Larondis of the Infinite

Amidst it all, they’d lost all hope of salvation.

That was the nightmare of the postmortem cleansing, the condemnation Larondis had brought upon them.

Hoping only to pull his people back from the precipice of extinction, Larondis had instead created a legacy of eternal pain.  And very soon those who had worshipped him as the savior of their race sought only to visit as much misery upon him as possible.  As they suffered, so would Larondis.

Once a savior, he was now a pariah, quickly captured and sentenced to death, a death he understood (as did they) would never truly come.  The final decision was to continually administer a death sentence, with each escalating in malicious cruelty.

He remembered the first time he’d experienced the postmortem cleansing himself, the painful, plodding pace at which his body knitted itself back together, regenerating damaged cells and piecing organs back into a whole.  He had lain there, alone, at the bottom of the mountainside, three of his limbs torn from his body, his head cracked open like an overripe melon, allowing his thoughts to ooze out among the brambles and rocks surrounding him.  He’d been conscious the entire time, through the haze of his agony remembering his struggle with the executioners as they’d lifted him bodily and cast him down to bounce from jagged edge to jagged edge before landing in a mangled pile at the foot of the mountain.

He’d watched the sun rise and set forty times while his jaw, throat and tongue rebuilt themselves to the point where he could finally moan from the torment.  It had been easily twice that long before he could breathe without gurgling and choking on his own internal fluids. The natural regrowth of his limbs was hampered by the ones that had been torn away clawing their way back to their host body while transmitting waves of excruciating phantom pain.  But at least it stopped the pulsing blasts of his cloudy green blood from shooting across the ground. That, of course, had begun once his hearts had reestablished their asynchronous rhythms.

All that time he’d had nothing, other than the sustenance of the sun to nourish him.  No food. No drink. No companionship to comfort him, though he knew that was something the damned should never have the right to expect.

Finally after counting the passage of night more than a hundred and fifty times, he had been able to limp away under cover of night and scrounge up a few morsels from a ghost town at the base of the mountain.  And even there he had to be careful, for now his once pacifistic subjects savored any hunt where he was their quarry, finding almost as much pleasure in the torture of the hunt as they did his executions. Visiting further tortures upon him had become their greatest vice, and they’d promised to develop creative methods to dish out pain both mental and physical.

They hadn’t disappointed.  Eventually, they’d trapped him again.  

And again.  

And again.  

Each time he’d been introduced to a more abhorrent form of murder than the last, forcing another harrowing and leaden rebuilding process for his body.  He must suffer as they suffered, but on a grander scale and as often as possible until time itself stopped. That was their ruling, and for many years the decree of fate. 

Shaking the horrible memories from his mind, Larondis curled his fingers, distributing their new warmth right to the tips, then turned and walked back into his impregnable fortress.  A leisurely stroll led him into a grand hall, adorned with the finest artwork of his once grand and decadent civilization.  

There were the lightning sculptures and thick volumes of mood poetry which when read would actually come to life, breathing as true creations as long as the poem was being read.  Those had been his son’s favorites. In another gallery hung the essence instruments, which created music that could not only be heard but also seen, smelt, tasted and felt, reaching into the very core of the listener’s being and creating a unique sensory experience for all who listened.  There were the sensualizers, crafting a sexual experience that transcended mind and body, the end result being an artistic representation of physical love.

And finally at the end, in a revered place of honor, floated his favorites, the miniature worlds of his own design.  These had once been Larondis’ specialty, entire planets and sometimes even star systems intricately crafted and structured to a lord or lady’s desire.  Each mountain was chiseled by hand, the cities and palaces molded to exacting specifications, complete with moving vehicles. The oceans were filled with only the most lustrous liquids, and of course the weather patterns were custom crafted.  All this was done with the finest of instruments available in the universe.

Larondis still had his first set of tools, given to him by his mother.  They were safe in his private chambers. He treasured them, considering them one of his most prized possessions and a lone link to his innocence.

“Master, our exposure to the sun for such a long time has left us vulnerable to detection.”  It was Rastalian, Larondis’ chief servant and confidant, an artificial creation of his own design.  He had several of them in his house here on the edge of forever, clones from the same mold, but Rastalian was the most personable and Larondis seldom spoke at length to any of the others.  Larondis had actually become quite fond of him. It seemed only natural given the circumstances.

“Yes, you’re right.  Please, return the screening capacitors back to full strength.”  Larondis’ voice was rich and regal, a benefit of having spent so much time in the court.  He pulled his robes around him anticipating the slight drop in temperature that always came with reestablishing the screen.  Technically he knew the unique distortions created by the white dwarf cluster should protect him from the vengeful eyes scouring the universe for him, but better safe than sorry.  The last thing he wanted was to be detected and captured. How many more cleansings would he have to endure then? More importantly how would he then bring peace to those who so richly deserved it?  To those he’d unwittingly condemned? He shivered at the thought.