12-28-2017, 12:19 PM
The cracks in the windshield were carefully placed, as was the peeling strips of tinting. Placed to appear casual. Neither would be enough to warrant notice by police. They did not appear to hinder a driver's visibility of the road. But between that and his own minimal disguise- and it was minimal- he would be unnoticeable to traffic cams and the like. Anything too ostentatious in either direction- too invisible or completely open- would draw the search algorithms to the beat-up truck and the driver that now drove the quiet streets of Moscow. Balance was the key.
Balance, Armande thought bitterly as he drove. Balance indeed. The sun was bright over head but he did not see it as he drove, aimlessly? He needed to get back to Valeriya and the Khylsty. He knew she would be up soon. Would she listen and stay inside? His bitterness relaxed only enough to make him smirk. Probably not. She was like him. Self willed, especially when given the responsibility. Just as likely to do the opposite from what was told simply to prove he was no one's to command.
And that was the real problem, wasn't it? He had always been willful. He'd been obedient to his trainers and to those in charge, true. It was part of growing up, being groomed for command. Learning what was necessary. But also learning to trust your instincts. When he became Atharim, when he became the Regus, Vicar of Iscariot, it was on his shoulders, now. And he had never, not once shirked his responsibilities. He had never shied away from any sacrifice, no matter how great.
And it had been great. Too great. He shied away from one memory. Culminating in the attack on Apoll....no. On Nikolai Brandon. Self styled Ascendancy. The words burned in his mind but he refused to shrink from it. Brandon. It had been worth it. The Atharim were outed in an era where governments and organizations really had the ability to track them down, if they dug deep enough. They were scattered to the wind now.
The propaganda ministers had done their work. Already, he could feel the Atharim tearing apart. He had thought to clear the weak, the dead and the chaff, to leave them strong. But they had done their work well. He wondered how many would register.
Still, it had been worth it. He realized where he was and paused, looking at the hulking pile of rock and stone and timber, the smell of smoke still in the air. Baccarat, all the treasures beneath, everything he had brought with him, gone. But it had been worth it.
Apollyon was dead. There was always a price to pay. And so it had been worth the cost.
But the...man...wasn't dead. The sacrifice had been for nothing. All of them. The Atharim scattered and broken, for nothing. Priceless artifacts and scrolls and tablets from antiquity destroyed or plundered, for nothing. His orobouros, torn like the people he directed. Those he loved, torn from him.
For nothing.
Rage continued to grow, as he drove, now realizing where he was going. Not too close. But close enough. Not for nothing. There in the distance stood the Arch. The testament of a false god. Powerful and unbroken.
Not for nothing. No. The opposite. To prove that Brandon was invincible. He could be burned and scarred and shot and dying- for all the world to see- and then appear hale and whole, worshiped and adored by millions. (Something tickled at his mind, something about that, but he pushed it away. Not now. Not now. He was tired.)
He had been played. All the sacrifices had been to humiliate him. He had been manipulated. He had been made a fool of.
He tasted ashes in his mouth.
And suddenly he felt tired. So. Very. Tired. The engine clicked as he shifted into gear again, heading back to the safe house. He had nowhere to go. There was as good a place as any. Even the thought of Valeriya did not lighten his heart. She couldn't understand. It was as if his life of meaning had been a giant and colossal joke and only now did he see he was the punchline.
And he despised that more than anything in all the universe.
Lost in dark thoughts, he made his way back...and frowned. There in the distance, he saw them. Walking along the road clad in their robes, toward him, though most of them were looking up at the sky, at the wonders of roads and buildings and trees, the great and glorious miracles of the above. He shook his head and realized he wore a smile, though it held no mirth.
He rolled down his window as he pulled alongside them. To their credit, most did not shy away in fear. He knew Valeriya wouldn't. He wouldn't waste time with recriminations. He could hardly have expected them to wait, for her to wait. A lifetime of waiting for visions to come true....it was easy to be caught up in the fulfillment. He knew this all too well. To easy to believe in the hype. "Follow me. I have what we need and I need help unloading it all."
Hopefully, there weren't people about to wonder if there was some new cult in town. The city was thick underfoot with them. Times like these always drew out the doomsdayers. (Again, something tickled his mind, but he pushed it away.)
