March of Mephisto

Even through the softness of their voices the emotion that carried their sentiment varied greatly. Some of the words where whispered in smooth lulls, others where in clean viciousness, and undoubtedly the variety came abundantly from the Frenchman. His temper seemed almost complimentary to the German’s serenity, like a tempest and a calm sea, but inevitably the divided opposites were casually overtaken in a rest. It was surprising to the soldier, who crept in the hall, that the stillness and silence did not bring about and awareness in the other two men because of his steps, though he stopped before the threshold straying from possible sight. However, in truth Harman caused a change unwittingly, because in some strangeness the host began to speak in Universal causing query and insecurity to vaguely fleet across the guest’s person.

“Armand, you poor, confused soul,” said Ludwig, “your sourness blinds you! The war is dead, the High Rule is dying, and you fight because of pure revulsion and ire. Germany has nothing for France, and Germany has nothing for you.”

All was quiet except for the swift, pacing footsteps of the other. He questioned whether it was true over and over in his restless head, but he simply could not believe that it was or rather he did not want to. Though, like his mind, the patter of his steps slowed and eventually relaxed and stated, “That, Mephisto, is where I do not agree. Oh, how you do not know of your own importance. Germany has you, and I know that has meaning.”

For the first time during the night the German’s temper was confronted and tested, even his patience evanesced with such discourse. Harman heard the man heave a sigh and fidget somewhat, probably to calm himself and be at ease, but surely it failed because when he spoke a distinct annoyance strode about in its air even when the words themselves were not angry. He replied with: “But that is no motivation of yours! In past I have asked ‘What cause do you fight for?’ You replied ‘For my people, for those of France!’ ”—he became more temperate—“Confused child, you do not know your true desires.”

Their conversation halted there. Through the actions of sullenness, the guest, Armand, yielded to defeat and looked as if he was reflecting upon thoughts of a vacant mind, yet he was focusing on the mere notion of not knowing. It was not a deafening idea, but unsettling enough to force his leave; not without the notice of a photograph placed upon the chimneypiece that not long before was brought to Mephistopheles’ attention. While casting his hand over the portrait he felt a strong need of loathing, instead the only thing he was capable of was seizing the weathered print and tossing it into the flames below. Armand knew that it was his companion’s favorite picture; he could see the faint disturbance as they both watched it burn, and felt justified by his favor explaining, “Mephisto, you are mad for keeping a thing like that.” Then he parted away.

There was no reason for the soldier, but nothing inclined him to leave from his stay; he went unnoticed, so he thought, and from the other room heard the German say effortlessly, “Herr Freund, are you pursuing an unhealthy practice of eavesdropping?”

A slight chill of shock raced down the albino’s backbone; the sentence was said in a quick precision that made it seem as if it was held off for some time, making it cloudless that surely there was more skill to the commoner. He was uneasy over the thought of confronting the speaker, but he could not quickly think of any other means of replying than greeting him, so he voyaged to the main room that seemed foreign to how he knew it. Only three or so candles where lit, along with the hearth, making the room more well lit than before; it was still simplistic and humble, but more easily observable; yet, the one thing that did not change presented itself as the most indistinguishable thing: the host.

At first glance he was unrecognizable by feature; a blur of pure white, partially greyed from washing dye out nightly, was lightly tousled on top of his head, and a fanciful hex indescribable even in fairy tales replaced his eyes, for when their glances met an unearthly lure and curiosity made certain the soldier’s attention. One eye was a deep, fiery red and the other was a rich purple regalia—resembling what Freund was always told through legends and tales—assuring his first assumption, however yet his face resembled that of the common-man he knew. It did not bring glee like Freund thought; alive sitting alone solemnly was the remains of Greater Commander Chlodovech Mephisto.

“Liar, deceiver!” said the youth in disbelief.

“Hm, how so?” the man replied coolly.

“ ‘But he and I are two different persons.’ Surely what I see before me the same man who offered aid, but now only white; shall you not call that a lie then? … I think, rather, it is you who do not know your desires.”

“Does any man truly know?”

