The lord of the Tower of Memories walked through the high halls. Hollow footsteps echoed in the corridors lined by decayed pillars of marble. In the air lingered a weak scent of crumbled parchent and rotten tapestries. Weaker ghosts whispered their pain, moaned their longing in the shadows created by the moonlight that crept in from the broken windows. Stronger ones flowed behind the purplerobed figure, praying hopelessly for oblivion.
The lord of the Memories stopped. Before him stood a ghost. Proud as a king, a crown of thorns in the head.
' Your wounds bleed still I see', said the lord of the Tower in his serene manner. The ones who had crawled behind him disappeared due to the power of his voice to their catacombs. The ghost carrying the thorny crown raised it's pale hands staring at the wounds pierced to them.
'It's my gift', it moaned quietly. ' My gift to humans. My suffering sets them free.'
The figure wrapped in the robe laughed. It was a cold, mocking laugh, that pierced it's way to every hole in the wall, to the darkest corner of the halls. Ghosts retreated shaking, fearing for their final destruction.
'Still? Still you believe in that? Still you suffer imagining that it means something?'
'I... suffer. It saves them.'
'Saves them? Have you taken a look at your lambs recently? Have you seen what they have created? Sufferer, they are far beyond the saving.'
'Step aside! I've got work to do!'
The ghost stared at the man who was leaning on his staff of ebony. Uncertainty was in it's voice:
'I... I am their savior. They greet me with joy, they pray to me.'
'Their savior! Tell me then, Nazarene, if you are their savior, why does your shadow fell to these dusty floors. Why do you wander in this Halls of Mists, in the twilight zone of memory and forgotten, and only your name echoes up in my corridors. It is your name they remember, your name that they pray to, you are forgotten!' 'So they sentenced me. To the cross, side to side with a thief. So they hurt me, but I forgive them. Because mine...'
'Be quiet, you miserable! Your words have lost their meaning, they no longer exist. Only the shadows of those words they quote, those that you call as your lambs.'
The ghost humbled. It bowed down, but raised again like a one who had found his mind: - And you. The lord of the Memories! Who remembers you? Tell me! Who? Forgotten, like the loves that never existed! - Be quiet, you king of the beggars. In these halls you are not the jester, so do not take the privileges of the jester. And who would have forgotten me? No-one has ever remembered. - Powerless, without might you are. Just collect memories, look at them like black roses. - Look who is talking of might! The one who has never felt it! My power is great, you wretched. But who does notice it? You, the ones who enjoy the worship for some brief moments of time, fall in to oblivion? Maybe you could overthrow me, during your days of might, but my power is forever. Before the first of the parvenues I wandered in these halls and my time is not yet close to it's end when the last one of you falls. Nazarene stood for one more moment. It looked at it's bleeding hands, touched the waned face. Looked at the impatient figure, who looked at his hourglass deep in his thoughts. The savior, born from the virgin, died on the cross took off the crown of thorns. The lord of the Memories smiled, watched the king to die, the immortal to find his end, the suffering changing to relief. And the time ate the forgotten one. The lord of the Tower of Memories continued his journey.