The Smogs • Courtroom

“Settle down.” The mallet came down like swift thunder. “Settle down or I’ll kick you all out. We’re almost done here.”

Apollo looked around to the stage set before him, the guillotine with its sharp sneer looking directly at him, the stairs leading up to the basket and the slot to insert himself into, the shining scalpel and contraptions of which to stretch out his chest cavity.

He budged in his chair. He could hear the chains shaking from below. He tried moving his fingers, they were stuck. On one hand (for he only had one hand), a metal glove that held him in a perpetual open palm. In the other, a bag to seal his wound.

Two vicars stood to his rear. They looked down, they had no masks. The wore a white cloth above their faces.

"You couldn't make this any more uncomfortable if you tried, could you?" He said. He felt wire around his neck tighten, some bloody beads fell from the point of pain and landed on his chest. There was someone behind him, and behind Dion who stood next to him. And he, like a slaver, tightened a noose around Apollo. A thorny, barbarous silver noose.

The people screamed. They did nothing to hide their resentment, they booed and hiss and wet spit fell upon Apollo, dribbling down the back of his head. He tried to turn. Once again, he was strangled.

“Sit still, would you?” One of the judges said. There were five in total, their voices all carrying that air of unjustified superiority. They blended well, so much so that it was hard to tell them apart. It was one giant tribunal, Apollo figured. One entertaining, noisy death.

"Order, order before God." The centermost man said. A pudgy fellow whose sideburns grew down, past the cloth mask he wore.

Apollo looked at this figure, his eyes flashing red, his whole soul resentful towards everyone here. And in his head, he could hear a voice perhaps, or was it an image of rage? He saw Astyanax, he saw a flash of red.

A spark. The voice was audible, even amongst the crowd.

It was quiet like a whisper that passed his mind saying, 'Would you just die like a dog? Is this how we go?'

“We are here to process the case of the Mad Dog and his trusty fool.” One of the judges said.

“Very bipartisan.” Apollo spat. He gasped for breath, once more. The people laughed.

Again, red upon his eyes and vision. He looked around to size the stadium, there must have been a hundred and all of them excited to see him dead, whether they supported or not. Whether they were disgusted or not, everyone was excited. Sungazers and doubters and skeptics and chroniclers, all hand in hand to watch him. He felt a burn on the scar tissue of his arm.

The judge slammed his mallet down. The echo ran across the room.

"We are here to pass judgment on Dion and Apollo, Vicars of the Fourth order, Knights of the Rose."

"Traitors," He heard a voice say in the crowd.

"I'm not surprised the pigs would break the law, you can't control those fourthies." This one sounded rich.

"I hear they sleep in slums, life must be hard like that. I'm not surprised honestly, that kind of resentment would have you doing...unsavory things." A second order knight, perhaps?

The voices kept piling. The gavel kept slamming. His vision and out of that filter or red. And along the sides of his mouth, he felt the taste of bitterness. Of salt, of sweat. Aluminum, metal.

"Silence, you're here to spectate not to speak." The leftmost judge said (left most to Apollo at least). She had a mask on, it made her look like a bird with its giant beak sitting on the table. Like those doctors of old, when the plagues were still a fresh fear.

Perhaps it was a thematically appropriate mask to wear. After all, there was another kind of plague here now, one of groupthink, one of mass madness. And here was Dion, with his slumped head, and Apollo with his grit teeth, both poised as the greatest evil, as the originators of this sickness.

"You are accused, Apollo and Dion, of having become under the influence of the Devil, of a prince of Hell or perhaps Satan himself. You both bear the mark. That is evidence enough, certainly, that you made your way to Hell." The rightmost one said.

“But it’s not evidence that we’re possessed or...or some kind of spy or sabateur or whatever ridiculous thing you're called us.”

“And you don’t evidence that you’re not.”

“Well, what the fuck-” His throat, again. Argh, he spat.

“No cursing.” The neck twister said.

“You’re asking us to provide evidence for something we’re not, how does that work?”

“Testimonies and interviews with your past partners and comrades would suffice, assuming you had any.”

Apollo stayed quiet. He could feel the pressure, at last, hit him, crush him.

“Elijah is dead. The boy, whom you have described earlier, Bartholomew is incapable of giving an honest testimony. He’s a child and more than that, a civilian. His word means nothing.” They continued down a list. “And your teacher, Apollo, Freya. Where is she?”

Apollo looked around the crowd. He could see no familiarity amongst the crowd, he could see nothing but uncaring vague faces.

“S-she’s busy, on a mission I’m guessing?”

“Well, she isn’t here, that’s for sure.”

His face flushed red. His teeth ground against each other.

“So that’s it? We’re heretics?”

“You broke the rules. The sixth tenet of the Vicar order, of which all members of all sects oblige themselves to. You shall not bed yourselves with demons.”

