DISCLAIMER: Oh for God's sake, I don't own the newsies! Let's make this easy, though. I only own Runner Conlon, Morning Dew, River, Malakai, Micah, Jeshua, Ahdi, and Father Romanik. ^_^ Newsies are owned by Disney; everyone else owns themselves.
A.N: I have no belief in the occult; all elements of this story which deal with practices of magic are mere reproductions of my imagination. ^_^ This story will be of dark nature, however, and so if you at any time are offended by its content I apologize ahead of time.
FULL SUMMARY: Once heir to a ghastly empire, Runner Conlon turned his back on Evil long ago, instantly labeled an outcast and renegade by those who thought him daft. Yet as the powers of darkness begin to descend on humanity, Runner knows the fate of mankind will rely on his courage alone, and so armed with a sword forged by the archangel Michael and ordained with a righteous quest, he travels across the lands avenging those his rivals heartlessly slaughter on a fierce vendetta for the races. But being a halfblood immortal, he must first fight his own demons and denounce the call of his vampiric ancestors lest he succumb to Evil himself.
~*ETERNAL AVENGER*~
PRELUDE: Forgotten Records
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An Undisclosed Location; Autumn 2007
What's left for one to achieve when there is nothing more but the dark, cold emptiness that stretches out for centuries behind you? It is an inquiry I have too often posed to myself, a dizzy paradox that sees no end. Many a night have I tried to suppress its constant plead to be freed from the fetters of the unknown, yet it always finds the strength to obliterate the shackles that would otherwise constrain it to the pit of my stomach. Entertain me, it pleads. Unleash the truth. But I know all too well the consequences that would soon follow were I to commit such a folly.
The truth? A bitter laugh escapes my lips. How many times has man shielded his eyes from the truth as to not be blinded by that which he had adamantly refused to take faith in for the entirety of his existence? I highly doubted there were any among the mortals who still pursued truth and the power such knowledge grants. Society had evolved into a fruitless system of conformed masses and materialistic, brainwashed fools who couldn't speak from their own heart had their very life depended on it. The government had done well to deny them such rights. Man was no longer an individual, but another number in the census, another member of some propaganda-consuming occult that would never amount to anything.
There was a time, however, when man was given a choice. Freedom and liberty were ideas that rung out among the populations like the sweet melodic entreaties of a church choir's song. In those days, one had the dynamic opportunity to leave his handprint on history for all time, an engraving that would undoubtedly remain unscarred upon the stone of our ancestors. Revolutions rallied the spirits of both the valiant and faint-hearted alike; the quest for wisdom and justice was not nearly ignored as it has become in this age. Monuments rose and fell, and the pawns of the heavens battled out their creeds upon the lands of the earth.
Back then, I admired Man. In my eyes, he was much like the war heroes you read about in the great histories of the nations, clad in the insignias of his king and brandishing the glistening blade of his sword like a patriotic soul. Back then, he was not as shallow as the races have become in this age and his heart was of pure nature. He would never even contemplate over betraying a companion, and he obeyed the chivalric codes with an inspiring obedience.
The vociferous cacophony of bombs in the distance shatters my reverie. Strolling down the walks of the city, I offer but a single glance towards the noise before continuing on my way. The skies resemble a woven blanket of dust in their grey nature, with streaks of sanguine and orange degrading their beauty. Clouds of smoke arise from far off debris like ghosts resurrecting from their graves and the stench of gunpowder is like alcohol held under one's nose. Upon the block I traverse, the edifices that were once homes and markets have been reduced to demolished structures, a child's toys ruined with one great hand swipe. The dark streets, for the last of the city's lamp poles were destroyed months ago, are void of any pedestrians and for a moment I'm almost made to believe that I've happened onto a ghost town.
Rubbish is scattered across the area as if the skies had rained down decomposition; a stray dog scavenges through the mess in hopes of finding dinner. His skin is pulled tight over his belly, exposing a full set of ribs. When at last he detects my presence, his head lowers in a defending stance before he trots off in an agitated demeanor. I watch him for a moment, and then proceed to my destination.
It is, after all, past curfew, and though I have the means by which to liberate myself were I to be captured by the Federation, I prefer to not take any chances this particular night and quicken my current gait into a light jog. Of the midnight hour the time may be, yet I'm still able to navigate my way through the darkness and finally find myself before the massive cathedral that has come to be a home to me these past few weeks. It's the only structure in the city still intact, and so I offer many thanks whenever I see it face another day.
