In the Hall of the Mountain King
By Asso
Chapter Fifteen
(The Fourteenth, after the Prologue - The Fifteenth, counting the Prologue)
Do you know, my friends, that the devil is a prankster?
A little malignant, to tell the truth, but still a prankster.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
The flames stir and wriggle beyond the breach in the stony wall. They sizzle, hiss, roar.
Hand in hand - dazed, in awe, with staring eyes fixed on the leaping and thunderous tongues of fire as if to convince themselves of their reality, of what they are seeing - the man and the woman, the Human and the Vulcan, watch their furious swaying, just a short walk from behind the rocks open on them, red-hot of their scorching heat.
Their blazing flare burns their skin.
Is it this… the new ordeal?
Should the man...
Has he to enter into that ocean of fire?
In the hell?
The flames appear wanting to respond to them. They seem to subside, in some way. High and immense, they part in two tall columns of fire which join together to each other just a few feet from the ground. - Two meters? Maybe a little more?
An opening, a trail – a bowel - livid and narrow, almost looking dark in the midst of all that fire, opens in the middle of the now slowly dancing flames.
The man inhales harshly. He nods, with grim determination. "Okay. Understood."
He breaks away with strength from her, from the Vulcan female, who's still dazed, as in a trance.
He takes a step forward.
"All right, my dear devil, or whatever you are." - Loudly. Very loudly. Too much loudly. - "You will see how it's leathery my skin!"
He advances again. One more step. The breach in the wall appears as inviting him. The flames, beyond, hiss ominously, with restrained rumble. They seem to mock him.
Without looking back - without looking at her - he's standing, now, just in front of the opening.
The fire's warmth envelops him, hot and stuffy. Makes him short of breath.
One step and he can be on the other side.
Among the flames.
Inside them.
Into the poky gully. Within the tunnel - fiery - of fire.
He repeats it. With a low voice. And unsteady. - "You will see how... it's leathery, my skin."
And lifts his foot, to pass across the breach.
Beyond it.
Into the hell.
"Trip, no!"
Her hand snatches his; restrains him. She grabs his also with her other hand and pulls him back with both, makes him move back with force, almost violently.
"Do not do it!"
He turns. He looks at her. He gets lost in her tear-filled eyes. They are wide open. Fear sparkles in them, through the moist veil of the tears.
He shakes himself.
"I must, hon. It is... is the second ordeal."
Her arms seize him. They hug him, huddle him to her, press his chest against her face. "You will die! Burnt by the fire! The flames will close on you!"
"T'Pol…"
"And even if this won't happen, you will suffocate, in there! And will be overwhelmed by heat! You will not succeed in covering unharmed all the length of that deadly burrow! You won't be able to pass on the other side of that ocean of flames, if that's what you think to do! If then there's another side!"
For some instants, he remains silent, holding her tight to him. What can he say? What can he do to reassure her? To... to try to do it, at least! What? When he knows - oh, he knows it really well! - that she is right, that he can really go to hell so, in that way, blazed in the fire of... of that hell.
But what other choice does he have?
He strokes her hair. Plunges his nose in it. Oh how is it scented! Even from among the smell of sweat. Of fatigue. And of anxiety. And of fear. That emanates from her.
He searches for words that may reassure her. And himself.
Those flames are not an illusion. Are true. They exist. A desert in the bowels of a planet... that one, yes, that one could only be an illusion. But flames originating from the depths of the earth... no. Those ones may be true. Those ones are true. The stentorian and bodiless voice that has flowed in and around them did not lie. This time it did not lie.
And that devil... that devil is able… is able - who knows in what way - to control them.
The man almost sneers with mocking and bitterness to himself.
Well, on the other hand, how could it be ever possible for the devil not being able to control the flames of hell?
They are his flames.
They are him.
How distant, far away, is their world, the world of solid rationality - of iron, reassuring logic, his T'Pol would say - in which the two of them finally had achieved happiness! The one in the other.
But that world ... - The man scowls. He frowns. Furious. Bad, even. - ... that world still exists! And... and - for the devil! - he will succeed in bringing back his T'Pol, his love, again there! In the salvation! In the safety! With him or... or without him!
And at that thought, under its relentless thrust, he finds the words.
And... and maybe he is not mistaken. He is not merely trying to deceive her and himself. Maybe...
He takes her by the shoulders, very gently, but firmly, and - gently and firmly - he detaches her from him.
He lifts her chin - with infinite sweetness; with infinite love - with the tips of two fingers. He makes sure that she has the face turned to his.
Oh God! How beautiful she is! With those adorable eyes wide open and wet with tears!
