My Struggle with this World's Religion

Running. Feet pounding against the ground,
Mind dizzy, spinning round and round,
Confusion overwhelms the senses,
He knows not where he is.

The nobles of the room stir up a mighty torrent of complaints hurled at Hitler, pointing out his disrespect. No words reach his shell shocked ears. "Just ven I thought I could be free... Free from zat damn religion! All my vork, gone in an instant. Scheiße! Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße!" God's cruel joke, Hitler's personal hell. A world where the Jewish have summoned him, taken a throne and kingdom for themselves, ruled him, commanded him. It's funny how these things work out, these twists of fate. 

Outside. He loosens his tie and collar, the suit he was wearing as he died previously still clinging to his now sweaty skin. The bright sun, not so dissimilar from our own, beats down upon him, thousands of beams of light penetrating every pore of his body, burning him in a foreign way that his body hasn't quite adjusted to. It seems much warmer now, as if that sun were hurtling towards him. His jacket is thrown to the ground hastily. He runs more, away from the castle, away from any sign of civilisation; runs till his old legs shake to the bones. Mountains now surround him, providing some shade from the pursuing sun.

Kneeling: "Vy, Divine Vones? Is zis your cruel joke? Your pranken? I do not understand... Have I not spent all my life attempting to exterminate zese sings?" Teary eyes; salty taste. Soaked brows; dishevelled hair. Light once again, not the sun, but the being he has not yet seen, and knows of only vaguely when considering the facts of his transportation. The angel descends: "Mein kinder. Ve are ze divine beings you sprache of, complain of. Vat you do not seem yet to grasp is zat zis is a learning opportunity. Do as ve do. Ve have forgiven your heinous acts, let go of our hate for you, and released you from the hate of the world you lived in; now you too must release your hate for those you harbour it towards. Ve do zis out of mercy, out of divine necessity, not out of some sick sense of schadenfreude. But if you do not forgive, suffer you will, mein kinder. Auf wiedersehen."

Confusion renewed. Vomit, sickness. Pounding on the grassy floor with his fists, endless wallowing screams of pathetic self-pity echo, bouncing off each mountain top, penetrating his ears over and over again. He has seen the divine - it is undoubtable for those who have seen them that they are indeed the divine. They could be nothing else. But he feels no religious gratitude, no spiritual awakening or saintly enlightenment. Hatred. An endless hatred, born out of a shared national sentiment, spiraled out of control. "Vy protect ze Jews?" He asks himself. "Zey are divine... is Judaism ze one true religion, zen?" 

He cannot let go of his hate. Instead, it is redoubled. "If zey happen to be right... no. Zey are wrong. Falsch!" Denial. "Zey are ze unholy. Ze demonically inspired. Ze devil. And if zese beings support zem, zey cannot be divine, though my senses were deceived... Ein unheilige Illusion. Zat is richtig! Zose beings are demons. Devils! Teufel! I alone can fight. Can defeat such evils. I alone..." Megalomaniacal self-absorption and unfounded belief. 

Steps. An endless number. Dust rises, a brown mist. Galloping beasts coming towards his kneeling figure. He rises, newfound determination in his eyes, a determination born from hatred. A gallant figure at the helm of the pack of horse-like animals, though almost twice the size of those on Earth. Stepping off the horse, the mammoth of a man towers over Hitler - he must be nearly 8 feet. Muscles bulge from every visible patch of skin. Veins protrude like ridges in a hilly plain. "Commander of the Knight Corps, Goliath, at your service, Sir Hero." Though his words are respectful, his tone is anything but; disdain for the weakness of the man sitting in front of him. A complete lack of faith in this so-called hero, this weak, cowardly, aging man. 

Hitler meets his glare. "I am sorry for my hasty retreat. It is gud to finally meet a fellow soldier, and such a tough one at zat. Ven I vas young, I fought in my vars as vell... ze countless bodies piled up, mountains of corpses." He gazes forlornly at the mountains surrounding him, his eyes looking to the past. "Gas entering every pore of my body, destroying me in body and soul. All vile zose proclaimed leaders sat in zere kingdom... vatching from afar, treating us as numbers, disposable tools... growing fatter and fatter, zeir guffawing louder and louder vilst ve starved on ze front lines in ze muddy trenches. I see zat even in another vorld, not much has changed. Young, brave soldiers like all of you..." Eyes scan the crowd, making contact with as many other eyes as possible. "...must still fight zeir battles, vilst they prepare to run in case of your defeat."

A quiet group of soldiers stands before him. The commander's face appears momentarily surprised by the impromptu speech, but his composure is quickly regained: "You say you were a soldier in your world? I couldn't have guessed. You seem to lack both the magical and physical prowess required." He interrogates the supposed hero, not wanting false hope to arise from within; hopes of meeting a soldier from a world so different, a fellow sufferer. "Vell, in my vorld, ve had no such magic... just technology so advanced it may as vell have been indistinguishable to magic. Chunks of metal flying across ze battlefield too fast to see, killing soldiers in vone vell placed hit. Larger chunks dropping from ze sky, scattering corpse parts across the mud vith a big boom. Strange substances restricting your breathing - vone breath could mean certain death, after a bit of suffering. It vas truly... hell." 

"I see..." Goliath responds. Though quite different, he creates parallels between the magic utilised on the battlefield - large explosions, fireballs hurtling and killing soldiers, magic capable of creating pain and death without any visual notice. Empathy. Sympathy. Understanding. "So you're not someone utterly useless, then? Though you speak like those nobles who are more like wordsmiths than commanders." Laughing, he shares his disdain for the nobility with Hitler. The soldiers in his command relax on their horses, watching the conversation - those who already liked the hero, had that forbidden hope for him, are relieved, their hope renewed and visible on their faces. 

"Zat is right. Yes. Ja ja. Z-zat is... vat is your? Ic
h heiße
Ja... j
ja.. vere are zose damn Jews....
JEWS... VY YOU ARE VONE OF ZEM ARE YOU NOT? VONE OF ZE ENEMY?
VONE OF
VONE OF MEIN ENEMIES?
enem
enemyies 
enemy of ze holy kingdom of Hitler vere ze gospel is mein struggle mein kampf zat is ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja
ich heiße Hallo ich heiße ich heiße Hitler Adolf Hitler ze commander 
YOU proclaim to be commander?! Ven I am
ze commander of ze... second? eins vei drei... vat is next? Eins...... vei.......................... drei?"

The commander and soldiers retreat a few paces; confusion breaks out like hives on their faces. Concern follows. Hitler mutters incoherently, suddenly whispering, then shouting, then laughing. A maelstrom of all his thoughts spews out uncontrolled, uninhibited. Withdrawal. The commander makes an effort to calm himself. His face turns stoic; he has a duty. To return the hero to the castle. He takes steps towards Hitler, who fails to notice his presence - all the world is gone in his eyes, as he is absorbed entirely in his mad ravings. Coming up behind him, the commander wraps his arms around Hitler's neck and counts - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. He releases the hold. Hitler drops to the floor. Goliath grabs him, and throws him over his shoulder; back onto the horse. They return to the capital.