“And I’m telling you we didn’t, we went down there to save the boy. Alestor was the one who brought us there, who did everything.”

“And where is he now?” One of the judges said sharply.

“W-well, he’s damaged in the head…”

“Convenient.”

“Do you have anyone else that may vouch for either of you?”

“I just want to let you know that it was my fault, that I’m the one who forced Apollo to join me.” Dion cut in. His voice was somber. “I’m the one who deserves to die.”

“Don’t worry, there’s enough crime for both of you.” The plague doctor said. “Is this all you two want to say?”

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Apollo felt a hot flash across his neck.

“If this is it, then I believe it’s time for the sentencing.”

He breathed quickly.

“On the account of heresy and omission of truth during a mission report, on the assumed betrayal of your very existence in favor of the demonic forces below, we hereby…”

His shoulders fell. He slammed his head on the table, his eyes were red. Red in color, red in vision.

“He’s lost it.” The congress said in whispers.

He forgot, he never bothered to ask how they even found out. How it happened. Where the rumor came from? Who had tipped them off? He was sure Dion and himself shared the same story, he was sure they were both accurate and right and everything aligned. So when, how were they tipped off?

He slammed his head again.

Did it matter now? Probably not.

“I want you to look us in the eyes,” The center judge said. “You're hereby sentenced to death. Take these moments to reflect upon your lives.”

The crowd cheered. They nearly jumped out of their seats. A dozen vicars came out to barricade them from crossing over the wooden line.

“So that’s it?” The chains below Apollo rose, nearly breaking off from the floor. “You’re giving into mob rule to save face? Is that all that matters, satiating these fucking beasts? What about justice, fairness, evidence for fuck's sake - Ah, fuck.”

He was pulled back down.

“I don’t think that’s helping,” Dion mumbled, his body was smaller, drained. He lost muscle tone and was pale.

“Oh, you don’t say.” Apollo spat. He licked the blood coming off his nose.

A gestation came out from the crowd, a birth of anger and joy.

“Death to the traitors,” They chanted. Some at least. Some were too disgusted by the scene and retreated back. But those were fewer, so little in numbers actually that it didn’t even matter whether the skeptics existed or not. Or even if they were the silent majority. Because the loud rapt fury of the sungazers, of the drama voyeurs, was too much. Too overwhelming, that not even the high ceiling glass roof of the jury room could contain it. The walls shook, coming in and out like breaths.

The guillotine rolled closer to Apollo and Dion, who each sat on those chained chairs in front of simple mahogany tables.

Each rotation sounding off another crack of the death machine.

The table full of the dissection devices was carried closer by a man holding gloves, who face and head were covered by a white garb.

His heart raced.

“Is this all we get? A mock trial? Where's the evidence? Tell me!” Apollo said, desperation growing in his high-strung inflections.

“God needs no evidence, for God knows all.”

“And you’re not God.” He screamed at them. “You’re just fuckers who want to point the finger. You’re playing God is what you’re doing, now that’s the real heresy.”

“It’s in the nature of a demon to lie for his conceits. Why don’t you have some dignity and die in peace?”

“You mother fuckers,” He tried to hold it underneath his breath but blurted it out. “You mother fuckers!” Again, louder and louder until it became another scream indistinguishable amongst the sea of fury.

The blade was rusty, a green patina. And he thought what color it would look like with his fresh blood on it.

“You will be made an example of,” The judges said, their voices low.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Dion prayed silently, his face calm and complacent in his death. Maybe he accepted it weeks ago, months ago, back with Astyanax. Perhaps, Apollo thought, to Dion this was just an unpaid bill. A tax, here to gets it dues.

A vicar came around to free the bolt and the chain from that bolt. Apollo was lifted off his seat. He was guided (dragged) up. Two men dragged him by the arms. Each step up, he twisted himself to run. It took another two vicars to contain him, and to push him to the top of the steps.

He enjoyed the scenery at the summit only briefly and he felt that unique feeling, of curious surprise, to see so many strangers hate him, and to see their scorn so up close. He screamed. A pain hit his shins. His knees were kicked in. He was forced to his knees. Another hand came out and grabbed the back of his head and pushed him into the scaffold. It was finally here, he realized it as he stared into the basket placed below, all his life reduced to this singular moment, staring into the mismatched ribbons of a brown thatched basket.

Fuck me, he thought.

He was angry, as he heard the whine of the guillotine blade rising to its apex. He was mad at the man to his rear, wearing the red and white garbage bag dress. He was mad at the church, at himself, at the man who set the basket at an off-angle. He was mad at everyone and everything. And nothing at all, no one at all. For it was just too absurd. Perhaps he was just caught in the humor of it. But he laughed, a bit, a small dribble of laughter.

The scaffold locked in place. He didn’t even struggle against it.