But, much as she can be beautiful, so, in this way, as she is now showing herself to him, the sight of her eyes in tears even more entrenches him in his determination. T'Pol has to come back, alive and healthy, to the world... to the real world. The world where she can be what she is. His T'Pol. His calm, quiet, measured, self-controlled, serene T'Pol. Without... without those eyes full of tears. Although... although ... - He knows. Oh he knows it! - ... although, in private, in the secret of her, of their, rooms, away from the others, she, perhaps – or… or rather most likely - she will have to weep again. For him. Who will not be with her. And... and this thought is sweet and heartbreaking at the same time.
Anyway, in any case, she will be safe! Away from all this horror! And there, in the real world, in its soundness, she will be able to... to cope with his absence. Maybe she will be able to find a new equilibrium. Although... although their connection - their Bond - if what she believes and asserts is really true, could... could make this impossible, because it could lead her to ... to death. Or madness! But it, their Bond, 'could' do so. It could! Only that! It is not certain that it actually may be able to do it for real, in case of his death! And so, there is this hope, for her! For the reason of his life! And he can not and should not let this hope die.
And then... and then... who knows... maybe, from there, from their world, precisely by means of their Bond, as he had thought when he had managed to convince her that he had to face the trials… from there… in the soundness of its reality… she will be able to free him if... if his conjecture, namely that he might survive, somehow, inside... inside that monster, corresponds to true.
And even this is a hope he cannot let fade away.
He manages to talk, finally, despite her enchantment. And despite the awareness of the hardness of his almost certain fate. And it's time. The two of them do not have time. The devil is waiting.
You can not make the devil wait too much.
It's logic - her logic that she has been able to convey to him; logic, seasoned with and invigorated by love - that can reassure her; and him too. And it is not said, is not at all said that this logic may be flawed. It is not at all certain.
His words resonate sweet, yet, at the same time, lovingly reproachful.
"T'Pol, honey, remember who you are. Do not let yourself be overwhelmed. Do not let logic languish. Your logic. The one that brought you to me. That made you discover love. And accept it. And enjoy it. The logic that eventually led you to realize just how it was illogical for you to refuse my love and not to give me in return the love you felt for me."
She looks at him intently. She hangs on his every word. Long since she has learned that in his mind, apparently disordered, there are immense treasures of vivid logic - of that sort of strange and someway superior kind of logic that is intuition - to cherish. To love.
She has learned to love him not only with the heart. Also with the mind.
She loves him with her whole self. With her whole being.
And long since she has learned to trust - blindly - him.
Long since, by now, she has learned to entrust herself completely to him.
To his love for her.
"T'Pol." - Softly, gently, though with the urgency that the case requires - "Hon, not to go there, inside... that hell, would be illogical. It is the second of the three ordeals I've covenanted to face. If I do not do it, my death is certain. Death or what the hell is waiting for me, in the place of death."
She can not help but shudder in his arms. He smiles at her. He squeezes her tightly. He caresses her.
"So there is no choice. I have to go there. Inside those flames. But, my love, what sense could it have making me face an ordeal without giving me a chance to overcome it? That being, that unclean beast, has accepted my challenge and, of course, there's to have no doubt, he... well! He's having a blast. He can crush me as an ant, but he allows me to foolishly try to oppose him. He... he... yes, hon... he wants me to have the means to overcome the ordeals. He has nothing to lose in this game... and the more the match goes on, the more he has fun."
Her gaze gets lost in his. His love wraps her as a warm mantle. It is true. He's right. It would make no sense to force him to enter that tunnel of fire without giving him the opportunity to...
"I have some opportunity, I'm persuaded, sweetheart. I think…" - Her eyes get even more attentive, while she clings to him even more strongly. – "I think I'll have to run, in there, like no one has ever done or ever will do. As if..." - He smiles, sarcastic and sweet, as only he knows how to do. Amazingly jeering. And playful. And joking. Even now! Even there! To instil in her all the courage she needs. She knows it! Feels it! Oh, Surak, how she is in love with him! – "... as if I had the devil at my heels."
His head bends. His face goes down. His lips go to lean slightly on hers. She closes her eyes as rejoices in the suave touch of his mouth; in his soft, gentle, delicate, enamoured kiss.
"I'll have to run like… oh, ahem… like the devil to cross the ocean of fire before I die suffocated in the tunnel for lack of air and for the heat and... well, I think so, yes ... before our dear friend decides to close the passage, to enjoy himself to see me die burned in the fire. But he will not make me die, my love. He needs me alive. Maybe a little dented. But alive."
He lifts his face. Looks at her. Still amazingly with a smile on his mouth.
And she returns his gaze with hers, replete with love and unquestioning trust. "You'll make it, Ashayam. You're stronger than him."
His smile gets more accentuated. "Oh… of course, my love, sure. And then, I can count on what you taught me, my love. I don't have your resistance, but I have learned to endure pain, cold and heat a little bit more than how normally Humans can do. And as for the choking, for the possible lack of air..." - He winks at her. – "... well, let's not forget that my lungs are well trained. I am rather good, underwater, you know it."