I climb the steps leading to the cathedral's hardwood doors with much haste, my hand gliding across the cool iron of the railing beside me as if caressing ice, and moments later, I'm finally within the protective walls of the sanctuary. For the time being, I've left the anarchy of society behind me.
The sanctuary is dimly lit by the illumination of hundreds of candles placed before the oil paintings of saints, martyrs, and archangels, and a careless glance upwards reminds me of the towering heights the cathedral takes on. Its stone interior sends chills across my flesh and I pull my trench coat closer for warmth, but something else pierces me with its freezing nature and there's nothing to remedy my soul's mourning when I once again am confronted with empty pews and pulpits. Faith is no longer the anchor for humanity.
I cast the matter aside and hurry past the entrance that will lead me downstairs into the basement. The entrance is hidden by a wool blanket upon which is written a story about footprints hung just above the passageway's frame and I lift the fabric up to walk under its weight before letting it fall back into place behind me. Lighted torches are affixed onto the walls enclosing the staircase I now descend in a spiraled formation, momentarily reminding me of the Roman Catacombs. My thoughts stray to the times of the early church before my attention is diverted onto a sight before me. The Haven.
We call it so for it is the farthest away we can get from mankind. Perhaps were we to dig at a deeper level under ground, the distance might increase by a hundred fold, but we aren't that desperate. The secluded library of the cathedral basement serves its purpose quite fine. When my foot leaves the last step and is rested upon solid ground, I take a pebble from my coat pocket and examine its intricacies as it lies on my palm. It's of oblong shape with a polished surface smoother than glass and bears the marking of a yin-yang. Squeezing it with my fingers, it warms up until it's much like a fairly hot coal in my hand and I hold it up, a bright ray of blue light emitting from its form.
The path for my feet has thus been illuminated and I can perambulate forth with an assurance that none wait to ambush me for whatever reasons. As I do so, I notice the cobwebs lining the room corners and the chipping mortar of the brick walls. Rats scurry across the floor at the sound of every footstep and the guttural moan of the wooden beams supporting the numerous bookshelves of the Haven elicit noises I would rather not hear.
Another dropped bomb explodes onto the city; the earth shakes in response. I knew the chaotic hiatus would soon be broken. I further into the basement still guided by the pebble's light and stop a yard before a desk laden with stacks of paper, book volumes, and research files thrown atop each other to reach heights at least three feet tall. The almost inaudible sound of rummaging through drawer supplies reaches my ear and I smile.
"Ahdi, working hard or hardly working?"
The rummaging stops and two hazel eyes peer over the edge of the desk where the stacked information will not block their vision. At the sight of me, they widen with excitement and their owner stands to her full height with a light laugh. Ahdi is truly a beautiful creature. Her heritage traces back to bloodlines from India and the country's rich culture is evident in her features. Her chocolate-colored tresses and smooth dark skin are treasures, and my moods brighten upon beholding them.
Ahdi lays a hand upon one of the nearer stacks of records and sighs. "A little bit of both, I suppose. And what of you? I wasn't expecting you back so soon from your recent observation. Did all go well?" I bob my head once to affirm my success but she doesn't buy the claim. "River, you mustn't lie to me. We're the last of the Seekers, remember? The scions of the Gatherer Society; if we don't fulfill our duties, then…"
I hold my hands up in mock defense, having by then returned the pebble I had earlier used to its rightful place in my pocket. "I know this, Ahdi. You're merely regurgitating information I'm already aware of." I'm quite sure it had come out far more scathing than I had originally intended, for her expression seemed to sadden at the retort. "I'm…I'm sorry," I say to her softly. "But trust me, everything's fine. I've only returned to be reminded of something."
"Of what?"
For a long moment, I hold her gaze, finding tranquility in her warm eyes. "To be reminded of the last battle that was fought with heart." Her furrowed forehead makes obvious her confusion but I don't stay to elaborate. With a nod of farewell, I make my way past her and walk down the lengths of the aisles making up our library.
Overhead chandeliers brighten the room here and I can just make out the titles of each book as I pass them. In some cases, though, the inscriptions have faded over time; the book remains unknown to the passerby lest some strain of curiosity urges him to open its covers. Some volumes are thick whereas others are rather thin; some are unbelievably tall and still others are much too short. The colors are as various as the shades found in a valley of wildflowers and the scent of the crinkled pages bound together smell of mildew to some extent. And yet my interest is still aroused.
