June 30, 2003
The Second's Perspective
At first, there was nothing but that threatening hum, air charged so densely with magic one could feel its breath on one's skin, feel hairs stiffen on the back of one's neck. That great power which we had set out to summon, to guide to goals of impious wrath had chanced to be but only partially manifest, had no shape of it's own now, but resonated violently between the fibres of every living thing in our immediate area. In my exhaustion, both knees touching the burnt stone floor of the dilapidated tower, I could feel that energy lost in the air, shuddering like a devil, groping for some form of release, for some purpose, that such malice should not go to waste. I knew we would not have to wait long; an ambiance of dread.
The Third. The human male, sad fool, had made a dire mistake. I would have struck him down right there, had I the strength to rise.
Confusion had distorted First's face - I remember it clearly - and fear had lit her young eyes in the moments before she had lost consciousness. She had borne most of the weight of the spell, of the planning: the ancient scroll, base tool of the deepest evil, was hers; the choice of participants in our unhallowed venture where hers; thus the perceived responsibility of the outcome was hers, though the Other's failure was not. Her last look to me was filled with the fear of this responsibility, this yet unknown but unavoidable backlash. Her last look told me that she, too, could feel the devil shudder. She felt it, and was afraid.
The Third did not make it through the incantation; so said his present form, crumpled heap it was on the charred floor of the leaning tower, his pathetic posture mirroring the pinnacle of the long-dead fortress on which he lay. He had made a grave error in judgement, his pillar had fallen when it was needed most, and now something, something was looming.
And no, we did not have to wait long, for on the second day, it came.
It began, as much great violence does, with sudden and thorough silence; the infernal humming stopped short, the continent held its breath.
I remember that the sun was setting beyond Yarsin - light shining off limestone walls as if they were polished bronze - beyond the rocky hills and mounts that defined the Kingdom of Bhalagor, beyond the stark peaks of the Serpentine Range. It would not shine the same again for generations to come. For instantly, the Mountain and its citadel gleamed livid, white-hot, resentful of its unjust fate, then seemed to collapse upward, collapse into its own peak. And where it once was shrouded in Living Mists, it now expanded into another silent sun, raging white fire, colorless sphere of pain (my sensitive eyes saw only a half a moment of it before they were closed and shielded by my arm; the sight unbearable to Gifted nerves).
There were no curses. There were no screams, nor cheers; none present had time to exhibit anything, be it awe or regret.
A great wind struck us, followed closely by a vicious roar, and it was done. Yarsin was but a scar, now, on Aagos. The Citadel - shield and cradle of civilization, was no more. But fate was not yet satisfied.
In a space above the scar, the evening sky was wounded with an infinitesimal mark, an unholy tear, a puncture wound. Within a short time, the black point grew to an iridescent pool denying light, as a despot, to the earth within its ever-growing shadow.
And thus, by the hand of Fate, by our failure (or, perhaps, our wicked success), the Darkness was born. Now, it would reign over the earth, cruel Monarch, indefinitely.
These words are my heresy, and of it I will never recant: That Darkness not fatal to man is but a womb for his destiny.
Posted by ShadowSiege at June 30, 2003 10:48 PM