Fire of the Inquisitor

He was a young man again. His stomach was flat with defined muscles and he could see strands of his long black hair as it flowed in the wind. He was on his grandfather’s boat, the same one he had spent his childhood on, in the middle of the bluest sea he had ever seen. He opened his mouth to catch the salty air as it passed by, enjoying the freshness he felt.

“Where have you gone?” his grandfather voice said.

He turned to see the old tugging at a net.

“Come and help me.”

He ran to his grandfather’s aid, grabbing the net and pulling with all his might. The net came up easily, he felt like he could lift a slab of marble with his young muscles. On to deck of the boat a pile of the fattest fish flooded around them. He laughed as they flailed up and down and slapped their tails hard against his thighs. He reached into the net and pulled one out, bashing its head against the side of the boat. He tore it apart, laughing as buckets of blood rushed over his hands.

“Look at your hands,” his grandfather said. “They look older than mine.”

He looked down and saw his fingers were long and bony, covered with saggy flesh. He tried to scream, but couldn’t. He ran to the side of the boat and tried to wash the blood off with the ocean water, but it only stained the water itself.

“What can I do?” He turned to his grandfather, but he was no longer there, only a pile of bones without a skull.

“Help me!” he cried. “Help me!”

But he was alone on the ocean.

Octavius awoke in a pouring sweat. The black curtains were closed and he could hear nothing, but his pounding heart. Helena had already gone home, he was alone. The old man laid back in bed and waited with eyes wide open. He must have fallen asleep at one point during the night because he started to dream again, but instead of the sea of his youth, he saw a silver lake with fog rolling over it.

He gave the order and the legion followed him into oblivion.