He continues to smile, well aware, like her, that his is a braggadocio, a fanfaronade, made just to give courage to her and to himself; but equally knowing that, for real, his love for her can instil in him immense strength and endurance and energy. His love for her and hers for him. It has already happened. It can happen again. It will happen again.
"I'll make it to reach the other side." - He looks at her with intent. – "Which exists. It's impossible it doesn't exist. And..." - He still smiles, mocking and ironic. – "...and who knows that on the other side I can find something that could explain what kind of devil stands behind all this."
The smile dies on his face.
She understands. The time has come. Impossible to delay any further. Something, there around, something strange and alien and cold and evil, makes it well clear. A sense of waiting, of impatience. Hardly restrained and angry. Ready to explode in crazy wrath.
The monster... the devil... is waiting. And is impatient.
The woman kisses her man. She embraces him. And then, hugging each other, they turn their heads toward the breach.
Their eyes settle on the Hell that awaits him.
The Hell.
They break off their embrace and take one's another hands. They advance together towards the Hell, side by side, holding hands. They stop in front of its torrid door.
The flames dance, almost voluptuous. They whisper, now.
They surround the dark burrow which gets lost far away, opening up to the sight like the voracious mouth of an enormous caiman. It seems to glimpse, between those gaping jaws, its bowels, dark and greedy, as a stomach waiting for food.
He turns toward her. He looks at her, sternly. "We shall separate us, hon."
"Yes, but I'll be able to bring you back to me. I did it once and will do it again."
He smiles, nervous, yet happy, someway. "If I will be able to pass the trial."
"You will be."
"Yeah. Sure. And then I will have to..."
Her hand squeezes his. "Face the third ordeal. I know."
He reciprocates her grasp. He smiles again. Openly. "And I'll pass that too. You will give me the strength to do it. You - you, my love - you'll be able to let me overcome that one like any other ordeal. Your..."
"My love for you, Ashayam."
She says it strongly. Strongly, strongly, strongly.
Her hand, the other, the one that isn't held in his, goes up, to stroke his face, as, while turning towards him, she presses herself tight to his side.
She repeats it. Firmly. Firmly, firmly, firmly. Enunciating every word. "My - love - for – you."
She looks at him with all the love she feels for him. "And my love for you will bring you to me, no matter what will happen after this one as well as after the third ordeal. Nothing and no one, not even... the devil will ever be able to separate you from me." Her eyes light up with pride. "You've taught me this, my beloved. You, who have conquered death for me."
He remains silent, as he enjoys her face and her words. Her touch. Then he rouses. He laughs. A little forced. "See... see you later, hon."
Her caress ceases. Her hand goes down. Leaves his cheek. Reluctantly. "In a little while, Ashayam."
He lets go her hand. He breaks away from her. He turns back towards the mouth of hell. He looks inside. He turns again to her. He smiles again, weakly. Then he laughs. Loud. There is need to pluck up courage, somehow. "I'll have to outrun the wind, hon. You know…" - The laughter turns off. On his mouth it takes shape a taut tight-lipped smile. – "… it would not be bad if I could have a little of the speed of an old comic book character. The Flash."
"YOU'D NEED THE SPEED OF THE FLASH, HUMAN?"
The disembodied voice, which is able to make itself understood without uttering a single word, without emitting the feeblest sound, suddenly bursts into his head. Then, again, that evil laugh and incorporeal.
"STUFF FOR THE DEVIL, THIS ONE. LET'S SEE IF HE CAN HELP YOU."
And the devilish immaterial malignant and sardonic sneer mixes loud and powerful with the renewed mighty roar of the flames.
"Space caught fire, burst into flames."
We hang from the lips of the old Bannerda. My Mal has the eyes intensely watchful. His eyebrows are furrowed. It is as if he were straining to sharpen his sight, to better catch what he sees in his mind. And I know what he sees. The same visions that fill the eyes of my mind. The flares, immense and destructive, even more appalling in the silence of space that takes away voice to every sound, even the most deflagrating, of the ancient - and real - last space battle between the forces of good - the forces of the Great Monarch - and the Army of Darkness. The Army of the King.
Of the Devil.
"Our space dreadnoughts wrapped themselves in deadly flames. In hundreds, in thousands, the voracious space locusts of the Army of Darkness were being vaporized, consumed in the fire of the ships of the Great Monarch. But they were not hundreds, they were not thousands. They were hundreds and hundreds of thousands. They were millions. And they were not afraid of throwing themselves, unconcernedly, into the fire of our ships, of lashing out against them, innumerable, driven precisely and with a firm hand by their suicidal crews to hit them to death, dying along with them, exploding in the impact in massive nuclear explosions in whose annihilating energy they destroyed themselves along with our space battleships, pulverized together with them in the stake of their destruction."
I can see. Yes, I manage to see all that. The flashes, the huge silent explosions. The space which fills up with dazzling lights of death. The… apocalyptic assault of the lethal locusts of the Army of Darkness against the fleet of the Great Monarch, imposing and puissant, yet defenceless against an assault of this kind.
