To HopeK: for all the support and homemade confectionery, I thank you...you are always an inspiration:)
To Ellie: I hope you'll like where we're going from here and you'll forgive my late update...if not, I won't mind:)
To Maria: I am so glad you liked it! YaY!
To Wildhorsefeathers8753: I'm so happy you're still reading my story:) hope this new chapter won't scare you away for good:D
A/N: Late is the hour of this update, but college is eating away my time:( I'm immensely happy you liked ch 24, it's one of my favorites too:) as for this chapter, I think it makes no sense and it's quite anti-climatic, but it's the best I could do under the circumstances. Enjoy!...I hope! (BTW, thanks to people who have added me on some list or other, don't shy away from the review button, they made it prettier just for you! and warm thanks for adding me to the Riddick/Fry community;))
Disclaimer: You recognize it, you own it!
Alysum, though suffocated by genderless soul-shadows, is strangely quiet. Feeble yellowish moonlight lights up the shimmering depths of the liquid that puddles darkly at the feet of Lord Zhylaw, but bounces off his armor-clad figure, leaving him completely veiled in shadows. There is an empty circle that ripples softly where O'dley used to be.
A cold draft shyly whirls around the vacant space from which the Breeders have disappeared. Time flickers gently about the last two Necromongers to have passed the Threshold, then and now a mere jumble of idle circumstances that dwarf our accomplishments as men once more accurately alive. The tension developing in the undergrowth of some semblance of reality has reached its dutiful epic proportion.
Children of The One Faith.
Devil's Hood.
Bringers of Death.
World-Enders… gods of our own creation, many a name have we been called.
Converter and converted is the one that now comes to mind.
Under the scornful gaze of immovable idols of old, we are being judged by statues with steel-injected orbs. The Universe seems to have gone against itself and lapsed back into its primordial nutshell, where One divided becomes Two…and so on and so forth, like a virulent disease spawning endless erroneous replicas of flesh and blood .
Yet, here we stand, men carved in rock and steel, men designed to tower mightily both in faith and in battle, I say, here we stand, unflinching, out of necessity rather than disposition. It occurs to me that my faith and his praise have always been a matter of necessity, cleverly disguised as affable disposition. But, in Alysum, we are both stripped of that which had previously empowered us and now we are left raw to the pains of squabbling emotions. The Lord glides artistically over the glistening depths and looks down upon his once loyal servant. For the first time, I feel it is only the slight difference in altitude between the central moonlit platform and the rest of the chamber that fuels his haughtiness:
"Well, a little overdue our meeting is, wouldn't you say, Commander Vaako?"
The all-encompassing phrase of Loyalty until Underverse comes dwindles and suddenly dies on the tip of my tongue. I realize I do not miss it, nor will I ever do so again.
"Perhaps we are a little overdue, Lord Zhylaw. And past forgiveness, as well."
"Ah, not only a traitor to your Lord, but also to your faith?" he exclaims rather tamely.
"You expect much from me, milord. I apologize for my shortcomings."
There is nothing stirring in me now. And the reason behind it all is slowly creeping into my mind.
"In truth, I never expected much from you, Vaako." Zhylaw carries on, on a light, conversational tone, devoid of the more tyrannical aspects of his previous speeches.
"In truth, it was your wife I briefly acknowledged as a worthy opponent. Indeed, her wits and your strength almost undid me."
"Almost…" I chuckle softly. To think that such things have once pestered me…
"Her wits and my strength almost undid you in the name of the One Faith. It is that what you mean to say, Lord? Really, can you still believe such a lie, here, now, as you are?"
His implacable countenance slightly twitched in an undignified manner. A foot dangled precariously over the edge, but he thought better of coming down to my level:
"As I am?..."
"An empty shell. A frail soul-shadow, mirroring the will of those stronger than you, of those you were never able to understand. You were man once yourself. Before the Great Crossing. And you returned with powers unheard of, undreamed of to command the Universe back into obedience. Tragic finger puppet that you are, you made slaves of us all. Slaves to broken lust and meaningless ambition. Slaves to the promise of the Heavens Beneath. Where is the glittering new world you and the ones that came before sought and preached and promised? A new beginning… faith in a clean slate…"
As he refused to come nearer, I got myself closer.
"For, let me tell you, Zhylaw, there is nothing, even remotely close to what anyone, in any verse, would call clean in this filthy, stinking, insulting pile of anal discharge you call the Underverse!"
This little man of much drama and woe, that I had once considered to walk among fields of godly bliss, this self-proclaimed eradicator of feeble crawling vermin, also known as the inhabitants of the Universe, was little else than a frustrated power-monger with a fetish for strangling weeping babes and uncomfortable body armor.
Upon further consideration, and an up-and-down-and-up-again inspection, which I pulled off magnificently disdainful, I would concede him the point of being somewhat of a genius strategist and not lacking in a sort of twisted charisma.
