08-02-2016, 08:42 PM
Energy pulsed and flowed among the multitude before him. A wafting sense of nostalgia pricked the shadowed corners of his mind, but unable to place it, he dismissed the sensation. His agents proclaimed the area as secure as possible. It was time to present himself.
He gathered power about him, drinking deeply upon the energy that held the cosmos together. It filled him with furious light and the world slammed into sharp focus.
He stepped out of the shade of Senatskaya Tower and approached the low parapet wall. Immediately, the tone of the crowd shifted as a thousand eyes realized he was there. Cheering arose next, echoed along the red walls of the fortress and drowned away the more meager noise of protest. The power he held plucked the chanting of his name from the cacophony, filling the air with majesty to his ears. His heart beat in time with his people, ecstatic. His realm. Destiny incarnate: for this was he born!
He peered briefly over the edge of the wall. Seemingly alone, others waited beneath the dome of Senatskaya Tower behind him, he was a sliver of black painted against red brick. Flags bearing the Ascendancy's orange crescent rippled on the wind, making for a royal frame to the picture. Below, the flat roof Lenin's red and black mausoleum waited silent as the tomb it was. Evergreen trees lined the Kremlin wall, bright green needles against hellish red brick. The white steps of hundreds of Bolshevik tombs flanked the mausoleum, a necropolis of honor for the legends of the past dead.
He soaked it in, letting his eyelids fall momentarily. The chanting. The power. The air. He could almost feel the shoulders of the cremated filling the fortress wall holding him high in the bricks beneath his feet. As though they approved of his ascension. Of all the glorious places along the Kremlin wall, this was his favorite, perched upon the piles of the past yet peering into the future. These empires of the living and the dead loved him. Soon, the remainder of the whole world would love him too. There was only one thing better than adoration and reverence, and it was nearly within grasp. It was time the world bowed at his feet. To acknowledge what he had known these past forty five years.
He seized all of the power he could fathom, until he was near to trembling with it.
Cords of light rippled around him, weaving together a voice that every ear below would be able to hear. It was so freeing to use. To speak without the enhancement of technology. To be what he really was before the public. This was as he should be. This was right.
He spoke, voice hardened and strong.
"Members of my Custody, greetings!"
His arms raised before cheering crowd as though embracing each. The Arcus band at his temple glinted in the sun.
"I have come to show you the might behind my words. I will uphold my promise to you! To make Moscow the center of the earth!"
He smiled to himself as his eyes roamed the scene. The massive building of the GUM served as a cement backdrop to the many headed crowd. The colorful domes of St. Basil's waited eternal at the edge of the Red Square. To his right, the gothic peaks of the clock tower loomed high. He pictured the view before him filled with tanks and soldiers of the last world war. He saw it desolate as in the final days of the Cold War. He imagined the Imperial family climbing into carriages and the laborers constructing the massive marble mausoleum entombing the Father of the Revolution. Today, it would all change. Great Russia, the Empire, the Soviets, even the ASU would be left to rot in history. Dead to the world and replaced with a new realm. His realm. To witness the beloved leaders of the past replaced.
Voice thunderous, amplified by his power, his hands curled into fists as he shouted, "Today, I prove it to you!"
His gaze lowered to the flat roof of Lenin's tomb and cold blue eyes studied those columns for what would be the last time.
The weave amplifying his voice dissolved and he spoke to those behind him, "Upon fear for your life, do not interrupt my concentration,"
he ordered.
Power filled him as it only had a few times in this life. It stretched his soul into shards piercing his skin from within. An exquisite, brilliant pain that enthroned him upon the center of all existence. In that moment, the axis of the galaxy rotated around him. If he desired, he was certain he could have altered the fabric of reality itself.
Flows delved deep into the marble, granite and gold tomb below. At first a handful, then a dozen, then more. Everything he could wield, he summoned into his control. Within the heart of the tomb, weaves of Flame scorched Lenin's body to ash although none would see the long overdue cremation. Nikolai would have smiled, but his mind was far from his body. He labored on.
Firmament mixed with the Flames. Essence and Ether contained the flows. Water molded the form. The foundations of Senatskaya Tower itself rumbled beneath his feet. The reflecting pools of the necropolis rippled in the quaking. Cathedral bells gonged in the distance.
The black and red walls of the mausoleum flowed liquid, an elemental molten between stone and lava. The walls puddled. The columns melted. Power raged through him, plucking at the edges of his soul, but still he reached for more, and the limits of his strength stretched new heights. The joy was terrible.
In place of the mausoleum formed a gateway. A gothic, black Triumphant Arch veined blood red as tall as the tower in which Nikolai stood. Flanking the arched passageway were gargantuan statues of a robed man, the face smoothened and hollow, his temple bearing a thin band like a crown. The figures each held a scepter tipped with gold stripped from what was formally the interior of the old mausoleum. Blood red sculptures of Phema, goddess of fame, laid golden laurel wreaths before the man, their offerings filling the spandrels of the arch. Last to coalesce, a triumphal chariot pulled by four black stallions surmounted the monument, horses three times larger than the mightiest alive.
The ground came to stillness. The foundations of the fortress rested. The crowd of thousands was silent. Arms heavy with labor, he paused to wipe the sweat from his face and steady his breathing.