"It was an assault… which didn't give escape." I nod, involuntarily, in hearing the Bannerda give echo my thoughts.
"Kamikaze."
"Lieutenant?"
"Kamikaze, Your Excellency. Soldiers, pilots voted to suicide, by launching their aircrafts loaded with explosives against the ships of the allied fleet in our Second World War to destroy them at the cost of their own life."
"You... you have invented such a thing?"
Mal grins. "Well, Your Excellency..." There is discomfort and harsh bitterness in his tone. "... after all, we have the red blood of the breed of the King. We are their most direct heirs. Why wonder..." He laughs through gritted teeth, with black sarcasm. "...why wonder if we have revived the... deeds of our amiable ancestors?"
His Excellency looks at us in amazement. Then, he gets thoughtful and something pops up in his eyes, in his attitude. Certitude, yes. It seems just this to me and, I don't know, even something that looks… respect.
"We did not choose badly when we turned to you Humans and I really believe that you deserve our trust. I'm sure, now. You have the means to deal with all this, to find your two friends, to save them."
The face of His Excellency assumes an expression of extreme severity, as never it happened to us to see painted on his marked visage since this... this surreal conversation has begun.
"You have the means to beat the King back forever."
The Bannerda's grave and solemn expression becomes accentuated even more, if possible.
"You have the means to make it so that the King can't resurrect again."
He pauses an instant. "I mean…" He strongly articulates the words one by one. "… for real, in the flesh."
He stops for a moment. He's going to say, is going to state bluntly what we have by now well realized. I feel it. I know.
"Your friend…" - The voice of the Bannerda gets deep. Solemn. – "… our friend, the one you call Trip, has the means not to turn into the King's reincarnation, not to allow his woman - the Vulcan, T'Pol - to turn into the new bride of the King. You have the means to prevent the universe from falling prey to the devil."
And so, it is just so. The Bannerda does not make assumptions, does not speak not knowing what he says. Mal and I have understood it, we have well comprehended. Trip is not only the reborn King, the one who carries inside the tangible imprint of his genetic heritage. Even more than this, Trip is - is intended to be - the receptacle of what of the King still exists. His soul. His essence, his breath of life. Trip will no longer exist as Trip. Trip will be - actually, completely, totally - the King. The devil.
How it's cold! What a cool I feel inside me. How cool is Mal's hand that squeezes mine!
Oh sure. To want to be correct, His Excellency spoke only of reincarnation, did not say clearly that, in this case, reincarnation means what Mal and I have figured out that will happen, that ... oh God, no! - … that perhaps is already happening. Reincarnation means the appearance again in the world of a soul, a spirit, into a new body; does not mean the conquest of a body, which already has its own spirit, its soul, by one other soul, by one other spirit. But... what good is fooling ourselves? We know how things are in the case of Trip. He possesses his soul, his spirit, and the King has need of a body. What body better than the one that, in a sense, is already his own body? And so the King will take hold of the body of Trip, of what was once his own body, the body of the King, and he will reconstitute in toto his being, what he was. And Trip ... what will happen of Trip? Of his soul? His spirit? Oh God, God, God! All this is horrible! Horrible!
I need, desperately need, to cling to a hope and, indeed, the Bannerda has given us a hope, even ... in the guise of a clear certainty. But ... I do not understand. And ... talking - asking - it's a way not to go crazy.
I look puzzled at the Bannerda. "Your Excellency, I do not understand. Why do you say this, why do you grant us your trust, once and for all and without doubt whatsoever, just when you find out that we... that we have acted just as… just as the space locusts, the small and deadly ships of the fleet of the King? That we have allowed people of our own blood to immolate themselves in giving death? This is atrocious, if you think about it. Heinous, as heinous it was the King. And yet, just when, tangibly, we demonstrate to you, with the facts, that we are not at all dissimilar from him, from his race of fierce and ruthless bearers of death, you claim to be certain that we, just we, have the skills to turn out victorious against him, when your ancient and noble breed has failed."
"Nobile. True." The Bannerda's look lights up of a flash of frown. "Perhaps too much. And do not forget that we too have gone astray along the way." Then his eyebrow rises, proud and inquiring, like... like that of T'Pol. "Tell me, Ensign, those Kamikaze, were they consenting, in their actions? Or were they forced to do so? Had they choice, or not?"
More than ever puzzled, I reply, nonetheless. I want to understand, I perceive it is important. "Well, of course they were consenting; they were not forced to commit suicide for the victory of their arms."
"And was it noble, their intent?"
"Noble?"
"Yes. Noble. As… noble it was the intent of my race."
