would not break the spirit of a strong people. He turned and again faced the residents of the Nile. They must be broken. He could not be a failure --- not again. Drawing his sickle sword he grimly pushed all doubt out of his mind. He forced the reluctance out and replaced it with a determination. Lucifer's forces he battled once called him the ‘Messor' or reaper. Now he needed to re assume that mantle of harbinger of death; for tonight there would be blood. One child would never be enough…
#
Orris had to turn away to control the rising bile. His guards presented the headless body of the Pharaoh's son to the Sun-god. Pharaoh rose in silent shock. He began to weep uncontrollably. Orris swallowed the lump of fear in his throat. He was preparing to take fault for the security failure. This admission could easily result a hasty execution order from Ra. A thought for his wife and son came to him. His wife was 10 seasons younger than Orris. She had already resigned to outliving her aging spouse. His son Ammon though. At only nine seasons, he was far too young to be without a father.
"Pharaoh," Nen, a naive young guard's voice interrupted the weeping god-king. "Sire, shall we bring the Hebrew to you?"
Ra lifted his head, he cleared the moisture from his eyes and in them he saw a righteous indignation; a patriarch's holy fury that could only be quenched with blood. "I want his wives, I want his brother, and I want anything and everyone that has ever been important to that man. I want him to watch them suffer; I want him to bathe in their blood. Then --- I want his head."
#
Gabriel knew he was playing a dangerous game. He spoke gently to Moses giving the Hebrew leader specific instructions as to how to prepare a people for a mass exodus.
A part of the speaker angel felt a twinge of guilt. It's not that he had intentionally misled the burnt one. Gabriel had merely tantalized the one called Azazel with enough motivation to ensure that the Hebrews would be able to leave without a full scale battle. At least he hoped it would allow them to get far enough away that the fickle people wouldn't be tempted to turn and return to their captors.
If Azazel finished off the royal family it would put the Egyptians into a state of disarray, they wouldn't be able to react quickly enough. True the Lord's actual command was merely to slay the first born, however as Azazel pointed out, it wouldn't be enough. Gabriel was tired of the cat-and-mouse game Aaron and Moses had been playing… Soon the Pharaoh would be too, and he might just decide to eat the mice rather than keep playing.
Gabriel gave his instructions to Moses as though he was Yahweh speaking directly to the leader of the Hebrews. He had instructed them to display blood over their doorsteps this was to be a rallying beacon, to take a nation of unorganized slaves and forge them into a unified people would take a long time, but God had patience, even if the shepherd Moses didn't. They would be gone by first light and the leaderless Egyptians would not be able to react quickly enough to recoup their lost work force.
Gabriel was playing a dangerous game and it all hinged on one angel that had been dangerously close to coming unhinged for centuries…
#
Azazel silently wiped the blood from his blade. Another face frozen in terror gazed up at the "Mesor" the reaper. He bent down sliding his fingers over the young eyes. Their hazel brown beauty no longer had to see the cold filthy world that had surrounded them. A woman sleepily stumbled into the night chamber. She barely registered Azazel's presence. He pressed himself into the shadowy corner, bending the light even further away from himself. His charred wings were tucked securely into his back under his black robes.
The woman groggily made her way to the bed. She quietly cooed a soothing noise and began to adjust the linen's without much thought. The moisture from the blood confused her, and she looked down at the bed of her first born daughter. The mother gulped for air as her eyes traced up to where her daughter's head should have been. Instead a bloodied set of shoulders greeted her weary eyes. The nightmares had become real. Those beautiful young brown eyes would never see her mother again. A scream of horror escaped the woman's lips.
As the woman fled the room Azazel pushed himself off the wall and sprang from the house. He climbed to the next, and the next, and the next. Soon the Nile rang with the sound of despair.
Women and men alike begged for it not to be true. Some pleaded with Horus, others turned to Yahweh, and still others sought aide from the foreign god Baal. No matter who they prayed to, or whom they cursed, their fingers all held the blood of their own children. Tonight, there was no God, tonight there was only death.
These Egyptians had thought themselves strong. They had thought to subjugate others and force them to build their pyramids. Their crowning achievements of architecture were only built to celebrate their dead, as though their own short-lived mortality was something to be proud of. Tonight their dead would overflow; the blood of their first born would give them a taste of the transience they so celebrated.
#
Orris led the group of guards out of the palace. He was grinding his teeth again; the tension had seeped into his core. He should have been relieved the Ra had let him live, but part of him was afraid of the task in front of him, the penance that would grant his own parole. The Hebrew must be brought to justice. The pack of twelve guards had barely made it out of the palace grounds before they realized the pandemonium of the night's events was long from over.
The first mother was soaked in blood; she held a limp body in her arms. The young boy couldn't have been four seasons old. His chubby fingers still held the soft tenderness of someone who had not seen many wet-seasons. Weeping she began to plead with Orris to do something.