The truck stopped in front of the building and he got out and opened the bed. It had been only a few hundred feet and by they time they joined him, he had the door open and the first few boxes unloaded and inside. Very quickly they made fast work of the rest of them. He was very careful to check those with the weapons and make sure they were locked at least. Telling them to leave them alone wasn't going to work, he realized.
Finally, he began unpacking those with the inoculations and antibiotics. Responsibility lay like a burden on his shoulders. They had known sicknesses below, so the idea could not be foreign to them. "In the Above, there are new sicknesses you have not faced. But these medicines will protect you." He took thme, himself, to demonstrate. It wouldn't hurt. A slap of the vial and then a prick. A few tabs to swallow with water. That was it. "You may get tired or feel warm for a little while. But that will pass." He gestured for them to come to him.
He wasn't surprised it was Valeriya who went first. Despite his mood, he smiled at her through tired eyes. An unspoken longing came to unburden himself to her but he pushed it away. The failure was his. The joke was him. The shame was his. He did what he needed to, but at this point, he was unsure why. Well, they would die, for one. Or get arrested. Or something else.
Faces and names passed by as he gave them what they needed. And then it was done. And he wanted to be alone. He wanted to tell them to stay inside. He wanted to. "It is dangerous outside. I will take you out shortly. But please stay for a little while. I must meditate." He looked at Valeriya. He would ask her to help him in this....but the words didn't come to his lips. He wasn't in control. That was the joke. Of anything. They would stay or they would go.
He turned and went to the room Valeriya had slept in, shut the door. It was silent. And he stood there, feeling the weight across his shoulders. The weight of the world, of mankind, laying there, on him. And then, he fell to his knees. He realized there was moisture at his eyes and growled in anger. No! He would not bow.
His heart pounded and he assumed the Chong Rann, tried to go to his meditative study beneath the Vatican...he wondered how long Petricus would hold out. They were too involved. Then again, the Church had not survived without contingencies and plausible deniability. Another avenue potentially closed off.
Again, part of the problem. And now the place wouldn't coalesce for him no matter how often he tried to form it. Instead, he kept finding himself in front of a large mountain dominating a massive plain. After the third time, he stopped fighting. He recognized this place. He had been here many times. Gabal Musa. Horeb. Mt. Sinai. He'd visited St. Catherine's Monestary there, where Tischendorf had discovered what was now called the Sinaitius Manuscript in a pile of garbage ready to be burned, one of the oldest extant texts of the Old and New Testaments to have ever been found until the Dead Sea Scrolls came to light a hundred years later. He'd visited the Mosque there, as well as the Orthodox Chapel. Everyone claimed this mountain.
So why was he here? He looked up, tired of the games. Show me, or not, was all he thought. And as if in answer, he saw a flash of light on the side of the mount. He nodded. Fair enough.
Without realizing how, he found himself at that point. There had been a path, long and treacherous. It was high up enough that the entire plain was visible to him. He could almost imagine the Israelites scattered across the plain like ants, along with the vast mixed company of Egyptians who'd accompanied them in the Exodus. Of course, if any of that happened.
But that wasn't the story he was experiencing. Because he was in front of a cave that led deep into the mountain. Far into the caverns- like the ones the Khylsty lived in, he realized- he saw a faint glow. He followed the twisting turns until he saw the back of a man in robes, on his knees, heard the deep rumbling of words. What are you doing here, Elijah. Yes. Elijah. Facing down Ahab and the Baal priests, the test of God-hood on Mt. Carmel.
A single threat from Jezebel and suddenly the man is overwhelmed with sorrow and fear and depression and flees hundreds of miles to the south, to this mountain, to hide. And God calls him out on it.
Is that what I am doing? He stepped forward and Elijah faded. He faced the voice. No. He was not running away. On his shoulders was the yoke of the world. On his back was the salvation of mankind, from the death the gods would bring.
In defiant act, he lifted the yoke off his shoulders and cast it to the ground, watched it roll and split. "What am I doing here? I am doing nothing!" He spit on the ground, at the yoke. Rage filled him to the core, acid spilled from his veins. Every sacrifice, every loss, every death...all for nothing. Even his daughter. Lissandra.
For nothing. Meaningless. "For decades I have fought for mankind, to save them. I am done. No more. They are your people. Your responsibility! If you want them to be saved, you save them. Or let them be destroyed! But I will not be your fool anymore!!!"