Oh my God! Here we are entering in the supernal heavens of the great life questions! But what's the matter with the Bannerda? Where does he want to get? Yet his question touches me. Deeply. "Oh, Your Excellency! I do not feel to respond to such a question! What ever is there of noble in killing? In destroying? But the Kamikaze arguably thought they were in the right and the sacrifice of yourself for your country, for your people... this possesses some sort of its own nobility, I... I think, irrespective of the righteousness of the war that is being fought, if ever a war can be defined right. And they, I think, believed that it was right. They thought of having to fight the war they were fighting even ... even in that way. But I do not know if it were really right and... and…" - I hear my voice tremble slightly. I can't avoid that. - "…and many others, before and after the Kamikaze, have acted like them and... and sometimes, often, unfortunately, by destroying things, homes, cities ... and... and killing people at all innocent, to achieve their goals through violence and prevarication. Some say that, in some cases, perhaps, but only perhaps, this may be... I... I do not know... sharable, not for sure, but... well... a little... a little... understandable? Comprehensible? Is it possible, is it licit to say such a thing? I do not know, oh I just do not know! What I do know is that, regrettably very frequently, undeniably nothing noble, but rather a lot, if not the whole, of arrogant, of ruthless, of inanely fierce, was hidden behind such actions, was their basis, their essence. And... and even now... events of such kind... happen!"
I fall silent, uncertain and surprised, too. Surprised. Certainly. For... for my long rant. My externalization. I seek the eyes of Mal…furtively. I need support, and ... I'm not sure he fully shares the way I have opened myself, so, a little... a little excessively. Beyond measure. The Bannerda looks at me with a grave expression. "You've answered alone the question you asked me, Ensign."
Mal and I look perplexed at each other. "But... Your Excellency, I... we do not understand." I see Mal nod with conviction at my words, puzzled just as me.
"You, Ensign, just made me touch with hand, through your words, that you - that the species to which you belong - writhes in the doubt."
I frown, trying to figure out where the Bannerda wants to arrive. "Which means?"
"You are in search for the good. But you get confused. You lose your way. You can not figure out where is the good. Or, at least, not always. And very often you accomplish evil, sometimes thinking of acting for the good, sometimes acting for evil in itself, conscious of acting wickedly, or, even worse, knowingly pursuing evil."
I can not say that the statements of His Excellency are actually nice, even if, the same way, I can not deny that they are true. But I can't help but be piqued. "It must be said that you Bannerdas are decidedly well informed, about us Humans, Your Excellency."
He seems not to take notice. "Ensign, I told you that we were - and are - fascinated by you Human as well as by Vulcans. And evidently we had good reasons, do not you think?"
"Yeah, sure, Your Excellency." Better let it go. Better. And then, at this moment, it is something else that interests me. What the hell does His Excellency want to say? "Okay, okay. But then? All the more reason we do not understand."
"Ensign, Lieutenant, think about what I have just said. I said to you that you Humans macerate yourself in the doubt. You Humans, and your words are clear evidence, Ensign, are aware of the ambiguity that is in you and you are equally aware that, ultimately, you have the option of choosing between good and evil, although often you're unable to clearly distinguish the road to take."
Perhaps I am beginning to understand. I say nothing, like Mal, waiting for the following.
"Good and evil coexist in you. But you can choose. Exactly as the Kamikaze. Exactly as the possibility of choice was possible for all those of you who have acted as the Kamikaze, whether their actions were, at least for them, aimed to good or not. And once the choice is made, you - all of you says this - pursue your purpose with strength and determination. Even with malice if you think you must be bad to achieve that purpose. And ruthlessly. Even when you act in the good. Oh yes. You really are the heirs of the King, this is a fact, because in you there is his evil force, there is his ruthlessness."
His Excellency is throwing on our face what we are. His analysis of us is... ruthless! Like... like us. I rebel! "Your Excellency! Do not... "
"But there is also the doubt in you, whereas the King had no doubt. He was evil force and ruthlessness. And nothing else."
Ah. So... so we... we are not just like the breed of the King! Okay, all right. But where does that lead us? Why the Bannerda thinks that the mixture of good and evil that is in us may result in the victory against the King? "Thank you. Just as well. It's a relief. However..."
"And I like to think that the doubt that accompanies your lives, the search for good, albeit flawed, that you pursue, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not, is due to the fact that in you - as you well know by now - there is also part of us."
The face of the Bannerda saddens. "Of what we were before evil had contaminated us, on those days and on those nights of horror in which we believed to have no other choice but exterminating the wicked race of the King. We too have erred and our errors have been enormous, full of dire consequences, because we have failed our… noble intent, we have de facto betrayed it and, ultimately, we have allowed the evil to be affirmed and spread everywhere and all along the course of time exactly through us and our actions."
