“Interlude of the Damned”
What
has come before: Having been successfully revived by the mystic entity Strange and his
presence on the mortal plane stabilized by rejoining with the returned spirit
of Dan Ketch, Noble Kane - the Ghost Rider - set off to deal once and for all
with his longtime enemy Blackheart.
Both he and Blackheart disappeared shortly thereafter. It was recently revealed that they are
presently the captives of Blackheart’s own father: the demonic Mephisto.
What follows is Noble’s thoughts during his captivity, and occurs just prior to
Pendragons #64.
I cannot
remember the sun.
Strange how
this realization leaves me chilled. Try
as I might, I cannot recall the feel of warm summer wind upon my face, nor the
touch of a woman’s skin upon mine.
Have I lost so
much of who I was, that even these simple things too are now lost to me?
Would that I
could speak of this with my mortal anchor, but Daniel likewise is denied me
now. This is solely by my own design,
and over his strenuous objections. My sole consolation is that he at least is
safe from the torment our captor inflicts upon me, buried deeply as he is
within the depths of my misshapen soul.
Oh, I know him
well enough that he would insist suffering equally at Mephisto’s hands. The demon lord is clever, insidious in his
tortures. He knows full well he cannot
harm my physical form (what irony) , and thus I am visited frequently by my
father, the legion of my victims, even my beloved Magdelena and our butchered
son.
Of these, the
last two are the worst and most painful he inflicts. I had hoped, even prayed that they would be at peace. Instead they appear at the call of the Lord
of Lies, relate to me in graphic detail the latest indignity his minions have
inflicted upon, and remind me it was my failure that condemned them to the
Pit…as surely as if it had been my hand that lit the pyre by which she was
burnt to death, or held the knife that dispatched our child.
The babe
himself relates each stroke of the knife that took his newborn life,
demonstrating each cut with his chubby little fingers, reaching into his gutted
chest as his murders had for each tiny organ.
As if I needed
such a recitation to know my crimes. I
howl as only the damned might when they confront me so…knowing both their
spirits look on from above the Pit, doubtlessly weep their crystal pure tears
upon my behalf.
Does my beloved
petition the Hosts of the Heights, the Seraphim and Archangels and Crowns and
Authorities all, begging and pleading them to intervene? Would that it were so easy.
I can only hope
Barbara can provide comfort enough to keep her from descending the Heights in
some mad gambit to end this.
Deathwatch,
Zodiac, the Spook, all the others are more annoyances than torment, irritations
that I endure until dispelled by their master’s whim. They remind me of their victims, listing each in turn, providing
little hints that give faces to each name.
Zodiac had dispatched a girl named Suzanne who listened to country music
and wished to become a professional dancer.
The Spook polished his wire-framed glasses and told me the life story of
a young chess player he had assassinated, simply to keep control of the boy’s
father, a minor government official.
Deathwatch tells me of the houseful of runaway children he turned into
addicts to his poisonous drugs, and the obscene use he put their wasted bodies
and souls to before killing each one.
So many dead, so many lost and unavenged.
So many I failed to save.
My father is
different from the rest. He attacks me
directly, my strength instantly fades whenever he appears, leaving me helpless
to ever strike and slap and kick he delivers.
It is as if I had never come of age, never learned to raise my hands in
defense against him.
And all the
while he rages against me, the words “failure” and “blasphemer” thrown out as
easily as he open palm slaps my cheek.
Oh, the irony of those curses, when it is he who surrendered himself to
the Pit so willingly, pledging himself to the Lord of Lies and forswearing his
ministry. Oddly, this knowledge deserts
me whenever he appears, as if I have forgotten all the centuries had taught me
of him.
And so I endure
these torments, my heart shattering each time, my soul seemingly dying by
inches with each visitation.
In the interim,
while Mephisto turns his attention elsewhere, my fellow captive rages against
me from across the narrow abyss that separates our mystic cells. “Fool!” Blackheart dares to cry out. “He’s toying with you, idiot! Weakling!”
His frustration at my endurance is obvious to all; less obvious is his
puzzlement as he ponders how it is that I, who cannot be claimed by either the
Heights nor the Pit, can be held here.
How I long to
tell him the truth of things, that it is by choice rather than weakness that I
undergo these trials.
It is this same
choice by which I keep Daniel from these trials I suffer. He would demand I end this and return to the
mortal plane, rightly furious I subject myself to all this when escape is so
easily within my grasp. But he does not
understand the truth of my nature or my power.
If he did, I suspect he would immediately severe the link between us and
return us both to the Void betwixt all things, justly afraid of what I might do
were I ever fully unleashed. Perhaps I
underestimate his insight, but I doubt it.
It is too dangerous for us all to know such things.
And so I remain
here, my power barely alight, the captive of one whose hand was part of my
creation. I can sense his dark designs
for me, seeking an avenue by which he can turn me as an instrument against the
Hosts Above. So long as he believes
such a thing is possible, his attention is focused upon this fool’s errand, and
thus are all things safe.
I endure all
that he delivers against me, time and again.
As I endure, I
await my inevitable release, whether by mortal hands or others.
And as I await
this, I ponder what I have lost in the interim.
I cannot
remember the sun. I cannot remember the
touch of skin upon skin. I cannot
remember my simple faith or the taste of food.
I have lost nearly all that once defined me as human.
But not all.
For these
things I have lost or forgotten, I still remember love. I remember this because I still feel
Daniel’s longing for Stacy, his need to see and hold her once more. This burns within him every bit as strongly
as I once longed for my lost Magdelena, and thus it burns within me. It is enough.
It is more than
enough.
I have no faith
left; only certainty and purpose. I am
charged to avenge the innocent. I
protect those who cannot protect themselves.
It is enough.
And I remember
what it is to love and be loved.
It is enough to
remind me who I am. How paltry the
torments of the Pit when compared to such knowledge.
Let me be
reminded time and again of my failings.
I proudly lay claim to them, for they define me as surely as the mandate
engraved upon by soul by Uriel and Mephisto both.
I am Noble
Kane. I am the Ghost Rider. I am the servant of neither Heaven nor Hell.
Once I was
human, now I am more and less. Yet
human I remain, in all ways unique and precious.
And deep within
my twisted, stained, and shattered heart, I hope to know the sunlight
again.
Continued in Pendragons.