02-16-2019, 11:07 PM
Armande sat in his chair, headset on, focusing on his heartbeat and breathing, finding the rhythm, a river bubbling, a sea, waves gently lapping against the shore.
Everything began to slow. His eyes closed, he still saw the room, heard the sounds from outside, felt the press of the air as the conditioner kicked on, the slight change in temperature and the faint movement of the hairs on his arm.
One by one, he began to remove items from his vision of the room. The desk. The computer. The bed. The walls. He was in formless black now. Next, he shut out the sounds, the hum of the fan, the faint noises beyond the door, until dead silence hung in the air. The sensations of the chair underneath him, the aches and twists of his body, the feel of the air and temperature against his neck and face. The smells in the room vanished, each signal cut off and ignored. Finally, his body itself was erased.
He hung in nothing, a mind floating free, as free as any person could be. Almost.
Odd. He had the sensation of being watched. Of a presence. It did not make him nervous, exactly. But it was alien. Strangely, he felt a sense of comfort. If he had lips he would have smiled.
So much had changed since his descent. Armande had always been the practical one. Perhaps others might find that an odd way to describw him, given his position as leader of the Atharim, a hunter of creatures out of lore. Barovsky certainly had disdained his hunger for esoteric texts and legends, prophecies and myth, as if it were all useless theory.
But for Armande, every bit of that was for a purpose. The truth hidden inside the stories. The nuggets of gold amid the dross. The world was as it was. And he sought every tool to help in the struggle, to win the war. It was as practical as he could imagine even if those without the intelligence or foresight didn't see it.
The Khyslsty had changed that. A people hidden and vouchsafed for some future time. Valeriya most of all. The Eye, who looked beyond.
It was not simply a matter of having another tool, another source of information for the war.
No. What he had found went far beyond that.
There was a Mind at work. A Purposer. A Planner. God. Fate. Maya. Qismet. However it could be called, something more than humanity was here.
And the most amazing thing had happened in the process. Armande had found faith. He had disdained it his entire life even as he used it over others. His ego could not conceive of trusting to anything but himself.
But in hindsight, there had been a hand at work. Guiding events down to this day. Preparing him for this moment.
It was not an accident that he and Apollyon were born the same year. Indeed, Armande had been birthed the very day after Nikolai Brandon first drew breath. Every step of his life, long before the man set down the road to becoming the Destroyer, had been made to shape him into his opponent. Of the man he would see in minutes.
And so Armande knew he was not alone. Peace enveloped him. The gift of the Eye, Valeriya. Faith. Trust. Armande knew the victory would come.
Spirit at rest, he let the meditation fade into mist, each sensation returning one at a time, until he again sat in his chair, ready.
It was time. He flipped on the connection and the headset lit up. It was a familiar sensation. In that meditative formlessness, he would often recreate his offices in the Vatican, but far larger. His own virtual world.
This was comparable.
A table formed, long with a chair at each end. Armande stood behind his. gazing at the man at the other end. He studied him. The reports from the Ball were not vague. He looked for signs of stress and frustration. A small smile played on his lips.
But he said nothing. Brandon called the meeting. Let him speak first.
Everything began to slow. His eyes closed, he still saw the room, heard the sounds from outside, felt the press of the air as the conditioner kicked on, the slight change in temperature and the faint movement of the hairs on his arm.
One by one, he began to remove items from his vision of the room. The desk. The computer. The bed. The walls. He was in formless black now. Next, he shut out the sounds, the hum of the fan, the faint noises beyond the door, until dead silence hung in the air. The sensations of the chair underneath him, the aches and twists of his body, the feel of the air and temperature against his neck and face. The smells in the room vanished, each signal cut off and ignored. Finally, his body itself was erased.
He hung in nothing, a mind floating free, as free as any person could be. Almost.
Odd. He had the sensation of being watched. Of a presence. It did not make him nervous, exactly. But it was alien. Strangely, he felt a sense of comfort. If he had lips he would have smiled.
So much had changed since his descent. Armande had always been the practical one. Perhaps others might find that an odd way to describw him, given his position as leader of the Atharim, a hunter of creatures out of lore. Barovsky certainly had disdained his hunger for esoteric texts and legends, prophecies and myth, as if it were all useless theory.
But for Armande, every bit of that was for a purpose. The truth hidden inside the stories. The nuggets of gold amid the dross. The world was as it was. And he sought every tool to help in the struggle, to win the war. It was as practical as he could imagine even if those without the intelligence or foresight didn't see it.
The Khyslsty had changed that. A people hidden and vouchsafed for some future time. Valeriya most of all. The Eye, who looked beyond.
It was not simply a matter of having another tool, another source of information for the war.
No. What he had found went far beyond that.
There was a Mind at work. A Purposer. A Planner. God. Fate. Maya. Qismet. However it could be called, something more than humanity was here.
And the most amazing thing had happened in the process. Armande had found faith. He had disdained it his entire life even as he used it over others. His ego could not conceive of trusting to anything but himself.
But in hindsight, there had been a hand at work. Guiding events down to this day. Preparing him for this moment.
It was not an accident that he and Apollyon were born the same year. Indeed, Armande had been birthed the very day after Nikolai Brandon first drew breath. Every step of his life, long before the man set down the road to becoming the Destroyer, had been made to shape him into his opponent. Of the man he would see in minutes.
And so Armande knew he was not alone. Peace enveloped him. The gift of the Eye, Valeriya. Faith. Trust. Armande knew the victory would come.
Spirit at rest, he let the meditation fade into mist, each sensation returning one at a time, until he again sat in his chair, ready.
It was time. He flipped on the connection and the headset lit up. It was a familiar sensation. In that meditative formlessness, he would often recreate his offices in the Vatican, but far larger. His own virtual world.
This was comparable.
A table formed, long with a chair at each end. Armande stood behind his. gazing at the man at the other end. He studied him. The reports from the Ball were not vague. He looked for signs of stress and frustration. A small smile played on his lips.
But he said nothing. Brandon called the meeting. Let him speak first.