Bright and Terrible: Part 5

This story was made using the solo RPG Bright and Terrible, by Rose on Mars.

As time passed, Atlantis continued to die.

I sank deeper and deeper into the depths. What mattered the Laws of the Firmament if there were no Shining Towers to uphold them? What sense was there in the Ways of the Spiral if there were no dancers to herald them? Who cared for the Honor of Being when there were no people to celebrate them?

Time continued to kill Atlantis, as I, the only one who remembered their great and terrible beauty, slowly felt the images fade in my mind. The Dance of the Spheres became blurry in my memory. The Morning Songs sung by the Avian Choir turned muted. The murals made by painting colored lights in the sky, mere shadows.

Seated once more on my throne, listening to the whispers of my trapped heretic, I spoke again with the Ophidian Sisters. I condemned them for their actions, and demanded recompense. As ever, they laughed and shook their scaly hair.

“Retribution for what, dear sibling? For giving you the spark of fire you needed to solve your dilemma? For giving you the strength to bend the Pirates to your will? For allowing you to end an ancient curse long since past its use? All has come to pass as the Mother-of-Serpents claimed it would.”

“Never aid me again,” I spat, feeling the power of Atlantis behind me, “or I shall crush you and your mother to dust!”

“We shall not aid you, for we need not aid you,” their wailing laughter scraped my ears. “Not anymore, for the path you are on shall unfold without us.” And so they left me alone once more. My hands itched on my fell-hammer, eager to spread my wrath over the Isle of the Gorgons, and bring an end to their feral magics.

But now, the images of Atlantis in my mind were dim. If I was to be the last Atlantean, I could not bear to destroy those who held memories of the Empire of Air and Darkness. The Gogi still lived, spinning her spells among the ancient leopardpeople, the Heathen remained trapped, a mad soul in a pillar of rock salt. Even the Loeioi I had left to their fate when I first landed on mortal shores held some piece of Atlantis inside their broken mind.

I accepted audiences less and less. The mortals of the realm meant little to me, and as I stared out from my lofty perch, I saw them spread their squalor across the land. They built houses from mud and rock, dead wood and dry grass. They plucked fur and feather from base animals and used it to keep warm and sleep soft. They ate flesh and drank blood, they burbled in barbaric grunts and squeeks, they were lesser than animals…

Yet they flourished while Atlantis faded.

I wept at the injustice of it all. I cried to the Gods, to angels and demons of all natures. I raged and wailed and in time even laughed. It made no difference. I could not rebuild what had been lost.

And then, in the pit of my despair, the Host of the Bloodied Thorn came to my doorstep.

Such legends were told of the Host, even among the Atlanteans. The only mortals to ever challenge Atlantis, the Host once swore loyalty to the Rose Princess, the Lady of Almathea, She of Uncompromising Grace. It was she who ruled Olmathea until the Indigo Empress took offense to her constant braying and disrespect. In a fortnight she was deposed and replaced with a new King, one of better stock.

The Knight Army of Olmathea, the Order of the Rose, remained loyal to their Princess. They fled with her and hid in places unseen by even the eyes of Atlantis. We had given her no more thought, but the Order of the Rose gave much thought to us.

Retitled the Host of the Bloodied Thorn, they stormed from the shadows one night with a cold and vengeful purpose. We met them on the field with holy weapons and blessed wings, thinking they would be enough. They fought us with a skill we had never seen in mortals, with weapons pulled from hidden places and armor forged by ancient hands. There can be no denying that the Host wounded Atlantis that day.

By now the Rose Princess was long dead, yet the Host remained loyal to her cause and righteousness. To see them upon my doorstep was perhaps not surprising, though that they begged an audience rather than came with swords drawn was shocking.

For three days I agonized over what to do. By every right I should have struck them all down with my full vengeful might; who else could have been responsible for Atlantis’s death? Surely their hatred brought them to some ancient ritual or powerful demon, and it was this which brought the ocean floor to Atlantis’s gates.

The whispers of my Heretic reminded me, though, that if there were any who remembered Atlantis, it would be the Host.

At long last, I accepted their Captain; a rugged woman of many scars and polished bronze. She did not hide her bile when speaking with me, nor her delight at seeing my station so diminished from where it once was.

We spoke as old foes must, nursing ancient grudges and reopening old wounds while sharing a history that made us closer than family. We laughed and raged and wept in equal measure, reliving the old times when the world made sense to us.

At long last, she spoke of the reason for their coming. The spirit of the Rose Princess had come to the entire Host in a dream. She had praised them for their loyalty and bravery, and charged them with a holy mission; to destroy the Legion of Whispers.

Her words sent a quiver down my spine. A feeble hope in my mind — that the Ghost of the Rose Princess was perhaps mistaken — was quickly quashed; spirits were known for their capriciousness, not their falsehoods. The Legion of Whispers must have somehow survived the destruction of Atlantis.

It was not impossible; the Legion of Whispers was famed for its indestructibility. In truth, there was no army more feared across the world than the Legion of Whispers. Their armor was impregnable, their weapons inescapable, their loyalty unbreakable, and their will unstoppable. Where they tread they left nothing but dark shadows and blood-stained fields.

