03-05-2019, 01:23 AM
It boggled his understanding, which was likely why Armande flummoxed his logic so greatly, that the only real reason Armande stood against him was the strings of fate tied to their limbs. Prophecy ruled his motivation. How powerless he must feel to live a life riding the waves of great design, but who was the designer? Let not Armande say fortune, as though she was a mistress to court.
If this awareness was the sole revelation of their meeting, Nikolai would count it a success. He might have spoken to it until Armande levied his accusation. He studied the man a moment, how callously he spoke of killing those whom he deemed deserving, yet how empathetic he described mass casualty. As though he was no more sociopathic than himself. Two sides of the same coin, perhaps.
“You said it, I am the Lord of death, am I not?” For the first time, he might have accepted the cloak of darkness as a proud mantle.
The Ijiraq called him such a name, Aidoneous, lord of the grave, but peering backward through mists of memory was a futile task of his precious time. Perhaps the name held meaning, though.
“I received your message,” he said as though offering a symbol of praise to his enemy. Well-strategized, it said. “I cannot say it was well received,” he almost laughed, but it was a morbid joke. He assumed Armande was aware of the happenings within his home that night, how the Ijiraq woman escaped.
“I must say though, she was quite inspiring. It is said that the first Atharim stole the weapons the gods made to war upon each other, and turned them against the gods in defense, until all were destroyed. She must have been a corruption of one such weapon. It has me thinking how great the opportunities are for the future. So much untapped potential. We gods really are limited by our own creativity, wouldn’t you agree? How primitive they would judge our weapons of war.”
He thought a moment, studying the wrinkles around Armande’s eyes, “You realize I have only to outlive you a few more years and I have won forever.”
If this awareness was the sole revelation of their meeting, Nikolai would count it a success. He might have spoken to it until Armande levied his accusation. He studied the man a moment, how callously he spoke of killing those whom he deemed deserving, yet how empathetic he described mass casualty. As though he was no more sociopathic than himself. Two sides of the same coin, perhaps.
“You said it, I am the Lord of death, am I not?” For the first time, he might have accepted the cloak of darkness as a proud mantle.
The Ijiraq called him such a name, Aidoneous, lord of the grave, but peering backward through mists of memory was a futile task of his precious time. Perhaps the name held meaning, though.
“I received your message,” he said as though offering a symbol of praise to his enemy. Well-strategized, it said. “I cannot say it was well received,” he almost laughed, but it was a morbid joke. He assumed Armande was aware of the happenings within his home that night, how the Ijiraq woman escaped.
“I must say though, she was quite inspiring. It is said that the first Atharim stole the weapons the gods made to war upon each other, and turned them against the gods in defense, until all were destroyed. She must have been a corruption of one such weapon. It has me thinking how great the opportunities are for the future. So much untapped potential. We gods really are limited by our own creativity, wouldn’t you agree? How primitive they would judge our weapons of war.”
He thought a moment, studying the wrinkles around Armande’s eyes, “You realize I have only to outlive you a few more years and I have won forever.”