Needles to say, all my illusion are as of now thoroughly shattered. And I feel fine. As in nothing at all. A world of doubt seems to have been lifted off my shoulders. A quest for an identity that began with a lither version of Vaako – the foot soldier, and ended, spectacular-less, with a taller Vaako – now a Commander, on the other side of reality, is how my existence would be recorded in the Annals of the New World – whatever that may be – if my story ever makes it out of lonely, dreary Alysum.
Zhylaw fumed a flickering kind of fury, like a candle that is about to be put out, before managing to speak up in a voice that could subdue even relentless time:
"Oh, but my dear Vaako, we all began as something else."
For the longest time, I outwardly entertained the idea that this was something Necromongers used either to ease the remorse triggered by a lingering respect for humanity or to cajole said humanity into a continuous disrespect for remorse. Never did I take it as literal as this Zhylaw seems to take it now. Faced with my dumbfound-ness, the Lord smiles a titillating smile, which comes across rather disturbingly:
"There are millions of us still left, millions of mongering entities searching to possess a QuasiDead so they can pass over when they so please, infinite ways in which to twist and bend this verse to their whim. For as long as there is ability left to believe, there is opportunity to ensnare.
Matter suffers, dies and is reborn into another plain of existence – one as nice and glittering and beautiful as you've ever imagined. And this gift has been given to man, who squanders it foolishly, leaving in his wake soul residue that is neither here, nor there, neither above, nor below. Forgotten somewhere in the rifts of this 'verse, breadcrumbs for the unfortunate bodyless to feast upon, until man – ever the conqueror of the unknown – stumbled across us and was bewildered. One does not simply refuse the Universe, Vaako. So man returned to his home and brought us along with him. We have made man the god of his world, where man was weak and fought feebly. Christened him in the blood of his enemies we have. Made him bow to the miracle of the Unholy Resurrection. We did all that, in this very Hall. It is time to return the favor.
For can you not see? It is all around you. The residue of each passing, the impurities man leaves behind in his transition, the seeds of rebellion that crosses not into the Great Beyond, it is all here, stored away by the unwilling who keep doing the impossible for the ungrateful. And for that, you hypocritical little beast, you owe us a debt that we intend to collect."
Truly you must be a Necromonger to understand the Necromonger way. Truly you must have dedicated your very breath to eradicating the Grand Error to comprehend the horror behind the One True Faith: that the salvation of man - either sinful, or just, either a believer, or an atheist, either logical or not – is elsewhere nothing but another smudge of dark: dark blood, dark eyes, dark thoughts… that I now begin to fathom. And the platitude of it all escapes me not. Truly, the Great Other that has spawned our religion to meet its dreams of carnality is, by all accounts, one most delightfully insane.
"It is you who cannot see." I murmur more to myself than to anyone else. If they are lingering about, the Founding Fathers of Our Faith have lapsed into the silence of their resurrected graveyards. What more there is to say?
"Life…is so imperfect. How can ever good come out of so much filth…so much wantonness…so much spontaneous worship of idle things? Death, on the other hand…death is good. You go to Heaven, you go to Hell, you go nowhere at all, it doesn't matter. Death keeps a fair deal: everybody dies. It is certainty. So death is a good guide. It is, indeed, a good start to any religion. However, it has always been my firm conviction as a Necromonger that death serves us to break through, not you to come through!"
By this time, I was trudging halfway through the pool of blood. You learned real quick in my line of work – killer-for-faith that is – that blood looks black in the dark and only partly grey in the bright moonlight. It felt sticky and invasive, like it wanted to crawl its way back into my veins.
It was no surprise it was actually trying to do so, eating through my garments, ripping open the flesh off my legs and cutting open the silken threads burning dark-blue. One does not get to see one's circulatory system this close that often.
"T'is w'ere you 're w'ong, my dear V'ako." Zhylaw says in what would be considered as Zhylaw's voice if he suddenly were to loose his two front teeth.
"You are the shell. Our vessel."
And the Lord's irises suddenly double, two pairs of eyes occupying the same orbs.
Remarkably there is no pain as something weaves its tendrils up my decomposing body and my mind wanders to helmets once worn, with iron-sculpted faces staring back at you wherever you looked, the faces of great men who were reborn as greater gods…
He sees everything…
He saw nothing.
Zhylaw – not unlike the first of the Lord Marshals - indeed returned from the Underverse half alive and half something else. Or rather, someone else…as it turns out.
I distinctly remember the moon-touched child tapping a bony finger to a spoiled egg-shaped head: We are all in here.
And now all would be me.
"O'dley!" I hissed.
She, or more accurately, he is sucking at his finger, then chewing at it till it oozed a foul smelling liquid.
"Hmm…" it spits out an offensive chunk of newly bitten flesh and continues "that would be a way to call me…"
The baby-talk is gone, replaced by a slithery, more exotic tone of voice. It is quite familiar.
"But it would not be accurate…any longer." It goes one remodeling its fingers into something infinitely more grotesque by biting off excess flesh until the bone is left all but raw.