The wood clicked into place. A man came around to finally hold his chained and gloved arm in place.

He closed his eyes. The blade stopped its ascent. His heart accelerated. The crowd stayed silent.

There was a bump.

Is this the sound of my head falling? He thought.

A kick.

The door burst open.

A new influx of noise was carried from outside, one of the boos and desperate heckles and the dumb shuffling of guards holding the new spectator back. Or trying to at least. Everyone turned and whispered and some even sighed in relief, his death would be postponed a few more minutes.

But even amongst the now calmed sungazers, there was a bubbling of resentment, of anger and frustration at the new distraction.

“You can’t try these men,” He said. “They don’t belong to this sordid group anymore. They’ve been sponsored. These two are Hospetilliers now.”

“Prove it,” The plague doctor said. The Leper turned his head underneath his robes, perhaps he was smiling, Apollo couldn’t tell. Not because of the mask, for joy could be shown with more things than smiles, but because his head was still struggling under the scaffold and still squirming. He could barely see anything on the horizon.

The Leper came, past the guillotine, his eyes narrowed at the contraption, perhaps he judged them. Apollo still couldn’t see much.

The Leper put the paper on the table in front of the judges and gave them time to read and share it amongst each other. Some understanding, others growing more uncomfortable, more angsty in their seat.

They scratched their heads, pulled hair, rubbed their chins.

“They’re Hospetilliers elect. They’re not anything yet.” One of them said. “They would have been.”

“They will be, within the year.”

“And do you think we’re giving you a year?” One of them laughed. The sungazers amongst the crowd did as well. “They’re being tried today. Do you understand? T-o-d-a-y.”

“Will you kill a Hospitaller elect? Would you sully the fragile relationship we already have? Believe me when I say they will still be punished, but by our hands.”

“Do you think we’re doing a bad job of it? That we can’t uphold the values set forth by our ancestors?” One of the judges said.

“Filthy mystic.” The sneering began to brew.

“Go back to your towers.”

“City boy.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” The Leper said. “You’re all incompetent.”

“We’re not giving them to you, do you understand?”

Apollo felt his veins pop. He was seeing red, tasting ash like coals had been stuck into his mouth.

“Will you reject our rites of passage?” The Leper asked.

Apollo felt his eyes bulge, his head compress.

“Any rite or rights they had ended, months ago. When they took it upon themselves to cohort with devils.”

Apollo breathed deeply. He felt something bubbling inside his chest.

“Kill the devil worshippers, kill the blasphemous.” The crowd repeated.

“A simple accusation! With not an ounce of evidence to it. Without interrogation, without any kind of testing to their arcana. Hogwash!”

Apollo fell his eyes rolling in his head.

“You don’t give a demon a second chance, that’s a half-measure. You kill them quick and efficiently, that’s our motto. Ready the blade.”

“Now don’t be hasty.” The Leper stepped up. The guarding vicars readied their blades.

“Oh, I’m not trying to fight. I have violence.” The Leper said. They looked at him suspiciously.

“I’m just asking you, perhaps, give them a week, even a couple days?”

“There will be no trickery here. They are condemned to death and if you keep obstructing justice, you will be too.”

Apollo felt his veins pop.

“But-” The Leper interjected.

“No buts.”

“However-!”

“Guards, sit him down-”

“Let me speak!” Apollo screamed. Everyone looked. “Let me speak!”

There was silence, the loud voice overcame them all. He shimmied out of his scaffold and out into the open. The guard grabbing him fell down the steps.

“You monsters,” He looked side to side. “You filthy animals, with your ravenous hunger, with your stupid and simple logic. You degenerates.”

He took slow steps down.

“You’ll go on and on and on for your petty justice, for your petty politics, for your petty ambitions.” He said. “Well, I can’t stand it. I won’t stand it. If justice won’t come to me under the diligence of a fair trial, then I’ll take it. I’ll take it from all of you.”

“What?” The center judge said.

“Listen up, I’ll make my defense clear. A godly defense for godly men,”

“What are you suggesting?” The plague doctor said.

Apollo turned around and towards all five. The Leper had his arms crossed, nodding.

“If God is your witness and your muse and your judge, then let it be so. Let Him judge me,” He said. “Let us fight, trial by combat and let God choose his winner. And if you disagree, then renounce your faith and the claim that holiness guides you.”

They all paused. Absorbing it. The Leper laughed a bit, low and with a crooked head. And all around, like a fire had been lit, the people spat and hissed and screamed. They nearly spilled from the edges of the balustrades.

“And who is your champion?” The judges asked.

Apollo looked towards the Leper, who immediately went quiet as the gaze went to him. The Leper looked around, everyone stared.

And he said, in a quiet voice: “I refuse.”

And now they were all quiet, even Apollo. Quiet and confused.