He dispatched one of his junior guards to begin collecting information from the beleaguered looking woman. He still had a prophet to collect.
A second mother appeared almost as quickly as his guards began to question the first. When another set of grieving parent's blocked his path, he looked over their shoulders and saw a father holding the brown hair of a girl's head, which had recently been detached. The street's quickly filled, and Orris began to panic. The death of Ramses was a murder. Orris had dealt with murders, and murderers. This was quickly scaling into an atrocity.
Orris' resolve was quickly succumbing to the rising chaos.
He dispatched two of his guards to double back to the palace. They would need more guards to find this fiend. He sent two more to blast the town's attack horn. It would rally the town's defenders. The night smelled of death. He dispatched all but one of his guards to spread through the city. They needed to find this terror and stop the killings.
Nen struggled to keep step with the older man; he seemed possessed with the vigor of a much younger man. Nen had barely experienced 14 wet seasons and should have been able to keep up with his senior Captain without much struggle, but there was something different about him. Something had changed in Orris. They finally broke into a sprint.
Orris came upon a simple looking house. The steps to the sleeping chamber were on the outside of the mud plastered structure. A simple owl painted on the outside depicted the symbol of the Egyptian guard. It signaled to would-be plunderers that they might be stumbling upon an armed off-duty guard. Usually more than any petty criminal wanted to risk.
Running up the steps, his bronze blade was standing naked in the pale moonlight. Orris finally let go the breath he had been holding. The fresh air burned in his chest, but it felt good; almost as good as seeing his son sitting up wiping the sleep from his eyes and staring in confusion at his father's silhouette in the doorway to his sleeping chambers.
#
Azazel could not waste any time. He was distantly aware that the Hebrews had begun to stream from the city. On a couple of the wealthier Hebrew houses he had seen ewe's blood smeared… Gabriel always did have a flair for the dramatic; the mouth-piece angel had orchestrated their departure. Maybe this was God's will, but a part of Azazel doubted that Gabriel's will wasn't somehow skewing the night's events.
A bigger part didn't care, he now had one objective.
The next youth was older, nearly a man by some standards. He had been running down the street. At first Azazel assumed he was trying to flee the city, but the youth stopped when the older man did. He now stood idly in the open waiting for something. The other had gone inside the house.
The winged Mesor jumped from the roof top where he had been following Nen. His sickle-shaped blade sang through the crisp air.
Nen's hair stood on end. He flinched a split-second before the arched blade came swinging home. His spear instinctively lunged upward as he ducked to the side. The blow ripped the pointed staff away from the juvenile guard. Nen was the eldest of five boys and had grown up practicing killing each other. This training made him an exceptional candidate to be a guard. This was different though, these weren't blunted blades that would leave welts. This was a dance of life and death.
He tucked and rolled away from the attacks. Finally he was able to spin and see the arm behind the swings. The creature stood impossibly tall. It wrapped up the night's darkness into its black cloak. The tattered edges moved quietly in the night's breeze. Nen slowly drew his bronze dirk. He would have preferred to have his spear against the strange sickle like staff the creature was wielding, but he didn't think that would be possible.
Another lunging swing was deflected by the stubborn young man. Azazel could see a fire in this one's eyes. This one had some fight in him; his age made him a first born son. But, the anger in his eyes was the anger of a man. He cried out for the older man. It would be best to finish this one off before a non-target got involved. Azazel's purpose was singular tonight; the message must be for first born children only.
Nen deflected a half-hearted swing from the man in black. Perhaps he was tiring. He called again for Orris to come to his aid. Nen watched the sickle blade dance in circles around the creature. His attacker was wasting a lot of energy in flourishes and grandeur that was having little effect, even against his under equipped opponent. Flourish slice, flourish, downward strike, spinning attack. There was almost a rhythmic dance to the way the creature was attacking. Nen knew the steps although he was having trouble keeping up with the speed of the attacks. He realized too late that the flourishing steps were pinning him into a corner of Orris' house. He soon wouldn't have any more space to back-peddle to defend from his assailant's twirling blade.
He hardened himself and coiled all of his strength in his legs. As the attacker twirled around predictably, Nen launched himself into the man. He stabbed out with his dirk and felt it sink home. Nen twisted the blade to allow the man's life to flow out faster. Pride rushed through the young guard. He had been tested and came out victorious.
Orris stepped back onto the back steps. He had already wiped the tears of relief from his eyes. It wouldn't be sensible to have his guard see that kind of emotion from his Captain. As his eyes adjusted to the moonlight he saw Nen straddled over a man in black. The young guard had buried his back-up blade into the man's ribs.
"Nen what's going on," the Captain demanded.
The young guard stood up to attention, his smartly dyed red uniform now bore black stains from the dying man's blood.
