Joshua and the Last Castle of the Underworld

This is a rough unfinished first draft of a story that I've started that will never be finished. Enjoy! or not.

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The last of the Saints entered the dim and dirt smeared room and took his place behind his chair. The air parted, thick with dust and filth as he moved through it, visible only from the few dim electric lights that remain functional within the room. The chamberlain nodded to the head of the table that all members were accounted for, left his post by the door side and left them to discuss matters of State. The almighty iron door swung shut with a rusted creek as he pulled it closed on its large circular handle. When closed he span the handle, the locks slid into place. They were safely bolted in, where no one could disturb them.

Upon hearing the final bolt thud into place each figure stepped from behind their chairs and took place upon them. When they were all sat, in silence, the removed their hoods from covering their heads firstly and the uncoupled the buckles on the protective breathing apparatus. The air hissed with escaping pressuring gases. Removing their masks they placed them onto the table before them. One by one they did this, starting with the lowest member of their order and held their heads up high and stared towards the member of their left. In turn the next removed their hood, and then the next and so forth until the final the final hood was lifted, revealing a very old and very sickly looking man. The purpose of this tradition, they believed, was to identify the traitors and blasphemers and assassins. For any one not recognised to the order could only be an assassin and no man, they believed, could look another man in the eye and murder him in cold blood without the spark of their conscious burning against their soul. In this fleeting second, God, they said, would know his own. The man sat at the head of the long, crucifix shaped table upon his turn revealed him self, his garbs torn and worn less so then the others and though the fabrics were once apparently bright and bold with texture and colour, they now were blunt and muddied by the very air they all now breathed. The order was revealed and now the meeting could begin, yet there was one chair remaining empty.

The head of the table turned his head towards the man on his left with slight difficulty. His frail frame quivered gently. Upon this signal the younger man, though looking elderly himself, raised his hands to signal attention from the others
   "Saints. Once again we, those chosen by our 'Almighty' master 'The Lord' to suffer that of waking life so that those others of us may live in the world of dreams, have gathered to discuss the matters of the State and affairs."
   There was a slight pause as the Saint, Llyrin, gathered his words "Firstly, importantly and sadly, it falls to me to announce that Saint Aunsley is deceased."
There was a sudden eruption of murmurs, blessings and religious gestures, a genuine feeling of panic instantly filled the room that pierced the gloom - which quickly died again when the speaker raised his hands again.
   "He was taken into the Lords arms during today's cycle. There will be a service held in his honour during the dark hours, as his request should such circumstance arise. However, there shall be no funeral. That is all we can disclose for now."
   For a few seconds no one said a word. When it was it was broken by one of the younger Saints, gently of voice yet with a keen and sober interest "What of his replacement?".
   All eye's turned and fixed expectantly upon the speaker, Saint Llyrin.
   "...A replacement is already being appointed" He assured the room "I believe Saint Aunsley himself requested that of one of his Disciples take his place. I believe it understood that he even requested him by name."
   The room burst into loud cries of objection.
   "He appointed a Disciple?!"
   "Unspeakable!"
   "Disrespectful!"
   "Tradition must be upheld!"
   The speaker allowed a moments rambling to allow the others to voice their displeasement off their frail chests. One hand was raised, slowly into the air and the speaker called to silence once again. When he had it, he gestured towards the hand which belong to the youngest of the Saints. There was a pause as the young Saint caught his breath.
   "Whom?" he croaked, his voice betrayed the youth of his features. His breathing shallow and strained and eye's sullen and black yet piercing.
   " . . . considering the circumstances, Pope Julianis has agreed to the appointment of this Disciple as an adequate replacement. And it should be pointed that out, that though this young man has not set upon pilgrimage, nor has he acquired the mark of our Lord's approval - and I know that the scripture's are stern on this matter for we have memorised and recited the passages to heart, but times are . . . hard. And the blessing of Pope Julianis has been given. This has not been an easy decision but given the circumstances we believe that this is the Lords way to placing the correct people in the correct places..."
   No one objected. Each of them had been appointed by God himself, for God had shown them their purpose through circumstance. They knew his words to be true.
   "... His name is Joshua. And he shall be one of us soon enough."

Act 1 - Destiny

   "...Would you like to tell me how he died?"
   "No, I would not."
   "Then would you tell me any way?"
   "Don't misunderstand, young Disciple. I hesitate not because of awkwardness but because of . . . disgust. The nature of your Sire's demise was not a pretty one."
   "Truth is a place to be sought if we are to understand the Lords machinations on His own soil"
   "You speak as if Saint Aunsley was still here, walking beside me."
   "He was a great man, and a great teacher. I owe my life of service to him."
   "And that is true enough."

   "You understand that you are going to be taking on the biggest burden of all of us. The very nature of our lives is the most important element to the survival of the species."
   " . . . Sir, I hate to be rude, but I'll be blunt. The day before Saint Austley died there was a tremor that carried enough force to knock my book shelf over, causing me a whole day's worth of study to be set back. I know there was an explosion in the maternity ward. I know that it killed my predecessor. I am a days behind with my studies so if we can please stop these games. Now. I implore you to show me to my station."

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   He stopped. A mistake he often committed. But it was too late, he had felt it there a couple of paragraphs before like an unwanted cat scratching at your door during an involving movie or novel. Taunting him, distracting him - his ability to articulate the details crumbled away over time. He allowed the itch at the back of his mind to waver his focus, distract him from his world of make-believe he was constructing. As if sharply woken from a deep sleep, drawn from the world by an invisible bungy cord of the mind to conscious-waking, Marcus came back to his senses. To the world of Waking-Life.

   The brilliant white light glared at and over him, washing away the ties to his dream world like the eroding tide at the edge of a beach. It mingled with the darkness of the room seamlessly.
   It took a few seconds for his eyes to focus on the screen in front of him, pushed his thin framed spectacles correctly onto the bridge of his nose from their lop-sided stance and even when he did to the best of his ability the edges of words still had a soft, fuzzy out line.
   " . . . Ugh. Damnit." He ran his fingers mindlessly through his thick, three inch greasy mouse-brown hair, scrunching his hair up into tangled, finger combed waves. He pushed the key board away from him and slumped back in his rather uncomfortable, cheap steel chair to view his work. A quick glance to his digital alarm clock showed that it was past four in the morning.
   His lips moved softly as his eye's slid over the text that lay before him. One by one thoughts would pop into his brain, ticketed onto a mental sticky pad and stored for later self reflection. He did not stop until he reached the end. When he was finished he slumped forwards in his chair, resting his arms on the computer desk top, carrying his weight lazily and sighed. He poised an arm over the key board with a finger slightly coiled like a snake ready to pounce.
   "It's shit" He muttered in disgust. Finger sprung in for the kill, he tapped a button on the keyboard. An icon flashed up on screen. "Saved" it said. He turned off the monitor and quickly climbed into his mattress-bed on the floor. The gentle hum of the machine gently soothing his soul into a swift slumber.