The concern for Valeriya in Rowan's eyes- or eye, rather- was unmistakable. Despite his iron control, the image of her standing next to his beloved, red streaks streaming down her face, empty socket drawing his eye, the cheek and eyelid angry and puffy and already blackening, turned his stomach.
He was no stranger to gore. He had washed himself of blood and viscera more times than he could remember. He had willingly taken wounds in battle. And he knew how powerful hallucinogens could be.
And yet, just imagining taking his fingers and jamming then into his socket to rip his eyeball out, the trail of nerves and muscle fibres dangling there...
Armande had sacrificed more than most could fathom. Of his own heart. He would never forget that price.
And yet, he wondered in what universe he would be willing to do that to himself. A worm of...weakness slithered in him. Shame. But something rebelled violently. No. He was wrong! He was seeing it wrong. He had to be. No one could have given as much as he.
No. Valeriya represented something beyond this world. An incarnation, perhaps. Vishnu had his tenth and final one, according to some Hindu legend. Kalki riding on his white horse sword protruding from his lips.
There was enough evidence that something sat behind the fabric of space and time. The fact that he and Apollyon were born literally one day apart was proof of that. That he found his way to a people waiting for him, his face cragged onto a rock wall, was proof. That he found, for truly the first time, a person to stand by his side and be, not just his equal, but even his teacher, was proof of that.
In the face of all that, the unmistakable and undeniable evidence before him, there could be only one conclusion. Rowan was not a reborn god. She was something more. She, like Valeriya, was the Eye. The Hindus believed that the true nature of reality was that all living things were part of the Oversoul, the Brahman. But that energy, when expressed in their four dimensional world, seemed fragmented. A hand, fingers passed through a plane, looked like five separate entities, when in fact they were all part of the whole.
Maya was before him, the fate and the universe, as one. Valeriya and Rowan.
And he was not afraid.
He was not disgusted.
He merely assented, small smile and a sense of peace on his lips.
When did I become a man of faith? he wondered?
He was no pacifist. He had killed before and would kill again. Apollyon the destroyer walked the earth. Whatever it took, he must die. But Maya had come to him, in the form of these two women.
And so as Maya, in one of her incarnations as Rowan, used her abilities to remove the water from herself and Valeriya, he felt none of the normal jealousy and anger. His rough hand held Valeriya's, resting against her now cooling naked skin, an inch from Vale's other hand, fingers twined through Rowan's fingers.
He looked up at the waning light, the darkness approaching on the eastern side of the lake a valley, destiny calling them.
All of them. Somehow, the Pope was involved. He broke the silence, though not without effort. It felt a lifetime since he had spoken. And the urgency was gone despite what he had to imagine was gooseflesh across Valeriya's naked body. She certainly seemed content between them both. And somehow, that felt right.
His voice was quiet. "Yes, that was Pope Patricus I. Somehow he is part of this." Despite himself, an eyebrow raised. Valeriya's hatred was palpable. A part of him was curious.
Part of him didn't want their idyl to end.
But Maya was in charge. A weapon beckoned.
After a moment, "Come Valeriya," as he stood hand helping her. His other he extended to Rowan, kind smile on his face. "Come Rowan. Let me get you something warm."
He was no stranger to gore. He had washed himself of blood and viscera more times than he could remember. He had willingly taken wounds in battle. And he knew how powerful hallucinogens could be.
And yet, just imagining taking his fingers and jamming then into his socket to rip his eyeball out, the trail of nerves and muscle fibres dangling there...
Armande had sacrificed more than most could fathom. Of his own heart. He would never forget that price.
And yet, he wondered in what universe he would be willing to do that to himself. A worm of...weakness slithered in him. Shame. But something rebelled violently. No. He was wrong! He was seeing it wrong. He had to be. No one could have given as much as he.
No. Valeriya represented something beyond this world. An incarnation, perhaps. Vishnu had his tenth and final one, according to some Hindu legend. Kalki riding on his white horse sword protruding from his lips.
There was enough evidence that something sat behind the fabric of space and time. The fact that he and Apollyon were born literally one day apart was proof of that. That he found his way to a people waiting for him, his face cragged onto a rock wall, was proof. That he found, for truly the first time, a person to stand by his side and be, not just his equal, but even his teacher, was proof of that.
In the face of all that, the unmistakable and undeniable evidence before him, there could be only one conclusion. Rowan was not a reborn god. She was something more. She, like Valeriya, was the Eye. The Hindus believed that the true nature of reality was that all living things were part of the Oversoul, the Brahman. But that energy, when expressed in their four dimensional world, seemed fragmented. A hand, fingers passed through a plane, looked like five separate entities, when in fact they were all part of the whole.
Maya was before him, the fate and the universe, as one. Valeriya and Rowan.
And he was not afraid.
He was not disgusted.
He merely assented, small smile and a sense of peace on his lips.
When did I become a man of faith? he wondered?
He was no pacifist. He had killed before and would kill again. Apollyon the destroyer walked the earth. Whatever it took, he must die. But Maya had come to him, in the form of these two women.
And so as Maya, in one of her incarnations as Rowan, used her abilities to remove the water from herself and Valeriya, he felt none of the normal jealousy and anger. His rough hand held Valeriya's, resting against her now cooling naked skin, an inch from Vale's other hand, fingers twined through Rowan's fingers.
He looked up at the waning light, the darkness approaching on the eastern side of the lake a valley, destiny calling them.
All of them. Somehow, the Pope was involved. He broke the silence, though not without effort. It felt a lifetime since he had spoken. And the urgency was gone despite what he had to imagine was gooseflesh across Valeriya's naked body. She certainly seemed content between them both. And somehow, that felt right.
His voice was quiet. "Yes, that was Pope Patricus I. Somehow he is part of this." Despite himself, an eyebrow raised. Valeriya's hatred was palpable. A part of him was curious.
Part of him didn't want their idyl to end.
But Maya was in charge. A weapon beckoned.
After a moment, "Come Valeriya," as he stood hand helping her. His other he extended to Rowan, kind smile on his face. "Come Rowan. Let me get you something warm."