07-04-2016, 02:04 PM
Armande sat in his study, the rows of aged leatherbound books on the shelves and papers on his large desk forgotten. The screen in front of him was motionless. The video had ended. He had watched it over and over again, each time listening less and less to the words and more and more watching the face of his enemy. An enemy who had launched a new attack.
It was devastating. He was no fool. With this revelation, this uncovering- not the first in the history of the Atharim, certainly, but certainly the most powerful given the ubiquitous nature of technology- he could imagine the walls of the mansion crumbling down around him.
His mouth tightened, determination inflaming the blue ice of his eyes. Not while he still drew breath. There were still tools at his disposal. The majority of Atharim were loyal to him. Their sway with people in powerful positions- most having no idea who owned the secrets that prompted a vote here, a purchase there - was still theirs to use. The vast reserves they had built up over the millenia, hidden in shell corporations inside shell corporations, a matreshka doll of concealment, the tracts of land and pieces of artwork, the gold and the silver stashed in the most unlikely of places, would still fund them. They had been around far too long for even modern technology to put a dent in that.
And there was Petricus. His ally. A man who had much to lose if it were discovered that the Pope himself not only knew of the Atharim, but was complicit in their work, had been for 800 years. Their secret alliance had been forged out of necessity and together, they had covered for each other over the centuries. The Inquisition that was placed on the back of the High Inquisitor Torquemada, a name reviled in history in all places but among the Atharim. Men who knew the truth of who and what he was. The vile business of the Enlightenment. They would be laughing now. He could feel them sneaking about, the traitors. That it happened 500 years ago, long before he was born, did not change the feelings of anger and betrayal he personally felt. He wondered if they would, at last, come out of the woodwork.
His jaw clenched and he saw the screen again, the face of Nikolai Brandon, Apollyon. He had revealed himself even as he had revealed them. But Brandon had to know that there would be backlash. As people realized that these reborn gods could be anyone, masquerading as anyone, as coworker or school mate, living gods, able to bring death and destruction with a thought, had brought death and destruction to them, their support would grow.
People would know these reborn gods for what they were.
As he had learned.
He closed his eyes, letting the Chong Rann meditation enveloping him, let the room gradually drift away until he was home. He was in his private office under the Vatican, its infinite shelves and plinths holding a library that dwarfed any that existed. Here was the true Historical Archive that he oversaw.
He stood and walked, his steps echoing in the room as he walked. In the distance he saw the door, heavy with age. Finally, he stood in front of it, its wooden planks worn and warped and dusty. He waved his hand and the ancient lock clicked. His heart beat loudly as he looked at the door, his rage and hatred beating in time with it. He stared at the door, could feel the power emanating from behind it, a sun whose energy gave him life and purpose.
He opened the door. The room was small and bare, a single old table in the center. And on it, something wrapped in cloth. He clenched his jaw as he stepped toward the table, each step bringing a new wave of fury and hatred, of pain. He touched the cloth, his hand shuddering. It took all his concentration to keep his hand there, to overwhelm the disgust that welled up in him, and, for a moment, the walls of this place faded, the Chong Rann discipline wavering. He breathed and calmed himself and they firmed.
Carefully, so very carefully he unwrapped the cloth, a wash of emotion threatening to overwhelm him at each unwinding.
At last he saw what was inside it. He looked at it, made himself see.
A single picture. A girl's smile, piercing green eyes on a face that was still more girl than woman. And he felt the hatred and disgust and, God forgive him, love, explode as the memory took him.
Edited by Regus, Jul 11 2016, 11:39 PM.
It was devastating. He was no fool. With this revelation, this uncovering- not the first in the history of the Atharim, certainly, but certainly the most powerful given the ubiquitous nature of technology- he could imagine the walls of the mansion crumbling down around him.
His mouth tightened, determination inflaming the blue ice of his eyes. Not while he still drew breath. There were still tools at his disposal. The majority of Atharim were loyal to him. Their sway with people in powerful positions- most having no idea who owned the secrets that prompted a vote here, a purchase there - was still theirs to use. The vast reserves they had built up over the millenia, hidden in shell corporations inside shell corporations, a matreshka doll of concealment, the tracts of land and pieces of artwork, the gold and the silver stashed in the most unlikely of places, would still fund them. They had been around far too long for even modern technology to put a dent in that.
And there was Petricus. His ally. A man who had much to lose if it were discovered that the Pope himself not only knew of the Atharim, but was complicit in their work, had been for 800 years. Their secret alliance had been forged out of necessity and together, they had covered for each other over the centuries. The Inquisition that was placed on the back of the High Inquisitor Torquemada, a name reviled in history in all places but among the Atharim. Men who knew the truth of who and what he was. The vile business of the Enlightenment. They would be laughing now. He could feel them sneaking about, the traitors. That it happened 500 years ago, long before he was born, did not change the feelings of anger and betrayal he personally felt. He wondered if they would, at last, come out of the woodwork.
His jaw clenched and he saw the screen again, the face of Nikolai Brandon, Apollyon. He had revealed himself even as he had revealed them. But Brandon had to know that there would be backlash. As people realized that these reborn gods could be anyone, masquerading as anyone, as coworker or school mate, living gods, able to bring death and destruction with a thought, had brought death and destruction to them, their support would grow.
People would know these reborn gods for what they were.
As he had learned.
He closed his eyes, letting the Chong Rann meditation enveloping him, let the room gradually drift away until he was home. He was in his private office under the Vatican, its infinite shelves and plinths holding a library that dwarfed any that existed. Here was the true Historical Archive that he oversaw.
He stood and walked, his steps echoing in the room as he walked. In the distance he saw the door, heavy with age. Finally, he stood in front of it, its wooden planks worn and warped and dusty. He waved his hand and the ancient lock clicked. His heart beat loudly as he looked at the door, his rage and hatred beating in time with it. He stared at the door, could feel the power emanating from behind it, a sun whose energy gave him life and purpose.
He opened the door. The room was small and bare, a single old table in the center. And on it, something wrapped in cloth. He clenched his jaw as he stepped toward the table, each step bringing a new wave of fury and hatred, of pain. He touched the cloth, his hand shuddering. It took all his concentration to keep his hand there, to overwhelm the disgust that welled up in him, and, for a moment, the walls of this place faded, the Chong Rann discipline wavering. He breathed and calmed himself and they firmed.
Carefully, so very carefully he unwrapped the cloth, a wash of emotion threatening to overwhelm him at each unwinding.
At last he saw what was inside it. He looked at it, made himself see.
A single picture. A girl's smile, piercing green eyes on a face that was still more girl than woman. And he felt the hatred and disgust and, God forgive him, love, explode as the memory took him.
Edited by Regus, Jul 11 2016, 11:39 PM.