"Sir," Nen said excitedly. "I got him sir. I think this was the murderer."
Orris remembered the winged creature from Ramses room. Could it be?
Before Orris could vocalize his doubts the man had stood. The creature had removed the blade that had been planted in its ribs. The excited Nen never felt the hands placed across his forehead or the quick rip of the bronze blade across his throat. The wings again spread across the murder scene as he held Nen's head in one hand and the blade that should have killed him in the other. Nen's face still held a smile.
"What are you," demanded Orris as his blade was pulled free once again.
"I am the harbinger of death. I am Mesor, the reaper of the damned. I am Azazel the burned; but, tonight --- tonight I am the liberator of the oppressed," the cloaked figure said.
"The Hebrews?" asked Orris.
A quizzical look crossed the face of the man with polished black eyes. "No. I come tonight to liberate the first born of Egypt. To bring an end to the suffering this mortal coil presents them. Even you Egyptians who stand at the peak of human civilization do not understand how transient your mortal shells are. How insignificant your short lives are. I am here to remind you of your place, I am here to help you atone for the grievances we must suffer to assist you humans.
I will take my blood sacrifices to remind you of your place. We are the ones who fought the fallen star. We are the ones who bear scars of a war you didn't even know occurred. Now, we must be subservient to God's newest pets, the ones who daily disavow him. Who create idols, a race that finds it within them to rape, murder, and destroy each other for petty greed, lust, and jealousy?
No, tonight I bring a swift end to your children so they do not have to suffer the sins of their fathers. So they may go quickly into the night. Tonight I bring a swift death instead of the slow arduous death this world of mankind would offer them."
Orris was wordless. His paternal rage was able to lift up his arms as he jumped from the top step. He came crashing down on the creature, bearing the full force of his swing and his weight. The creature effortlessly moved to the side and deflected the clumsy attack with a swift flick of the wrist. He had recovered his scythe and began to ascend the steps. Another first born awaited him at the top of the steps. The boy's shaggy hair matched his father's jet black strands. Orris tried to stand, but the fall had twisted his ankle. He forced himself upright fighting the rising sense of helplessness.
The boy stood defiantly as the angel of death approached. He knew his Father would save him. The boy knew his Father was not a man to be messed with. His father was the captain of the guards. His father was his own personal hero.
"Please don't do this," Orris' voice sounded strained even in his own head.
"I must," whispered Azazel.
"No," Orris pleaded. "You can choose to leave. You've made your point. He's just a boy. He can change everything. He can live a life you'd be proud of. He can do anything. That is the beauty of youth. That is the beauty of life. The world is whatever he wants to make it."
The angel paused; he seemed to be considering the words of the desperate father. Finally he turned to Orris who was now at the bottom of the stairs.
"No," said Azazel. "His choices have already been made, by you, by your nation, by all of mankind. Your filth has plagued this world long enough."
The razor sharp scythe severed the tender young throat.
The morning sun crept over the Nile casting a beautiful cascade of reds and yellows that dancing on the quiet morning ripples. Orris reached for his son's ruined throat. His tears of anguish joined the city-wide chorus.
#
Gabriel perched beside his burnt brethren. The morning sun cast their elongated shadows over the city in mourning.
"I take it they escaped," Azazel said from their familiar perch.
"They should be getting to the Red Sea in two days. Once they cross not, even the Pharaoh's legions will be able to bring them back from the deserts of Sinai."
Azazel grunted in acknowledgement.
"This wasn't what I had planned," said Gabriel almost apologetically. "It certainly didn't happen the way Yahweh had planned."
"You always were the conniving one. You had to know it would eventually backfire," Azazel shrugged nonchalantly.
"You've been separated," interrupted Gabriel. "You are no longer welcome."
Gabriel tensed waiting for a violent lashing out. His former brother didn't budge.
"I know," said Azazel. "So I'm like the other now, the cherub that destroyed the Garden?"
"Yes."
"A Relinquo --- a forsaken one; unwanted in heaven, and I don't think Lucifer will roll out the welcome rug for me either… not after what I did to him in the war. I guess I knew this was coming. It feels almost right to be a part of this filth of this world. After everything I've seen and done somehow being a part of this miserable human world seems --- right."
He leaned forward slightly to see if he could make out the column of escaped slaves. He winced slightly instinctively reaching for the offending spot. Moisture greeted his fingertips as he touched the rib where Nen had stabbed him the night before. Blood had begun to seep from the wound. The blood was now saturating his cloak. He doubled over in pain at the mortal wound. Azazel, the former angel of death, fell backward writhing in pain grasping his ruined ribs.
Gabriel stood, his message had been delivered.
"Will I die like them?" gasped Azazel.
Gabriel looked down.
"No, that's part of the punishment. You have an eternity to atone for your sins… but, you will hurt like them."

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