The silence was filled with awe and fear until it slowly transformed into love and worship for their new idol. What enemy would dare confront such a god?
Nikolai basked in their worship.
He gathered power about him, drinking deeply upon the energy that held the cosmos together. It filled him with furious light and the world slammed into sharp focus.
He stepped out of the shade of Senatskaya Tower and approached the low parapet wall. Immediately, the tone of the crowd shifted as a thousand eyes realized he was there. Cheering arose next, echoed along the red walls of the fortress and drowned away the more meager noise of protest. The power he held plucked the chanting of his name from the cacophony, filling the air with majesty to his ears. His heart beat in time with his people, ecstatic. His realm. Destiny incarnate: for this was he born!
He peered briefly over the edge of the wall. Seemingly alone, others waited beneath the dome of Senatskaya Tower behind him, he was a sliver of black painted against red brick. Flags bearing the Ascendancy's orange crescent rippled on the wind, making for a royal frame to the picture. Below, the flat roof Lenin's red and black mausoleum waited silent as the tomb it was. Evergreen trees lined the Kremlin wall, bright green needles against hellish red brick. The white steps of hundreds of Bolshevik tombs flanked the mausoleum, a necropolis of honor for the legends of the past dead.
He soaked it in, letting his eyelids fall momentarily. The chanting. The power. The air. He could almost feel the shoulders of the cremated filling the fortress wall holding him high in the bricks beneath his feet. As though they approved of his ascension. Of all the glorious places along the Kremlin wall, this was his favorite, perched upon the piles of the past yet peering into the future. These empires of the living and the dead loved him. Soon, the remainder of the whole world would love him too. There was only one thing better than adoration and reverence, and it was nearly within grasp. It was time the world bowed at his feet. To acknowledge what he had known these past forty five years.
He seized all of the power he could fathom, until he was near to trembling with it.
Cords of light rippled around him, weaving together a voice that every ear below would be able to hear. It was so freeing to use. To speak without the enhancement of technology. To be what he really was before the public. This was as he should be. This was right.
He spoke, voice hardened and strong.
"Members of my Custody, greetings!"
His arms raised before cheering crowd as though embracing each. The Arcus band at his temple glinted in the sun.
"I have come to show you the might behind my words. I will uphold my promise to you! To make Moscow the center of the earth!"
He smiled to himself as his eyes roamed the scene. The massive building of the GUM served as a cement backdrop to the many headed crowd. The colorful domes of St. Basil's waited eternal at the edge of the Red Square. To his right, the gothic peaks of the clock tower loomed high. He pictured the view before him filled with tanks and soldiers of the last world war. He saw it desolate as in the final days of the Cold War. He imagined the Imperial family climbing into carriages and the laborers constructing the massive marble mausoleum entombing the Father of the Revolution. Today, it would all change. Great Russia, the Empire, the Soviets, even the ASU would be left to rot in history. Dead to the world and replaced with a new realm. His realm. To witness the beloved leaders of the past replaced.
Voice thunderous, amplified by his power, his hands curled into fists as he shouted, "Today, I prove it to you!"
His gaze lowered to the flat roof of Lenin's tomb and cold blue eyes studied those columns for what would be the last time.
The weave amplifying his voice dissolved and he spoke to those behind him, "Upon fear for your life, do not interrupt my concentration,"
he ordered.
Power filled him as it only had a few times in this life. It stretched his soul into shards piercing his skin from within. An exquisite, brilliant pain that enthroned him upon the center of all existence. In that moment, the axis of the galaxy rotated around him. If he desired, he was certain he could have altered the fabric of reality itself.
Flows delved deep into the marble, granite and gold tomb below. At first a handful, then a dozen, then more. Everything he could wield, he summoned into his control. Within the heart of the tomb, weaves of Flame scorched Lenin's body to ash although none would see the long overdue cremation. Nikolai would have smiled, but his mind was far from his body. He labored on.
Firmament mixed with the Flames. Essence and Ether contained the flows. Water molded the form. The foundations of Senatskaya Tower itself rumbled beneath his feet. The reflecting pools of the necropolis rippled in the quaking. Cathedral bells gonged in the distance.
The black and red walls of the mausoleum flowed liquid, an elemental molten between stone and lava. The walls puddled. The columns melted. Power raged through him, plucking at the edges of his soul, but still he reached for more, and the limits of his strength stretched new heights. The joy was terrible.
In place of the mausoleum formed a gateway. A gothic, black Triumphant Arch veined blood red as tall as the tower in which Nikolai stood. Flanking the arched passageway were gargantuan statues of a robed man, the face smoothened and hollow, his temple bearing a thin band like a crown. The figures each held a scepter tipped with gold stripped from what was formally the interior of the old mausoleum. Blood red sculptures of Phema, goddess of fame, laid golden laurel wreaths before the man, their offerings filling the spandrels of the arch. Last to coalesce, a triumphal chariot pulled by four black stallions surmounted the monument, horses three times larger than the mightiest alive.
The ground came to stillness. The foundations of the fortress rested. The crowd of thousands was silent. Arms heavy with labor, he paused to wipe the sweat from his face and steady his breathing.
The silence was filled with awe and fear until it slowly transformed into love and worship for their new idol. What enemy would dare confront such a god?
Nikolai basked in their worship.