Armande studied Nikolai curiously. He offered not one shred of defense. Not one excuse. Not one denial. Merely acceptance. What must be must be. Lord of the Grave. A chill traveled his spine. Not at the title. At the easy acceptance of it and all that it meant. Here was a man resigned to the carnage and destruction he'd bring to the world. Resigned and at peace with it.
After a moment, he spoke. "The gods of old did indeed possess creativity. They were at their peak, both in power and numbers. I- and you too-" he smiled slightly "-have both fought and killed the tools of their endless wars." He looked of into the distance, musing. "Their need for endless creations- new ways to kill others of their kind- was insatiable." A small smile touched his lips, his eyes a burning blue flame, as he turned back to look at Brandon. "Before we Atharim exterminated them, of course."
He tried to imagine Nikolai then, young and devoted to his training. Of that he had no doubt. One did not rise to power as this man had without supreme will and self discipline. He had read Rahved's private dictations and personal diaries, his notes. None of them mentioned Brandon. Then again, the man had been driven mad, and had become obsessed with the death of his son. Fury and a need for revenge fueled him to the point that it affected the way he led the Atharim. After his death, the choice of Wijngaard was an understandable if still foolish decision.
So how long ago was it when Brandon had trained? Before he suddenly appeared out of nowhere, an American who would somehow end up becoming president of the Russian Federation. 2013. He knew it from the documentaries and articles, the endless hagiography and biographies that surround this man who believed himself a God. And ten years prior in a monastery in Siberia. 2002 or 2003 maybe.
They had both been 19.
And Armande suddenly smiled. He could see the Eye floating in the darkness, felt the presence in the great beyond. Faith. It amazed him.
His voice was quiet, almost friendly. "I wonder if you have considered who your opponent really is. Me, of course. That goes without saying," he said, airily waving off the obvious fact. He leaned forward, fixing Nikolai with a stare. "But where did I come from?" He paused. "You did not come to the Atharim's attention until you were in your late 20's. At least not according to any records I could find. And I have looked. And yet, I have been training to be your enemy since I was in my early teens, never knowing you existed. Apollyon was some prophesied threat for the far distant future. I certainly had no inkling that he had been born." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Do you realize what that indicates?"
He rubbed at the stubble on his chin absently. "I was born one day- less than 24 hours- after you drew your first breath, to a poor prostitute girl. My father, whoever he was, was nothing more than a random sire. My beginning, my path. Every step of my life has been training, a cauldron, a furnace, forging me to to be here, to stand against you. Long before anyone knew Apollyon lived, I was being prepared- history, science, mathematics, languages, Atharim lore, legends, the endless hunts." He couldn't help the next, given Brandon's insinuating comments on the female Ijiraq. "I command the Ijiraq because of that preparation. They do not attack at your word."
He steepled his fingers pointedly. "So the question is, Nikolai Brandon, Lord of the Grave, Apollyon, by whom was all this set in motion? What eternal superhuman force or entity out there is your true enemy? Because make no mistake. Our being here, tied together from the beginning as we are, is no mere accident."
After a moment, he spoke. "The gods of old did indeed possess creativity. They were at their peak, both in power and numbers. I- and you too-" he smiled slightly "-have both fought and killed the tools of their endless wars." He looked of into the distance, musing. "Their need for endless creations- new ways to kill others of their kind- was insatiable." A small smile touched his lips, his eyes a burning blue flame, as he turned back to look at Brandon. "Before we Atharim exterminated them, of course."
He tried to imagine Nikolai then, young and devoted to his training. Of that he had no doubt. One did not rise to power as this man had without supreme will and self discipline. He had read Rahved's private dictations and personal diaries, his notes. None of them mentioned Brandon. Then again, the man had been driven mad, and had become obsessed with the death of his son. Fury and a need for revenge fueled him to the point that it affected the way he led the Atharim. After his death, the choice of Wijngaard was an understandable if still foolish decision.
So how long ago was it when Brandon had trained? Before he suddenly appeared out of nowhere, an American who would somehow end up becoming president of the Russian Federation. 2013. He knew it from the documentaries and articles, the endless hagiography and biographies that surround this man who believed himself a God. And ten years prior in a monastery in Siberia. 2002 or 2003 maybe.
They had both been 19.
And Armande suddenly smiled. He could see the Eye floating in the darkness, felt the presence in the great beyond. Faith. It amazed him.
His voice was quiet, almost friendly. "I wonder if you have considered who your opponent really is. Me, of course. That goes without saying," he said, airily waving off the obvious fact. He leaned forward, fixing Nikolai with a stare. "But where did I come from?" He paused. "You did not come to the Atharim's attention until you were in your late 20's. At least not according to any records I could find. And I have looked. And yet, I have been training to be your enemy since I was in my early teens, never knowing you existed. Apollyon was some prophesied threat for the far distant future. I certainly had no inkling that he had been born." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Do you realize what that indicates?"
He rubbed at the stubble on his chin absently. "I was born one day- less than 24 hours- after you drew your first breath, to a poor prostitute girl. My father, whoever he was, was nothing more than a random sire. My beginning, my path. Every step of my life has been training, a cauldron, a furnace, forging me to to be here, to stand against you. Long before anyone knew Apollyon lived, I was being prepared- history, science, mathematics, languages, Atharim lore, legends, the endless hunts." He couldn't help the next, given Brandon's insinuating comments on the female Ijiraq. "I command the Ijiraq because of that preparation. They do not attack at your word."
He steepled his fingers pointedly. "So the question is, Nikolai Brandon, Lord of the Grave, Apollyon, by whom was all this set in motion? What eternal superhuman force or entity out there is your true enemy? Because make no mistake. Our being here, tied together from the beginning as we are, is no mere accident."