The storm had passed, the eye of the hurricane. Oh, the danger was still there. Rowen and the boy played with powers not theirs to enjoy. The boy, he suspected, knew full well his abilities. And did not seem to care. Life meant little to one such as him. He had no doubt many dead bodies could be piled at his feet, of no more concern than a few stepped on ants.
The woman, on the other hand, had not fully succumbed. It would happen, he knew. It had to. Armande could not conceive of a universe where that much power had no sway on a human soul.
He knew. And realized how much of a blessing it was to be denied that temptation.
And in that moment, a pathway in his mind opened up. A vision, so startlingly real, his breath caught.
He had known. He had always known. Even when the cost was more pain than any man should experience, he'd never doudbted.
And yet never before had the reasons been so clear. For his entire life, it had seemed it was found in histories, carefully preserved and hidden inside ancient myth and legend, oral tales passed on over millenia. And yet he had never questioned why he knew. Why he believed enough.
But the vision...the truth was so blindingly clear as to be obvious, breathtaking once perceived. A vision. Or perhaps a logical extrapolation. Despite his lipservice to Valeriya that he was the Great One, he privately believed no such thing, nor claimed to have knowledge from anything beyond.
She was his Eye and he was content with that.
Whatever it was, though, it was Truth of the Platonic kind. Beyond conjecture.
He saw himself somehow wielding the power of the gods. In his mind, he saw energies flow from and through him, saw accolyte and follower at his feet, saw the working of his will upon the world reflected in warp and weft of such power. It was far beyond what he commanded as Regus of the Atharim. The Latin sprang to mind, unbidden. Adorare. Adoration. Worship.
And he, just from that vision alone, felt the stirring in his heart, an ache, a craving unlike any he could imagine. The hunger. The image of Brandon on the balcony, crowds of thousands before him crying in awe, weeping at the God made flesh before them.
The thirst was as palpable as any he had ever felt in the desert. Nor, in his moment of blinding honesty, did he deny the sharp twinge of jealousy that he finally recognized, that had always been there. For what Brandon possessed.
Anyone can fall. Me included. Intellectually, he had known that. He was human. All humans can be corrupted by power. That of the gods is the greatest. Ergo, no one is immune. Modus Ponens at its simplest.
But there was a difference from inferring truth and experiencing it. And here and now, he lived it.
Valeriya was in danger. Not at the moment. She had everything well in hand. The silent two had left. The boy was quietly observing. And she was drawing Rowen in.
But the danger remained.
His revelation lit a new fire in his soul. He would let Valeriya play her game with the girl. The danger was not immediate. But his mind churned as he thought out into the future. Soon.
In the meantime, though, at her introduction, he merely looked at the girl, blue fire scouring its way into her soul. Weighing and measuring. When he did speak, it was only a brief sentence. "I am Armande of the Khlysty." Truth and deception all in one.
Valeriya would have her moment. But she could not avoid the truth forever.
The woman, on the other hand, had not fully succumbed. It would happen, he knew. It had to. Armande could not conceive of a universe where that much power had no sway on a human soul.
He knew. And realized how much of a blessing it was to be denied that temptation.
And in that moment, a pathway in his mind opened up. A vision, so startlingly real, his breath caught.
He had known. He had always known. Even when the cost was more pain than any man should experience, he'd never doudbted.
And yet never before had the reasons been so clear. For his entire life, it had seemed it was found in histories, carefully preserved and hidden inside ancient myth and legend, oral tales passed on over millenia. And yet he had never questioned why he knew. Why he believed enough.
But the vision...the truth was so blindingly clear as to be obvious, breathtaking once perceived. A vision. Or perhaps a logical extrapolation. Despite his lipservice to Valeriya that he was the Great One, he privately believed no such thing, nor claimed to have knowledge from anything beyond.
She was his Eye and he was content with that.
Whatever it was, though, it was Truth of the Platonic kind. Beyond conjecture.
He saw himself somehow wielding the power of the gods. In his mind, he saw energies flow from and through him, saw accolyte and follower at his feet, saw the working of his will upon the world reflected in warp and weft of such power. It was far beyond what he commanded as Regus of the Atharim. The Latin sprang to mind, unbidden. Adorare. Adoration. Worship.
And he, just from that vision alone, felt the stirring in his heart, an ache, a craving unlike any he could imagine. The hunger. The image of Brandon on the balcony, crowds of thousands before him crying in awe, weeping at the God made flesh before them.
The thirst was as palpable as any he had ever felt in the desert. Nor, in his moment of blinding honesty, did he deny the sharp twinge of jealousy that he finally recognized, that had always been there. For what Brandon possessed.
Anyone can fall. Me included. Intellectually, he had known that. He was human. All humans can be corrupted by power. That of the gods is the greatest. Ergo, no one is immune. Modus Ponens at its simplest.
But there was a difference from inferring truth and experiencing it. And here and now, he lived it.
Valeriya was in danger. Not at the moment. She had everything well in hand. The silent two had left. The boy was quietly observing. And she was drawing Rowen in.
But the danger remained.
His revelation lit a new fire in his soul. He would let Valeriya play her game with the girl. The danger was not immediate. But his mind churned as he thought out into the future. Soon.
In the meantime, though, at her introduction, he merely looked at the girl, blue fire scouring its way into her soul. Weighing and measuring. When he did speak, it was only a brief sentence. "I am Armande of the Khlysty." Truth and deception all in one.
Valeriya would have her moment. But she could not avoid the truth forever.