He stood there on his feet, defiant. Daring whoever it was that thought to use him like a fool to do his worst. He was done.
In his room, tears streamed down his cheeks as he sat, rage contorted his face, his head and shoulders bowed, unable to carry this any longer.
Balance, Armande thought bitterly as he drove. Balance indeed. The sun was bright over head but he did not see it as he drove, aimlessly? He needed to get back to Valeriya and the Khylsty. He knew she would be up soon. Would she listen and stay inside? His bitterness relaxed only enough to make him smirk. Probably not. She was like him. Self willed, especially when given the responsibility. Just as likely to do the opposite from what was told simply to prove he was no one's to command.
And that was the real problem, wasn't it? He had always been willful. He'd been obedient to his trainers and to those in charge, true. It was part of growing up, being groomed for command. Learning what was necessary. But also learning to trust your instincts. When he became Atharim, when he became the Regus, Vicar of Iscariot, it was on his shoulders, now. And he had never, not once shirked his responsibilities. He had never shied away from any sacrifice, no matter how great.
And it had been great. Too great. He shied away from one memory. Culminating in the attack on Apoll....no. On Nikolai Brandon. Self styled Ascendancy. The words burned in his mind but he refused to shrink from it. Brandon. It had been worth it. The Atharim were outed in an era where governments and organizations really had the ability to track them down, if they dug deep enough. They were scattered to the wind now.
The propaganda ministers had done their work. Already, he could feel the Atharim tearing apart. He had thought to clear the weak, the dead and the chaff, to leave them strong. But they had done their work well. He wondered how many would register.
Still, it had been worth it. He realized where he was and paused, looking at the hulking pile of rock and stone and timber, the smell of smoke still in the air. Baccarat, all the treasures beneath, everything he had brought with him, gone. But it had been worth it.
Apollyon was dead. There was always a price to pay. And so it had been worth the cost.
But the...man...wasn't dead. The sacrifice had been for nothing. All of them. The Atharim scattered and broken, for nothing. Priceless artifacts and scrolls and tablets from antiquity destroyed or plundered, for nothing. His orobouros, torn like the people he directed. Those he loved, torn from him.
For nothing.
Rage continued to grow, as he drove, now realizing where he was going. Not too close. But close enough. Not for nothing. There in the distance stood the Arch. The testament of a false god. Powerful and unbroken.
Not for nothing. No. The opposite. To prove that Brandon was invincible. He could be burned and scarred and shot and dying- for all the world to see- and then appear hale and whole, worshiped and adored by millions. (Something tickled at his mind, something about that, but he pushed it away. Not now. Not now. He was tired.)
He had been played. All the sacrifices had been to humiliate him. He had been manipulated. He had been made a fool of.
He tasted ashes in his mouth.
And suddenly he felt tired. So. Very. Tired. The engine clicked as he shifted into gear again, heading back to the safe house. He had nowhere to go. There was as good a place as any. Even the thought of Valeriya did not lighten his heart. She couldn't understand. It was as if his life of meaning had been a giant and colossal joke and only now did he see he was the punchline.
And he despised that more than anything in all the universe.
Lost in dark thoughts, he made his way back...and frowned. There in the distance, he saw them. Walking along the road clad in their robes, toward him, though most of them were looking up at the sky, at the wonders of roads and buildings and trees, the great and glorious miracles of the above. He shook his head and realized he wore a smile, though it held no mirth.
He rolled down his window as he pulled alongside them. To their credit, most did not shy away in fear. He knew Valeriya wouldn't. He wouldn't waste time with recriminations. He could hardly have expected them to wait, for her to wait. A lifetime of waiting for visions to come true....it was easy to be caught up in the fulfillment. He knew this all too well. To easy to believe in the hype. "Follow me. I have what we need and I need help unloading it all."
Hopefully, there weren't people about to wonder if there was some new cult in town. The city was thick underfoot with them. Times like these always drew out the doomsdayers. (Again, something tickled his mind, but he pushed it away.)
The truck stopped in front of the building and he got out and opened the bed. It had been only a few hundred feet and by they time they joined him, he had the door open and the first few boxes unloaded and inside. Very quickly they made fast work of the rest of them. He was very careful to check those with the weapons and make sure they were locked at least. Telling them to leave them alone wasn't going to work, he realized.
