12-30-2017, 04:54 PM
Valeriya's green eyes flashed fire, so hot he could almost feel the heat emanating in waves. Her teeth were bared, stance ready and willing, head held with pride.
And then she was in front of him, her fingers grabbing his hair, the scratching of her sharp nails digging into his scalp, yanking his head up to hers.
The room changed at her touch. A mist came over his eyes as the Chong Rann took him. He was in the cave again, peering into darkness, had been waiting for his answer. Daring the One to show his face, daring him to explain Himself. Defiant. Unbent. The great Armande Nicodemus.
And he saw her green eyes in the darkness. No. She was in the cave. Her voice came from a distance, as if he had infinite time between each sentence, each word calling to mind his failures.
Or rather, his success. He saw clearly now. So very clearly. How his life had been planned from the start. He had been selected, chosen by someone. The Atharim probably. And each step had been planned, everything part of the grooming. Even the pain. Especially the pain. Gregorio's hanging body, orchestrated. Jova's final mission, to disappear. Perhaps not Lissandra. They could not have predicted...could they?
It did not matter. Every challenge, he had faced successfully. Every loss, every hurdle.
That was his defeat. That was why he failed. For too long, the Atharim cowered at his whim. They flinched when he spoke. He took defiance and challenge as disobedience and weakness. Punit's refusal to study the texts any longer had been a mortal sin, worthy of death. The Convocation and Father Stone's public execution. The Archangels.
He had believed in himself. No. He believed his Mythology. He was Armande Nicodemus, Regus of the Atharim, Vicar of Iscariot.
"And how many gods have you killed Great Regus? Great slayer of beasts? How many gods? Were they babies? Weak and defenseless? Or were they beasts like your mighty apollyon?"
The words cut him to the core.
The mighty Armande Nicodemus, slayer of mighty babies and of defenseless youths. He felt scorn for himself.
So proud, so arrogant.
Would he kill the prophesied Apollyon so easily? Would he destroy the greatest danger the world ever faced in just a moment?
This was a war, not a single battle.
The face in the shadow was hers, her words leaping out to his heart. "Some things are hard!"
And in the moment, he knew. She was the key.
The cave dissolved again and it was just her, in his face. And he smiled, a smile of life and death. Of joy and pain. Of elation and sorrow. She was his. He was hers.
His hands flashed up and grabbed her by the wrists hard, yanked down, heedless of any tearing of gripped hair, and he spun her so that her arms were yanked tight around her body, binding her against him. Her hair was in his face, the smell of the fresh shampoo intoxicating.
He bit her ear sharply and snarled, "Come at me then, Eye!" And he spun her free, ready for her attack.
Edited by Regus, Dec 30 2017, 05:02 PM.
And then she was in front of him, her fingers grabbing his hair, the scratching of her sharp nails digging into his scalp, yanking his head up to hers.
The room changed at her touch. A mist came over his eyes as the Chong Rann took him. He was in the cave again, peering into darkness, had been waiting for his answer. Daring the One to show his face, daring him to explain Himself. Defiant. Unbent. The great Armande Nicodemus.
And he saw her green eyes in the darkness. No. She was in the cave. Her voice came from a distance, as if he had infinite time between each sentence, each word calling to mind his failures.
Or rather, his success. He saw clearly now. So very clearly. How his life had been planned from the start. He had been selected, chosen by someone. The Atharim probably. And each step had been planned, everything part of the grooming. Even the pain. Especially the pain. Gregorio's hanging body, orchestrated. Jova's final mission, to disappear. Perhaps not Lissandra. They could not have predicted...could they?
It did not matter. Every challenge, he had faced successfully. Every loss, every hurdle.
That was his defeat. That was why he failed. For too long, the Atharim cowered at his whim. They flinched when he spoke. He took defiance and challenge as disobedience and weakness. Punit's refusal to study the texts any longer had been a mortal sin, worthy of death. The Convocation and Father Stone's public execution. The Archangels.
He had believed in himself. No. He believed his Mythology. He was Armande Nicodemus, Regus of the Atharim, Vicar of Iscariot.
"And how many gods have you killed Great Regus? Great slayer of beasts? How many gods? Were they babies? Weak and defenseless? Or were they beasts like your mighty apollyon?"
The words cut him to the core.
The mighty Armande Nicodemus, slayer of mighty babies and of defenseless youths. He felt scorn for himself.
So proud, so arrogant.
Would he kill the prophesied Apollyon so easily? Would he destroy the greatest danger the world ever faced in just a moment?
This was a war, not a single battle.
The face in the shadow was hers, her words leaping out to his heart. "Some things are hard!"
And in the moment, he knew. She was the key.
The cave dissolved again and it was just her, in his face. And he smiled, a smile of life and death. Of joy and pain. Of elation and sorrow. She was his. He was hers.
His hands flashed up and grabbed her by the wrists hard, yanked down, heedless of any tearing of gripped hair, and he spun her so that her arms were yanked tight around her body, binding her against him. Her hair was in his face, the smell of the fresh shampoo intoxicating.
He bit her ear sharply and snarled, "Come at me then, Eye!" And he spun her free, ready for her attack.
Edited by Regus, Dec 30 2017, 05:02 PM.