His Excellency livens up. "But where we have failed, you, exactly you, can succeed. You can remedy our failure. If there is someone who may be able to counteract the King, this someone are you. You possess his strength. You possess his ruthlessness. However you also possess the doubt. And you also possess the yearning for the good. And the Vulcans, who are our most direct descendants, those in whom it is more fleshed out the complex of our own genetic heritage, they possess our ability for logic, our ability argumentative, our yearning towards goals of higher awareness of existence. And you and Vulcans, you, epigones of… Evil, and the Vulcans, epigones... oh well, yes... epigones of the Good... your two breeds…"
The Bannerda's look becomes vivid. "Your two species are in good terms. There is friendship between them. Indeed, between the one who should give new life to the King, your Commander Tucker, a Human, and the one - T'Pol, a Vulcan - who should give new life to Lil, to the bride of evil… between them two, it was born love. It is possible, yes, it is possible that... that the ancient disharmony of the Universe finally may be recomposed, that its primeval fracture can be welded!"
Frankly, I almost reel. What is inherent in the words of His Excellency... is insanely grandiose, maybe... maybe even vaguely delusional. And then... yeah, and then ... "Eh, but this... Your Excellency, also between the King and Lil it arose love! And..."
"Oh yes, Certainly. You're right. The bond born between the Human and the Vulcan - extremely strong, that's clear and therefore indicative of an incredibly deep feeling of love for each other - does not seem to do anything but give consistency and force to our worst fears. But, listen to me, my friends." The Bannerda stresses emphatically that 'my friends' and gets extremely serious. "Commander Tucker may be the King. But he is not. And his woman, T'Pol, may be Lil. But she is not."
The words of His Excellency acquire vehemence. "They may become so, but they may also not become so. In a sense, they… can choose"
Oh, now I understand what His Excellency wants to say, where he wants to go. Where, at this point, he has practically arrived. And the significance is immense!
His tone of voice gets high, almost shrill. "Your Commander Tucker… he has the strength to counteract the King, because he is, may be, the King. He possesses his ruthless force. But he can choose. He can choose not to pursue evil. And he can resist evil, has the strength to do it, because in him... there is the strength of the King!"
The Bannerda looks at us with lively eyes. "And his woman, T'Pol, can be the spring able to get him to make full use of this strength, but in a good way, not necessarily bad, just by virtue of the option to choose that the Human possesses. The love blossomed between Lil and the King has been, ultimately, the cause of the perdition of the Dark Sir. All right, agree. Well, the love blossomed between the Human who is, may be, the King, and the Vulcan who is, may be, Lil… it can be this again, I mean the cause of the perdition of the King. But of the King. Not of your friend. Because it is with him, and not with the King, that she has fallen in love. Of course, the lure of the King, of evil, might be extremely strong for her, overwhelming, but also the Vulcans have a dual heritage, ours and of the King's lineage, even if in them ours is more evident. So they, too, can choose. Therefore T'Pol might surrender to the lure of the King, to his bewitching and treacherous call, of course, just like it happened to Lil; but she might also find in her love for the Human the strength to oppose the King, and, in turn, provide the Human, precisely because of this love, with the strength to hold out against the arch-enemy. Although..."
The voice of the Bannerda tapers off. Suddenly. "Although... if your fellow fails to... fails to ..." He stops. He almost stammers. "...then, she too... in this case she too... and you... and everyone..."
His Excellency falls silent suddenly. He looks at us almost appalled. Then, uncomfortably and with effort, he recomposes himself. "Your companion, your friend and colleague, Commander Tucker... he must..." - It seems almost a prayer, in a tone of a heartfelt command. – "... He must resist the lure of evil, must be able to oppose the King…" - His Excellency stops again for a brief moment. His eyes are grim. I read in them a shadow of... of authentic fear! - ... who wants to relive in him!"
Mal and I wince. We know it, we have understood it, we have thought it, we have said it, Mal has affirmed it. His Excellency has made it blatant, not to say clearly expressed, without feigning. But to hear it be said in such way, with such force and vehemence by the Bannerda, by the one who more than any other really knows what we are talking about, who has an imperfect but real and true knowledge of the facts and events of the dawn of the cosmos... this is... is horrible, behold! It's frightening!
I squeeze tightly Mal's hand. I feel... oh I feel it well... that he is thinking exactly what is twisting and turning into my mind. Right now... in this moment our friend and companion is probably fighting - or maybe it would be more accurate, more honest, to say 'is fighting for sure' - the hardest battle of his life. No! It is not true. It is not so! He is fighting, without even knowing it, the hardest battle which a man has ever fought! A battle feral and fatal, to the death and... and more than death, where at stake it is not only him, his life, his soul, his essence. His T'Pol. At stake it is the fate of everyone! Of the universe!
The Bannerda sighs deeply. "We need to help your two friends. We must find them and must save them. We can do it, we can succeed, because you, you my friends, you have the abilities to do so. I renew with vigour what I said earlier about your capacities. But all will be useless and it will be of no use that we will manage to find your friends, nor, much less, to discover in what way the Grand Monarch succeeded in reducing the King to silence and in what manner it is possible to do it again, if the King will be able to relive in the man who, to all intents and purposes, is none other than the King himself. Now it is clear what is hidden in the ancient poem, in its arcane verses.
