I think I have every reason to call this a darkfic. It's about a different, worst-case-outcome of book 4, where Iblis won and Nimrod died. Sorry for the sadness... and also the violence, major character death, apocalyptic scenarios, suicide, and the author generally being an asshole... and pretty much pulling a George R. R. Martin...
Also, sorry for the Shakespeare quotes, I don't know what came over me...
It happened. He has won. For the first time in forever, Nimrod wasn't able to stop him. And now, he has changed the nature of the entire universe.
When he turns the jade pyramid upside down, inflicting an Enantodromian binding on all existence while Nimrod and the twins are watching helplessly, Iblis is elated and happy and drunk on his absolute power. Watching his terracotta warriors brutally murder his enemies at his command is even better. Evil makes you high, it really does, and it's the greatest feeling of the world, blowing out the flame of a life, out, out brief candle. It's the main reason why Iblis is doing it.
Alone with the dead bodies of his enemies, millions of dead children and an apocalypse on his conscience, Iblis laughs and laughs and doesn't stop until Rudyard taps him on the shoulder and asks him to because "Dad, you sound deranged and it's creeping me out".
Only several days later, he asks himself: What now?
Yes, what now...? Bad luck has triumphed over good forever. He only now understands that he has just now ended the war of the djinn tribes, rendering all evil djinn utterly useless. Their only purpose has been bringing bad luck to mundanes, and that's all done now. The lives of all Ifrit, Shaitan and Ghul are even more purposeless than before. And yes, that includes himself.
Meanwhile, the world turns into chaos. The millions of families all over the world who are heartbroken over the loss of their children are only the beginning. As the world experiences the full power of the Enantodromian, and every wish any mundane in the world makes turns to its exact opposite, world order as we know it ceases to exist. And we're not talking "harmless" mischief like someone wishing for coffee and getting tea. Not that things like this are not extremely troublesome and confusing for the poor, unassuming humans. It gets dangerous when someone wishes for coffee and receives rat poison – an Enantodromian wish is pretty unpredictable. But the people with greater, existential wishes, the people who wish for world peace or a long life, the people who say "I wish my terminally ill mother would get better", the people in third-world-countries wishing for access to more food, clean water and medical care, they are the real losers.
Resources are dwindling. Wars and plagues are breaking out. People are dropping dead by the thousands. The third-world-countries are first, with the developed world soon to follow. Humanity lives in fear.
There's nothing much the good djinn (those who are left) can do. And even if she could do something, Layla Gaunt would probably not. With her two beloved kids and her little brother dead... she is broken. They say she might have lost her djinn powers over the shock. And as the world slowly turns into a post-apocalyptic wasteland, no help comes from the Marid. Every one of them who attempts to save whatever they can choke on their helplessness, for no one can remove the binding. And still the man who is the cause of all this can cross a street in Vegas relatively unmolested.
I say relatively because the situation in Las Vegas is just as dire as anywhere else. All the gangs and shady mafia organizations of the city have risen to the surface, fighting each other over money and resources. The Ifrit can't maintain control, even with their djinn powers. And while nobody molests Iblis, all his sons are involved in street wars.
Iblis feels his genius plan backfire on him, and spectacularly. He looks out of his window at the mundanes killing each other in the streets, sees Sin City turn into a hellhole, and feels useless and weary. This is not how it's supposed to go. He has won, for hell's sake, he should rejoice, but he doesn't.
He spends most of his time reading. The complete works of William Shakespeare. Right now, he's at Othello. The setting has nothing in common with his situation whatsoever, which is highly welcome. But as Othello, having smothered Desdemona in her bed, says Methinks it must be now a great eclipse, he puts the book down. "A great eclipse" he mutters to himself and sighs, burying his head in his hands.
He doesn't know why, but this is when he makes the decision to visit Nimrod's grave.
So Iblis goes to London, seeks out the cemetery where they lay his old enemy down to his last rest. He finds the headstone, a simple thing with Nimrod's name in gold on it, totally unbecoming of Nimrod and his eccentric one-of-a-kind personality, his great soul. Someone – probably Layla – has left a bouquet of wilting red peony, Nimrod's favorite, a long time ago. Iblis stands before the grave and wonders what he's doing here. Nimrod wouldn't have liked this arrangement, that's for sure. He would have preferred a sea burial. He said that once. It's strange, the things he remembers about Nimrod.
He kneels down and retraces the letters. He has a feeling that he should say something. You do that in moments like this. What would Nimrod like to hear from him?
"I'm sorry" he says. "Really. I messed up and I'm sorry. I wish-"he bites his tongue in the last moment and corrects himself: "I know none of this should have happened. So there. I said it. Sorry. That's what you always wanted, right?"
But of course none of this is anything close to what Nimrod always wanted. Nimrod wanted to save him, preferably before something like this happened. Nimrod wanted to take him home. Nimrod wanted to spread good luck. And, above all else, Nimrod probably didn't want to die like this.
And then he knows why he had to come here, knows why Othello of all things reminded him of the Marid he's been fighting for the best part of his life. Because he knows that Marid loved him, with all his giant stupid heart, despite all, loved him. Because Nimrod, in a sense, has been his Desdemona, the only pure thing in this fucked up life that could have been his, that loved him, and that he killed. "I'm sorry" he whispers once more, and knows Nimrod would have been delighted to hear that, if he only could. But he can't, anymore ever, and it's all his fault. He leans his back against the headstone and lets the wind wash a few stray drops of rain in his face. They almost feel like tears, but Iblis has forgotten how to cry a long time ago.
There's a mundane family at another grave nearby, he can overhear their praying. They're wishing their "dear departed" were with them in these "dark times". Iblis wonders what the Enantodromian binding will make of that. Probably a zombie apocalypse, he thinks bitterly.
He returns to Vegas, where his Ifrit await him with two more corpses. And not just any two corpses, no. Jonathon and Rudyard. Two of his sons he was supposed to protect. Murdered.
The regret tastes strange and bitter. He hadn't even told them to stay safe, or a word of goodbye. They have fought out there in the streets, and he wasn't there. Because he's just about the worst father ever.
Only now he remembers Dybbuk, poor Dybbuk. He doesn't even know where he is right now. Probably also dead already, what without his djinn powers.
That night he remembers how to cry.
He doesn't leave his apartment much in the following days. For the first time in his life, Iblis is genuinely, painfully sorry for his sins. He has won, but he has lost. And the only person he could have gone to, who could have somehow made it better, is dead because he killed him. He feels like dirt. The face in his bathroom mirror starts to look disgusting. One day, he seeks refuge in Shakespeare again, Macbeth this time. Out, out brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow...
He yells and throws the book against the wall.
A poor player that struts and frets...
He picks up drinking again.
...his hour upon stage, and then is heard no more...
But he's stone cold sober the day he gets a razor and cuts into his left wrist, a deep, precise cut.
It is a tale told by an idiot...
Because even if their plans succeed, villains don't get happy endings.
...full of sound and fury...
Feeling more calm and collected than he did in a long time, he watches the blood droop out of his wrist, forming a slow growing puddle on the floor as his vision blurs and he's getting increasingly sleepy.
...signifying nothing.
This doesn't feel so bad after all.
I'm sorry! You'll get something funny next week, I promise!