Armande smiled sadly as Nikolai disappeared. Not that he expected a different outcome. Clearly, their fates had been set long before they were both born.
No. It was something wistful. What might have been, they two. Of course, that was but one among many what-might-have-beens.
Armande had lived a solitary life for most of his years. Destiny made sure to cut short any and all connections he had forged despite the impossible circumstances, slicing the deepest of those bonds with ease, red hot blade cauterizing the wound.
But the pain itself was of no consideration to whatever entity had shaped his life.
He could still sometimes see his dearest Gregorio, eyes filled with life and joy, whether hunched over a manuscript, running along a path, or in his arms. The first time Armande had known affection and love since his mother had passed. He had not imagined how starved his soul had been until somehow, improbably, this beautiful man had reached into his heart and shared life with him.
Those same eyes bulging purple the last time he saw him, the light snuffed out, not even a trail of smoke to indicate there had ever been a flame.
It had taken him months to recover, the grief so deep he despaired he'd ever get past it. For a time he had found some brief comfort in the arms of a childhood friend. And gradually, he had found resolve to move on.
No. The sealed wound had still burned, the nerve endings never truly deadening. Instead, they became merely tolerable, a constant companion.
Jova. Lissandra. His heart still clenched at her name, those feelings still raw, rage at the cruelty of fate, of his lot.
All to a purpose. All for Nikolai to have an enemy who could defeat him.
But in another life, he and Nikolai could have been friends, creating the future together. Or he and Gregorio could have lived out their lives as companions and lovers, their minds endlessly questing into the great mysteries of the past. He and Jova could have enjoyed their endless battles together, the deep dark blue of the desert night their tent, hunting by day, enjoying the pleasure of their bodies in passionate embrace by night.
In another world, his daughter was a god....and he didn't care. He'd marvel at her works, sit in awe as Lissandra healed and did good to all, without greed or avarice for power. And he'd give advice and impart wisdom, joyful to sit in the background and be eclipsed by his progeny. He would be a father and a grandfather, eventually dying happy surrounded by loved ones.
But life was life. It was what it was. And none of that had happened. Instead, he had suffered, had his heart nearly burned out of him. But he was also the Regus of the Atharim, the only man capable of destroying Apollyon.
And the fates had not left him alone. He had dear Valeriya. His Eye. His vision into the mists of the future, though he did wish that it could be clearer. More than merely a tool, Valeriya was his consort, an equal where he thought to find none. A fiery leopard. His great love.
Nothing good comes without painful sacrifice.
And Nikolai, there at the end, made it clear that he embraced his role as Apollyon, grotesque distorted and suffering souls writhing in the twists and folds of his robe, agonizing and without number.
Nikolai knew what he was, knew what the cost would be. It was not him who would pay it. Man would shed oceans of blood for his visions to become real. And it bothered him not at all.
He embraced it.
All men must die. Di Inferi. Clearly, he had some contact with them. The gesture had seemed calculated, as if purposeful in its attempt to elicit a reaction. Which bore thinking. What was their role in this?
He stood. It was clear the war had only begun. Battles might be won or lost. Tactics were not strategy. Any general knew this. He needed a grand plan. He needed a clear vision. And he needed every weapon to hand.
Fate had sent him to the Khylsty. For Valeriya specifically. His Eye. The treasure of his heart. But there were other treasures too, things he needed. It was time.
No. It was something wistful. What might have been, they two. Of course, that was but one among many what-might-have-beens.
Armande had lived a solitary life for most of his years. Destiny made sure to cut short any and all connections he had forged despite the impossible circumstances, slicing the deepest of those bonds with ease, red hot blade cauterizing the wound.
But the pain itself was of no consideration to whatever entity had shaped his life.
He could still sometimes see his dearest Gregorio, eyes filled with life and joy, whether hunched over a manuscript, running along a path, or in his arms. The first time Armande had known affection and love since his mother had passed. He had not imagined how starved his soul had been until somehow, improbably, this beautiful man had reached into his heart and shared life with him.
Those same eyes bulging purple the last time he saw him, the light snuffed out, not even a trail of smoke to indicate there had ever been a flame.
It had taken him months to recover, the grief so deep he despaired he'd ever get past it. For a time he had found some brief comfort in the arms of a childhood friend. And gradually, he had found resolve to move on.
No. The sealed wound had still burned, the nerve endings never truly deadening. Instead, they became merely tolerable, a constant companion.
Jova. Lissandra. His heart still clenched at her name, those feelings still raw, rage at the cruelty of fate, of his lot.
All to a purpose. All for Nikolai to have an enemy who could defeat him.
But in another life, he and Nikolai could have been friends, creating the future together. Or he and Gregorio could have lived out their lives as companions and lovers, their minds endlessly questing into the great mysteries of the past. He and Jova could have enjoyed their endless battles together, the deep dark blue of the desert night their tent, hunting by day, enjoying the pleasure of their bodies in passionate embrace by night.
In another world, his daughter was a god....and he didn't care. He'd marvel at her works, sit in awe as Lissandra healed and did good to all, without greed or avarice for power. And he'd give advice and impart wisdom, joyful to sit in the background and be eclipsed by his progeny. He would be a father and a grandfather, eventually dying happy surrounded by loved ones.
But life was life. It was what it was. And none of that had happened. Instead, he had suffered, had his heart nearly burned out of him. But he was also the Regus of the Atharim, the only man capable of destroying Apollyon.
And the fates had not left him alone. He had dear Valeriya. His Eye. His vision into the mists of the future, though he did wish that it could be clearer. More than merely a tool, Valeriya was his consort, an equal where he thought to find none. A fiery leopard. His great love.
Nothing good comes without painful sacrifice.
And Nikolai, there at the end, made it clear that he embraced his role as Apollyon, grotesque distorted and suffering souls writhing in the twists and folds of his robe, agonizing and without number.
Nikolai knew what he was, knew what the cost would be. It was not him who would pay it. Man would shed oceans of blood for his visions to become real. And it bothered him not at all.
He embraced it.
All men must die. Di Inferi. Clearly, he had some contact with them. The gesture had seemed calculated, as if purposeful in its attempt to elicit a reaction. Which bore thinking. What was their role in this?
He stood. It was clear the war had only begun. Battles might be won or lost. Tactics were not strategy. Any general knew this. He needed a grand plan. He needed a clear vision. And he needed every weapon to hand.
Fate had sent him to the Khylsty. For Valeriya specifically. His Eye. The treasure of his heart. But there were other treasures too, things he needed. It was time.