"NINE MONTHS AGO" (partial chapter)

[Ripheus23]

[PREAMBLE: the background story idea is a singular novel which more or less encompasses immediately the final battle of the intended narrative, rather than being the first in a long series of books building up to the final battle. To flesh out the background, though, I'm availing myself of Sanderson's (and LOST's) flashback technique.]

[SECONDARY PREAMBLE: the two central figures are that of a man from a mystical version of the city of Troy, Ripheus, and his once-upon-a-time friend Jason. There are two ultimate beings of evil in this reality, Apollyon and the Insordium, the Forms of Destruction and Desecration respectively, corresponding to the sin of violence and the sin of perversion. Desecration has been manifested on the physical plane for some time and spent much of that time manipulating people, including Jason, into absorbing parts of its essence with the false promise that by doing so, they could "purify" the fragments of evil and thereby redeem their universe. But Jason has learned that he was being lied to and now seeks revenge in the form of a different path to final triumph: he wants the ur-Sword, the Sword of Command, a weapon that will allow him to channel Apollyon's fire for the sake of annihilating the Insordium once and for all.]

{Incidentally, Apollyon can't deliberately commit evil for the sake of evil in itself in general, but views Its hostility towards Desecration as justified. Accordingly, Apollyon can't destroy the universe, and that is not the apparent nature of the cosmic threat in play. The Insordium thought, then, that if it distributed itself into the whole universe, it would escape Destruction's malice. In this, it has very much failed.}

* * * * *

NINE MONTHS AGO

There’s a temple here, equal parts decrepit and majestic.

“You’re sure the Sword is here?” Jason asks the sorceress who’s accompanying him on his darkening quest—him among a handful of others including Ripheus, who follows them like a weeping, dying shadow.

“Perhaps,” the Crimson Princess says. “Perhaps… But I am rather quite certain that this is so.” She looks askance at bent trees with skeletons of pinecones and flowers both somehow growing from them. “So perhaps not, also, but likely not otherwise so.” Plucking a weirdly ruddy cone from the tree nearest to her, handling it like a delicate experiment in treachery, she then chucks it into the undergrowth. “We lose nothing by exploring the place, in any event.”

Someone else—“Mr. Turquoise Calliope” being his unexplained callsign—grunts. “Jason, don’t let the worries of your Trojan friend get to you. We know this is the place. The Sword is here.” He stares almost placidly at the Crimson Princess. “For certain.”

“Alright,” Jason says, turning to Ripheus briefly. “And he’s not my friend, by the way. He’s supposed to keep me in check, like he deserves a damn medal for being a hell of a nuisance.”

Sunset falls on the narrow crevice of the half-valley. With the Princess and Mr. Calliope come others from a troubling faction known by the name of the Ruined Consult: Lord Ghorilh Akkranee, O’lzez the Younger, and an unidentified, cloaked fellow with a personally styled glyph adorning his hood. Claiming to come in the name of some God besides the Increatus, Ripheus thinks, judging their possible mendacity for the hundredth time, almost wishing one of the passion-sworn—or an ur-wraith or an ihelheh—would appear just to give the malignant troop a challenge to deal with.

Bones of tree waste crinkle underfoot.

A sorrowful raven’s caw greets the edge of the slowly gibbing moon.

Ripheus thinks of the thought he just had, waits for the voice of eternal dread. And more truly for Apollyon’s sake, he considers, tempting more of that dread.

Silence alone replies to him.

And the door to the ancient bastion stands in the company’s view.

Almost sadly, the Crimson Princess walks up to the door’s heraldic center. “I cannot open this,” she says obviously, to the erstwhile seemingly oblivious man-in-a-cloak. “So opening it must be your task. Yours and Mr. Calliope’s.”

Both men grunt, not at the same time. “Very well,” Turquoise says, fiddling with a pocket and bringing out something that should—but does not—look like a key. The hooded unknown walks at his side up to the left of the closure, and he to the right.

At the same time, they touch the door, one with his hand, the other with his unkey.

And this is not the way the world… Ripheus starts to think, stopping himself when he realizes not to give in to despair. So instead, “Jason, listen,” is what he says. “Why is the Sword of Command so important to you? Why do you need to take control over Apollyon’s power? I understand that the Insordium’s sin was…”

“Shut the hell up,” Jason whispers. “You’re messing with their music. They’re singing something, to open the door. So shut up.”

Not the word “friend” in another language, I bet. But Ripheus settles down, shrugs, and watches the scene unfold like a murdered nightmare waking up undead to cobwebs in its eyes, ones woven by the very spider who was having that very nightmare.