Both of them stopped dead and blind eyed, and in the pause Mephisto offered the chair to the younger albino through hand gestures. He took the empty seat and sat down; he seemed awkward while moving, with a questioning and sore expression, yet it was out of his control because it came to his character without command. The boy wanted to speak, but Mephisto sat still with a fixed gaze as if he had more to say; yet the two idled there in a brief pause until Harman painfully said, “I did.”

Nothing changed; the two remained settled and nothing apparent meant anything to either, just whiteness and voids, and though the soldier glanced at the fact Mephisto avoided his own falsehood Freund brought no further consideration. That reaction was just as dejecting to the boy as discovering the reality of the champion; it was a truth he rather not acknowledge, either out of shallow thoughts or out of pity. However, the man saw nothing of the soldier’s discontent, and shaped a soft, content smile to his lips and pondered on his next words because from then on the conversation could twist to dullness or fascination—each to identify it in their own way. Whether Harman purposely waited for Mephisto to reply or not, he decided to say: “And what of your journey?”

“Pardon?” Freund relied perplexed; his answer being: “The past tense was used in your phrase suggesting you have concluded. Some persons believe that it is where we have come from, our adventures so to say, that should be acknowledged, treasured, and to be highly valuable. The journey determines the destination after all; so, what of your journey?”

“Why do you query such things?”

“The racked mind never knows.”

It was as if both of them where forcing harmless, trifle games against each other in the further time, yet neither of them gained any worth. The youth thought it clever in avoiding the question by tricking the host into answering the same question he posed, although he assuming it would be composed of lies as well; to his surprise, Mephisto yielded to such call and began to unfurl his own history. The monologue entered with trivial facts, things both men already knew, such as small, paltry memories of childhood and youth in Lutherstadt, but it quickly evolved with a shedding of skin-thick veils revealing what the few and sparse understood; nearly all of his legend was truth, just miscellaneous familiarities where never spoken in them, and for good cause.

As told, he became one of the German army, though his opinioned voice was not strong; no inequalities legally where ever instituted, but the state still resided negatively of the white people, or albinos. He regularly befell as the sufferer to prejudice, and, as if he was the enemy, struck at violently and tested, only serving as the origin of his decadence for it formed into a wickedness Harman could not believe because of such a contrast between the person he was and now is. With power as Superior, and other commanding ranks, he was rather harsh towards his soldiers as well as other Superiors, and heavily relied on fear and violence, for he would not have been taken seriously otherwise. Over time, however, such actions did become mild, but they never truly deceased, only deeply dormant.

Mephisto glanced at them as sins of his youth, a misguidance covered by time, but it valued not as a small or grand offense, to the population it never was, only on his soul did it weigh. Instead he fixated toward the virtues that were born from the tragedy: diligence and patience through becoming a soldier, kindness and humility through releasing his service, and, the one he was most gratified towards, gained through a child—love. It took him quite some time, after everything passed, for the legend to acknowledge that he possessed such things, even expressing them took a rather large amount of time as well.

In that time he said he travelled the far reaches of the land such as China and overseas to Acadia, but what was the most fruitful in his journey is when he stumbles upon a myth told in stories to satisfy children. Some people call them mirages or mirage cities because of their unknown nature, yet Mephisto knew them to be truth on personal accord. At first Freund was dumbfounded, perplexed and could not believe the man was telling the truth, and yet two gifts were given as covert proof on the account of his stay: the camera of the burned photograph as well as the witchcraft that changed his eye colour, which he had observed where small, flimsy lenses for direct contact with the eye.

Harman could not bring his heart to trust in the story, though he very much wanted to; any hope of belief had been eradicated since he found that Mephisto revealed himself to the Frenchman, whom he learned was named in its entirety as Armand Bellamy de LeBlac, and when he was done speaking the soldier simply rose from his seat and left. He did not try to wrap his thoughts around the night’s affair rather he let them lie limp because he knew he would only punish himself if he did otherwise; this made him more aware of his surroundings that he ably ignored before.

Crackling was heard through the woodwork and it began to become unusually and unwelcomingly warm for such a late summer’s night, but by now Harman could not tell whether it was the late night or early morning. He figured it was the early morning because the house was becoming lit from what he thought was the rising sun, in which case he would have no intention in falling back into sleep, though it was not the sun’s rays that made the town ablaze.