Finally, he began unpacking those with the inoculations and antibiotics. Responsibility lay like a burden on his shoulders. They had known sicknesses below, so the idea could not be foreign to them. "In the Above, there are new sicknesses you have not faced. But these medicines will protect you." He took thme, himself, to demonstrate. It wouldn't hurt. A slap of the vial and then a prick. A few tabs to swallow with water. That was it. "You may get tired or feel warm for a little while. But that will pass." He gestured for them to come to him.
He wasn't surprised it was Valeriya who went first. Despite his mood, he smiled at her through tired eyes. An unspoken longing came to unburden himself to her but he pushed it away. The failure was his. The joke was him. The shame was his. He did what he needed to, but at this point, he was unsure why. Well, they would die, for one. Or get arrested. Or something else.
Faces and names passed by as he gave them what they needed. And then it was done. And he wanted to be alone. He wanted to tell them to stay inside. He wanted to. "It is dangerous outside. I will take you out shortly. But please stay for a little while. I must meditate." He looked at Valeriya. He would ask her to help him in this....but the words didn't come to his lips. He wasn't in control. That was the joke. Of anything. They would stay or they would go.
He turned and went to the room Valeriya had slept in, shut the door. It was silent. And he stood there, feeling the weight across his shoulders. The weight of the world, of mankind, laying there, on him. And then, he fell to his knees. He realized there was moisture at his eyes and growled in anger. No! He would not bow.
His heart pounded and he assumed the Chong Rann, tried to go to his meditative study beneath the Vatican...he wondered how long Petricus would hold out. They were too involved. Then again, the Church had not survived without contingencies and plausible deniability. Another avenue potentially closed off.
Again, part of the problem. And now the place wouldn't coalesce for him no matter how often he tried to form it. Instead, he kept finding himself in front of a large mountain dominating a massive plain. After the third time, he stopped fighting. He recognized this place. He had been here many times. Gabal Musa. Horeb. Mt. Sinai. He'd visited St. Catherine's Monestary there, where Tischendorf had discovered what was now called the Sinaitius Manuscript in a pile of garbage ready to be burned, one of the oldest extant texts of the Old and New Testaments to have ever been found until the Dead Sea Scrolls came to light a hundred years later. He'd visited the Mosque there, as well as the Orthodox Chapel. Everyone claimed this mountain.
So why was he here? He looked up, tired of the games. Show me, or not, was all he thought. And as if in answer, he saw a flash of light on the side of the mount. He nodded. Fair enough.
Without realizing how, he found himself at that point. There had been a path, long and treacherous. It was high up enough that the entire plain was visible to him. He could almost imagine the Israelites scattered across the plain like ants, along with the vast mixed company of Egyptians who'd accompanied them in the Exodus. Of course, if any of that happened.
But that wasn't the story he was experiencing. Because he was in front of a cave that led deep into the mountain. Far into the caverns- like the ones the Khylsty lived in, he realized- he saw a faint glow. He followed the twisting turns until he saw the back of a man in robes, on his knees, heard the deep rumbling of words. What are you doing here, Elijah. Yes. Elijah. Facing down Ahab and the Baal priests, the test of God-hood on Mt. Carmel.
A single threat from Jezebel and suddenly the man is overwhelmed with sorrow and fear and depression and flees hundreds of miles to the south, to this mountain, to hide. And God calls him out on it.
Is that what I am doing? He stepped forward and Elijah faded. He faced the voice. No. He was not running away. On his shoulders was the yoke of the world. On his back was the salvation of mankind, from the death the gods would bring.
In defiant act, he lifted the yoke off his shoulders and cast it to the ground, watched it roll and split. "What am I doing here? I am doing nothing!" He spit on the ground, at the yoke. Rage filled him to the core, acid spilled from his veins. Every sacrifice, every loss, every death...all for nothing. Even his daughter. Lissandra.
For nothing. Meaningless. "For decades I have fought for mankind, to save them. I am done. No more. They are your people. Your responsibility! If you want them to be saved, you save them. Or let them be destroyed! But I will not be your fool anymore!!!"
He stood there on his feet, defiant. Daring whoever it was that thought to use him like a fool to do his worst. He was done.
In his room, tears streamed down his cheeks as he sat, rage contorted his face, his head and shoulders bowed, unable to carry this any longer.