"Such sturdy, gross fingers. I dislike them utterly…very austere…" it pauses to look at me closely. "Yours are no better, fret not, though I shall suffer." The side half of an index finger flies across the platform, plopping in the dark pool followed by a rain of spittle.
"Oh, you shall suffer."
The double irises, quadruple if you think about it, stare disbelievingly.
"Indeed, I do believe you're being serious. Or maybe just a little overconfident. I mean", at which point it begins to wave its hands with half eaten fingers around dramatically, "it's not like the loss of one bothersome little girl…"
"So you've lost Jack?" I snort.
"…and Audrey and the Convert. But really, they were so dull. Always moping and pining for 6 feet tall convict meat. My ambitions are more…abstract…" it sighs wistfully.
"And then there's always Kyra! Now there's a force of nature. She's all woman. And has pretty hands."
"Then what do you need me for?"
I try to fight the invasion of my body's inner workings, but the dark blood coils tighter around my veins, digging into muscles, searing into flesh.
It sounds a tad disappointed.
"Vaako, always the slow one. I do so long to get acquainted again with your lovely significant other. She's always been one to think quick. And a rather talented kisser, not squeamish at all. We remember these things, us Quasi-Deads, you see. It tortures us, living in the wreckage of past experiences, no ability to forget. The troubles of carnality, I suppose. And you would be surprised" it lectures me knowingly "at the little perversities Necromongers indulge themselves with our lot. Why, you'd put most Breeders to shame!"
It pats me reassuringly on the shoulder, smearing blood and bits of flesh on my armor:
"However, it is only a common psycho-pathological downside of your sterilization. And it's not like we exactly mind it. You know?"
"No, I don't." I grunt.
Extricating at least one of my legs is hard work and not going on a successful slope.
"No, I don't suppose you do."
It approaches me languidly and darts a slippery tongue out to feel the sweat off my cheeks.
"But you will." It drawls in the shell of my ear, biting off my earlobe. Now, that hurt, if my howling is any indication.
"The misery of your human soul we could care no less about. We have long chased it into shadowy corners with our powerful minds. When we are complete, as beings in our own right, when we have supplanted this verse with such unendurable sensations you will no longer be needed, perhaps you will find yourselves content as the plaything of greater illusions. Perhaps then all the fighting with your indomitable will to survive will finally come to an end. And you shall rest, man."
The bit of flesh is spurted back at me teasingly. I am thoroughly grossed. And somewhat pained. Tiny as it is, it is a part of me I will miss. So much I have lost in the name of the entire humanity that any further amputation, however minor, builds up a rage so blinding, I'm surprised I am even capable of it.
It's like some formidable beast, lurking in the depths of my soul, sheds its steely confinements and bites back to defend its wounded pride.
I am not Vaako.
I am not Necromomger.
I am all the possibilities of Vaako and all scathed Necromongers.
I am all those I've slain and they are all in me.
I am all passion, all fury, all rage.
I am all that Man can be.
I. Simply. Am.
And it is a choice that I have made and that has not been made for me.
I am free.
Free of the necessities of life and the confinements of death.
I am Will that cannot be broken.
And for the first time, I am aware of all the wonders that I've unworthily inherited with my humanity.
All the million colors of the Universe ring before my eyes.
"You are the plaything of illusions. And you have made me the slave of the harsh reality you cannot comprehend." I spit out the words.
"But. No. More."
No. More.
My words echo throughout Alysum, the house of old deaths and old beliefs.
I turn away from the deformity in front of me that struggles with my rebellion and plan my way back, violently pulling free of now mangled tendrils of blood. There is shrieking and shrilling behind me, around me, but I pay no heed to it. My mind has – how did Riddick put it? – wised the fuck up. There is Life waiting for me, not in some remote dimension of the 'verse, but beyond the gate, down the stairs, through the marshes, up the ramp, into the ship and back home, to those I have left behind.
My life is with the one I love.
And all the power in the Universe cannot change that.
My feet are bleeding and my nerves are left raw. The darkness around me is darkening still. Something is wailing in broken anguish. It is not me. Something stirs from the depths of Alysum. It is frightening. Fear feels strange in my mind, but it helps by dwarfing the visceral pain of torn flesh and muscle.
Somewhere, some force is compelled to act. Somehow a balance is being restored. Someone is making a sacrifice of some sort. Again.
"Come on, Vaako, the plan was not to come here and die. Move it!"
Strong hands. Strong woman. Humanity's way of fighting back the violation of its laws on procreation. But…:
"Would you really die for me?"
Blood and spit and tangled hair muffle my words.
"No. But I would try for you." Curt and clear.
That answers my question. She is not God Incarnate of my youth. Just a poster-girl for human idiosyncrasies.
As we carry ourselves out of the central chamber where invisible forces do battle, the idols close unseeing eyes one by one, until one undistinguished figure is all but left.
She'd never leave him though.
It's just that this time, he has to find his way back to her.
P.S.: if you're interested in the history of the Necromongers and their faith, go check their wikipedia entry. I did. It gave me headaches:D Headaches do not help writing good chapters;)