I pass one familiar volume and vaguely remember its publication. Crypt of the Bishops read the Latin characters on its binding. An assignment given to me during the early third century in which I conducted extensive research on the burial chambers of the persecuted. Perhaps I should explain…
Part of a secret association called the Gatherer Society, I am a Seeker and so it is my rightful duty to 'seek the truth', so to speak, and observe the progress of humanity while I record from afar, for I can never interfere or meddle in their affairs. An ageless immortal, I've naturally become experienced with the task over time, but it's never suited me in the least bit. You could never imagine the strife I've seen since the dawn of beginning.
Yes, you study war in your institutions I'm sure, but you've never been hip-deep in a mixture of muck and blood while your comrades were shot dead in a battle trench, horrific screams and canons deafening you. Yes, you're familiar with the peasant revolts of the French Revolution no doubt, but you've never been beaten unconscious by the authorities and you've never watched innocent children be trampled by the marching masses of the lower class. Persecutions…executions…you know the meanings of the words, but have you ever seen the pride of a man walking to the guillotine, or the fear of death lingering in the eyes of a man set to be crucified?
I have. I've seen the utter evilness of Man, the extremes by which one will go merely to see another human being tortured and pained. Rarely have I seen its opposite. Feeling as if coming here was a mistake, I begin to turn around and leave, but something beckons me forth and so I indulge the intuition. I catch sight of a book concerning the early Roman Empire; the eighth century…more mayhem. An eternity seems to pass as I near the end of this particular aisle but just before I would otherwise make physical contact with the opposing brick wall, I turn on my heels and face a selection of ancient-looking hardbacks seated upon a crooked shelf.
One immediately calls out to me. Its exterior all in black, the binding is of a rich vinyl material, the covers a firm wood. I reach forward and pull the book towards me with my index finger, yet it barely shifts for it's of considerable weight and the books on either side of it are preventing its easy escape. I use four fingers this time and manage to wrench it out an inch or so when suddenly another explosion pounds onto the above city. This time, the Haven quakes violently and the book I've been trying to free falls forward and lands onto the floor near my feet with a resounding thud.
I glare at the noise, though I know not from what direction it came, and reach down to collect the object I've traveled so far to obtain. Its weight is heftier than I remember and I momentarily suspect tampering, but the notion is ludicrous and I dismiss it while turning the book over in my hands. My heart sinks as I read the title. Eternal Avenger. Below the white calligraphic script is a mosaic tile embedded into the cover, its image of a radical cross upon a block of red. With a trembling hand, I turn the cover and am met with an opening narrative.
A new day arises; a new time cometh when evil shall prevail no more. The chosen one has been birthed from his mother's womb and will hereafter honor his admirable quest with passion never seen by Man. Let this be the day when souls shall cower away no more. Let this be the day when all things righteous give air to courage. Let this be the day when our victory shall commence. And so, it is with a jubilant spirit that I chronicle onto these leaves the life of this age's redeemer…the life of the Eternal Avenger.
~River, First Seeker of the Zion Sect of the Gatherer Society. 1367 A.D. Ireland.
I slam the book shut, hot tears forming in my eyes. The memories were too painful; I was an utter fool to have thought they would somehow enliven my dying passion. Calming myself, I open to the narrative once more and run my fingers over the scripted words, half-expecting them to diminish to dust upon contact with the outside world. Too long had they remained in hiding. Too long had they been forgotten.
I remember the elation I felt when I wrote those words those centuries ago, how I could barely keep my hand from shaking with excitement. The quill I had been writing with had twice blotted ink onto the page, that much was evident now that I took a second look, but my great happiness was oblivious to such flaws. Trying to take my mind off my past zealous behavior, I thumb through the pages and smell the dust that rises into the air from the process. It at once seduces and drugs me.
Entertain me, I hear the truth whisper into the caverns of my ears. I walk to the aisle's end, carrying the book with me, and comfortably seat myself against the firm structure, bringing the literary work I had composed long ago onto my lap. A moment of hesitation passes through me. Entertain me, the truth pleads yet again.
This time, I don't deny its request. I open the book and begin reading…
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