They say HE is waiting.
Not dead, not alive.
With inhuman patience.
He is waiting.
For his moment to arrive."
These are the verses, the last, of the poem, dating from the dawn of time that His Excellency has already recited.
For His moment to arrive.
And the moment has arrived! Charles "Trip" Tucker the third, our closest friend, our comrade, the most man of men... the man... the man who carries within the genes of the King ... of the devil! ... has come to Him, to The One who was waiting, 'not dead, not alive, for His moment to arrive"!
The trap has sprung. Now the picture is clear. It is evident, clear-cut.
The trap. But not the one in which it was T'Pol to fall. The trap was not for her. She was the bait. She would have attracted Trip to the King and the King would have come out from his state 'not dead, not alive', ready to resume his place in the universe, by reliving in Trip, just because brought back to the world by the only woman who could do it. T'Pol. Because T'Pol is, embodies, the ancient woman of the King. Lil.
But she is also the woman of Trip. His beloved loved one. And, to the call of her, Trip could never have resisted. And he would have followed her anywhere. Everywhere. Even in the Hall of the Mountain King. Of the King. Of the devil. Falling into his hands. Into his claws!
Is it fantasy? Am I fooling myself? Am I... am I going crazy?
"Perfect." Mal's voice shakes me. "Worthy of the worst serial novels, of the worst tales of Dark Fantasy, but perfect. Too much, not to be true. The King expects to be able to return to live, obviously in the only Being who could allow him to do it, that is, in a Being who is none other than him himself. This Being - Trip - appears on the scene of the universe. It is to take him to the King. Easy. Just catch his woman, T'Pol. He will follow her everywhere. But the choice of T'Pol as a bait has much more value, it means much more, because she is also the woman in whom relives, literally, the one who was the spouse of the King, Lil. So she, T'Pol, can be able to bring back the King to that bit of consciousness that can enable him to realize that his moment has come, that in his talons there is the man who can allow him to get back to be - in a very real sense - what he was. More perfect than that."
No. It is not fantasy. I'm not fooling myself! I'm not going crazy! Or ... or at least ... not yet. If my Mal, the voice of cold reason, speaks in this way, gives voice, with the perfect rigour that is own of him, to what I'm thinking ... then it's all true. It's all true!
"Of course, you have to wonder how this plan - yes, let me tell you, because that is, even though this whole thing seems to be the result of the sick imagination of a writer of stories of horror-fantasy - how this perfect plan may have come to be realized, to take concrete shape. Coincidences exist, but here they are a bit too many. There is someone, something, behind all this."
The cool and calm voice of Mal gives me a handhold to hold on to avoid slipping in hysteria.
"And I suspect that this someone or something has something to do, directly or indirectly, with the missing pages of that your damn book, Your Excellency. And I wonder what is the link between this someone or something and what lies behind that affair of the ... how has Ensign Sato called them?... ah yes... the "false friends." I would almost be tempted to think that... I do not know... that that clue is too precise, too... well-thought. It's too mysterious, too inexplicable, also. Too arcane. Too full of coincidences, the coincidences to which I do not believe, if they pile up too much with each other. We... you, Your Excellency... received precise indications about the King, about the place where it was possible to find the disappeared book, so important, just when it has occurred the need, even if we can not understand the way in which these indications have been furnished to us. How is this possible? Why is that? How so?"
Mal keeps silent for a moment. He concentrates. He looks at the Bannerda with a hard face and determined. Even tired. He wearily runs a hand over his face. "We have much to do, Your Excellency. Much to work with. Let us do quickly. Let us go forward with your exposure of the… mythical events that took place in those far days. We need clues to figure out where the hell the missing pages have gone to hide, still assuming that they still exist and that we can retrieve them."
I am grateful to Mal. He is my rock. He gives me the strength I desperately need. He was the first to really grasp the essence of this story, he gave voice to my fears, to my thoughts, recognizing without useless heartaches that T'Pol is ... Lil; that her presence on that planet, her capture, were not random. He did not hesitate to look reality in the face, did not hesitate to acknowledge and affirm with not uncertain words, in no uncertain terms, the identity between Trip... between Trip and the King. The devil! But he does not lose his concreteness, his reassuring solidity. And he never thinks that there can be nothing more to do, that there is not a way out.
He... is my rock!
But he is tired. And - I I'm sure - now more than ever, because of the certainty that we now have that the capture of T'Pol started it all, inside him it's whirling like a nagging thought the idea that he was unable to prevent this from happening. He blames himself for what's going on. He puts his duty to the maximum step and he thinks that, this time, he has not been able to do it as he considers he must do.
Oh, Mal! How much I love you, my silly rocky love!
He needs me. I take his hand, look at him without thinking to hide what I feel for him, Bannerda or not Bannerda.
