09-08-2018, 12:06 AM
(This post was last modified: 09-08-2018, 12:13 AM by Ascendancy.)
All the others faded when Evelyn accepted his hand. The door’s closure sealed away the outside world. They were blessedly alone. Weight slid from his shoulders like the casting off of a heavy cloak.
No hollow words filled the void. Nikolai’s introspection was nothing new. A similar spell befell him after his father’s suicide. The shell of a young man was arranged well and tidy, but something was unhinged inside.
Really, Bologna was about escape. The day he boarded the plane, he had no intention of returning to the land that betrayed him. When he vanished, people were likely bereaved, people loved him, but he moved on. Did he ever really love in return? To callously renounce blood and connections as he had? Maybe. Maybe not. Loyalty he bestowed upon his resurrection. That he repaid: Valentin, Alexandrova. Others more or less. Yet none of them were here now. He did not invite the recipient of his flatmate’s affections to join him now. Neither did he summon Valentin for consultation. He knew why.
Nikolai rarely indulged in alcohol.
By hand he poured two goblets of deep red. Odd motions. It was like drinking the grapey smokes of Vesuvius. Ash flaked sweet on his lips. Warmth blossomed his chest. His eyes fell low a moment. Savoring the indulgence upon his tongue.
When he turned, it was to offer the partner to Evelyn. Did she drink wine? Or was she too virginal a girl to dip her tongue into the devil’s drink?
Instinct reached to grasp the powers of the universe he wielded like second-breath, but fear held him back. Instead, he crossed the room, feet steady in pace, and calmly flicked lamps alive. The gilding and ornate features of the Tsar’s palace glowed in the dim atmosphere. He yearned for fire if only to stare into the flickering tongues of orange and yellow and lose himself in their dance.
The jacket was thrown disgustedly aside. The white cloth that bound his chest stripped. The shirt remained, wrinkled, marred with ash and blood. Freeing his neck was like loosening the hangman’s noose, but it did nothing to ease the drawing of his next breath.
He sank into a sedan, staring at the empty hearth.
“Evelyn. There is something you should know.” Goblet set aside, he rolled up his sleeves. The scar was revealed, as was the repugnance of the truth to come. “I was once Atharim. Those things that attacked us tonight are called ijiraq, though they are practically a myth even among the Atharim, which is why I know next to nothing about them. They are irresistible. Unquenchable. And they can kill us and we are utterly defenseless against them."
A bleak proclamation.
“It seems that my greatest enemy, the man that leads the Atharim, whose life is devoted to killing any and all that can channel no matter how innocent, commands them. No wall. No fortress. No shield. No sword. Nothing can protect us from their savagery except each other.”
The arm laid across his lap. The five cragged gouges streaked the skin ugly. The dreyken would never be forgotten. In darkness Nikolai still heard his hiss on his ear. Even now, he shivered at the memory.
“I was one of them, Evelyn. I wanted to be Regus one day myself, their leader, their ruler. The current one will never rest until the only thing I rule is a grave. The king of the dead,” he scoffed. The title was morbid humor.
“The enemy of channelers is the enemy of ours. How do we stop him? How do we fight he who commands ghosts and spirits? If you have ideas, I welcome them, for I am out.”
No hollow words filled the void. Nikolai’s introspection was nothing new. A similar spell befell him after his father’s suicide. The shell of a young man was arranged well and tidy, but something was unhinged inside.
Really, Bologna was about escape. The day he boarded the plane, he had no intention of returning to the land that betrayed him. When he vanished, people were likely bereaved, people loved him, but he moved on. Did he ever really love in return? To callously renounce blood and connections as he had? Maybe. Maybe not. Loyalty he bestowed upon his resurrection. That he repaid: Valentin, Alexandrova. Others more or less. Yet none of them were here now. He did not invite the recipient of his flatmate’s affections to join him now. Neither did he summon Valentin for consultation. He knew why.
Nikolai rarely indulged in alcohol.
By hand he poured two goblets of deep red. Odd motions. It was like drinking the grapey smokes of Vesuvius. Ash flaked sweet on his lips. Warmth blossomed his chest. His eyes fell low a moment. Savoring the indulgence upon his tongue.
When he turned, it was to offer the partner to Evelyn. Did she drink wine? Or was she too virginal a girl to dip her tongue into the devil’s drink?
Instinct reached to grasp the powers of the universe he wielded like second-breath, but fear held him back. Instead, he crossed the room, feet steady in pace, and calmly flicked lamps alive. The gilding and ornate features of the Tsar’s palace glowed in the dim atmosphere. He yearned for fire if only to stare into the flickering tongues of orange and yellow and lose himself in their dance.
The jacket was thrown disgustedly aside. The white cloth that bound his chest stripped. The shirt remained, wrinkled, marred with ash and blood. Freeing his neck was like loosening the hangman’s noose, but it did nothing to ease the drawing of his next breath.
He sank into a sedan, staring at the empty hearth.
“Evelyn. There is something you should know.” Goblet set aside, he rolled up his sleeves. The scar was revealed, as was the repugnance of the truth to come. “I was once Atharim. Those things that attacked us tonight are called ijiraq, though they are practically a myth even among the Atharim, which is why I know next to nothing about them. They are irresistible. Unquenchable. And they can kill us and we are utterly defenseless against them."
A bleak proclamation.
“It seems that my greatest enemy, the man that leads the Atharim, whose life is devoted to killing any and all that can channel no matter how innocent, commands them. No wall. No fortress. No shield. No sword. Nothing can protect us from their savagery except each other.”
The arm laid across his lap. The five cragged gouges streaked the skin ugly. The dreyken would never be forgotten. In darkness Nikolai still heard his hiss on his ear. Even now, he shivered at the memory.
“I was one of them, Evelyn. I wanted to be Regus one day myself, their leader, their ruler. The current one will never rest until the only thing I rule is a grave. The king of the dead,” he scoffed. The title was morbid humor.
“The enemy of channelers is the enemy of ours. How do we stop him? How do we fight he who commands ghosts and spirits? If you have ideas, I welcome them, for I am out.”