He looks at me in turn. Nods. He shakes his head. The shadows of fatigue fade away on his face. "So, Your Excellency?"
Here he is. He's himself again. My unfailing, unbreakable Mal.
He is a rock!
And I really believe that this is true also for His Excellency. The Bannerda nods, convinced, clinging, he too, as well as me, to the earthly soundness, to the life preserver of solid reality, that Mal throws to us.
"I follow you, Lieutenant. Ask."
"Very well. So, let's see. Let's resume from those crews of the fleet of the king, his Army of Darkness, who executed their suicide attacks against the fleet of the Great Monarch. Interesting strategy, no doubt. But deleterious, in the final analysis. Counterproductive. Too self-destructive. Sure, I understand that the King could rely on a huge number of men, but ... "
Mal stops abruptly. He stares disoriented at the Bannerda. "Wait a minute! Your Excellency, but didn't you say that the breed of the King had been completely wiped out?"
"I've said it, Lieutenant."
"But then... the crews of those ships... those of the Army of Darkness...?"
"The kamikaze?"
"But yes, exactly. The suicide bombers. If they were not..."
"Lieutenant, I must tell you that for them the term Kamikaze is quite improper. The only thing they have in common with each other is their suicidal course of action for the purpose of destroying the enemy, but nothing more. These Kamikaze of whom you spoke to me had a choice, thing that certainly was not for the suicidal crews of the ships of the Army of Darkness of the King."
Another enigma. Damn it! This story proliferates of enigmas! I intervene, slightly annoyed, speaking before Mal can open his mouth. "Because they had no choice? Because they belonged to a race that could only choose evil? A breed, essentially, devoid of choice? That of the King? But, Your Excellency, didn't you just say that the race of the King no longer existed? That it had been completely exterminated by you?
The Bannerda nods stiffly. "It is so, Ensign."
"But... then... the crews of those ships... those of the Army of Darkness... who the devil…?"
"Exactly, Ensign. The Devil."
Admittedly it is not unpleasant. No. It is not at all unpleasant to be the devil.
It has its sides... funny.
It is good to laugh like that, that way. Satanically. Interesting term, this, fished in the mind of the Human. Evocative.
It is funny to laugh at the inane labours, at the empty efforts of those two, of that Human male and of that Vulcan female, so lost into each other.
As… as He too, once, far in the time, with her... with Lil...
Ah, to the devil! Sure. TO... THE DEVIL!
It is hateful, horrible, disgraceful - demeaning - to think about what He has become!
But...
But since He has become this... so be it. Let Him be the devil!
Certainly, soon He will no longer be so and, after all, since long, long a time, He, in reality, no longer has that aspect. The aspect of the devil. He now, in truth… in truth… He has no aspect.
But soon He will have it again. And it will not be that of the devil. He will be again what He was. By now, the ordeals that the Human is facing are no longer needed, it is no longer necessary that the Human demonstrates to Him that he is really the one He was waiting for. The Human is this one.
And He will be again Him.
No. No need for any further testing. And the hunger, the irrepressible and bestial starvation which was for countless eons the only thing that was able to bring Him to a simulacrum of life... that hunger has calmed down.
His is another hunger now. But he can wait for now.
He has perfect control.
So... why not?
It is… funny… to see and maliciously pull the strings of the show that the Human offers in facing the ordeals.
Really funny.
Worthy of the devil.
His 'beloved' offspring, these Humans, possess a brain really vivid. Worthy of Him. Only Beings bearing in themselves His blood could conceive the idea of the devil.
The distorted memory of Him. Handed down over the eons in their genes.
The distorted memory of Him...
The Essence of Him. Handed down over the eons in the new Him. In that human man.
Who has understood. Has understood everything.
Per force.
That Human is Him!
And the Human says that He is having fun.
But of course! It is so!
And how could it be otherwise, since He is enjoying the pleasant sight of the tremendous and futile battle that the Human is fighting to save his woman, the Vulcan female?
How could it be otherwise, since, whatever the outcome of the struggle of the man, the final outcome will be just and only His victory? Nothing but this?
If the Human won't be capable of overcoming the three ordeals, he will be His and His will be the woman.
If the Human will be capable of overcoming the three ordeals, he will be His and the woman...
Mh.
He has taken on a commitment.
Has made a pact with the Human.
He will have to make the woman free, in case of victory of the Human.
But ... He is the devil.
And the devil...
Really funny, to be the devil.
For the devil there are no rules, just like for Him, the King.
Only that the devil, as He has been able to capture in the mind of the Human, is also a prankster.
A malignant prankster.
The devil likes to have fun.
So then…
Let the fun be!
Who knows if the Human will like the way to which the devil is going to resort, to make him dart with the speed of the flash.
End of the Chapter
TBC
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Well, my friends, aren't you curious to know which is the naughty trick it's going to play on our poor Trip that 'imperceptibly' malignant prankster of the King? Oh, I beg your pardon. Of the devil.