They were a force that could conquer entire kingdoms. Perhaps even the world.

She begged my aid, for only I would know precisely where the legion now stood. Only I could take them safely to the monstrous army’s resting place, order the Legion to stand down, and watch as the Host put my people’s greatest army to the sword.

It was a horrible request, but one I did not hesitate in granting.

We sailed on a ship of polished moonlight, riding the waves as wind rode the mountaintops. My magics pointed true, and in less than a fortnight we had arrived at the ruins of Atlantis.

The ocean still raged and boiled, struggling with the marble pillars and jade foundations. The hate of the world tossed the ruins about like a tongue working at a piece of meat stuck in its teeth. Gold and Silver warped under the ferocious blows, and shards of stone and light churned in the water like mighty claws pulled from the depths. We sailed slowly through the maelstrom, winding between the shattered obelisks of my former home. Wraiths and specters of the past reached out from the shadows, calling to me in old dreams and half-shaped memories. Sparks and flashes of moonlight perfume and midnight velvet pulled at me, begged me to remember.

Oh, how painful it was to return to the tomb of this once immaculate Empire, to wander between the shades of long lost majesty. Had I returned to this cursed place when I first pulled myself from the deep waters, I might have despaired and thrown myself deep into the turbulent waters, to be chewed to pieces by architectural flotsam.

Now, I was able to turn my mind from the past. The echoing history of the Empire of Air and Darkness did not control me. I had come not to wallow in the past, but to raise it from the depths.

No, the struggle in my mind was not with the past, but the future. I had not considered the possibility that the Legion might have survived the destruction of Atlantis, and now that I had, I was faced with a solomonic question:

The Legion of Whispers could destroy a Kingdom, or build an empire. With the impossible strength of the Legion at my side, I could truly rebuild the majesty of Atlantis. It would take generations to relearn the lessons of the ancient world, but the Legion would give me that time. I could enforce my will, wipe away distractions, and take what resources I needed whenever I wished.

The Host wanted me to pull the Legion from the depths so they could destroy it. Would I let them? Could I?

As it turned out, there were other problems to deal with, first. As we approached the place where the Legion barracks once stood, a voice sang through the stormy chaos, bright and clear. I stood at the bow of my vessel, staring through the ocean mists until the bright lanterns and torches illuminated the source.

He was bedecked in garish finery; silver chains and golden rings, jeweled necklaces and strips of silk. His hat was tall and pointed, marking him as a satrap, and his robes were lined with precious metals. He waved his hands like a madman, calling out to his followers.

They surrounded him on large flat barges, ill suited for war but ideal in a torrential sea. They were armed with fine weapons and polished armor, and nodded along with the satrap’s ranting. He shouted over the boiling water: “You, my faithful and devoted acolytes, you shall sit at my right side when salvation comes. By the shadowed army that lies beneath us, my divinity shall spread across the land, and you shall reap the spoils of this good and rich planet.”

I should have laughed aloud at his ridiculous claims, but through the mists I saw around his neck the symbol of the Hypathion, the jeweled ornament of the Indigo Empress. How this clumsy mortal found such a holy relic, I have no idea. Perhaps it was nothing more than some bizarre fortune that drove the divine mark to his hands.

Seeing that holy artifact around the animal’s neck should have driven me to rage. I should have leapt from the bow and sailed through the tempestuous air and severed his head from his neck. I should have called down the lightning upon their twig-and-spit ships and sent them all to the same grave that Atlantis now filled.

But after so long, there was no more rage in me. I saw a child dressed in their parent’s clothes. I saw his poor soul quivering in fear behind a mask of divinity. I pitied the man even as I knew exactly what he intended to do.

As my ship drew nearer, the gathered army turned to watch our approach. The satrap’s confusion quickly gave way to a delighted grin. “See, one of the ancient Angels approaches, to bless me and my apotheosis! Come, blessed one, and speak soothing words of the grand Empire we shall create!

My voice held no fury, no passion, as I spoke to the assembled fools. “You are children all, looking up at your parents and imagining yourself their equal. You place crowns on your heads and believe they are halos. You command hungry and desperate peasants and pretend they are a faithful host of heaven. You build palaces of stone and imagine they are gold, robes of dead flesh that you imagine gossamer, and burbling grunts you imagine hymns. I have seen the majesty of a true empire worthy of the name, and now it lies beneath the sea. You are a mockery of a God, and they shall not countenance your insults.”

The satrap’s face fell. “You are wrong, fallen angel. Your kind is dead by the God’s hands, so that more worthy souls might take your place. I am the first of many who will be chosen, and by the Legion of Whispers I shall transcend to the Heavenly Gates! A new Pantheon of righteousness! So it is said, so shall it be!”

“Come then,” I sneered at the preening fool. “If God you will be, show me your strength. Pull the Legion of Whispers from their watery grave, and show us their impossible power. You are no god, you are merely a mortal with designs above your station.”

I had thought it a suitable rejoinder to the satrap’s ranting, but he did not silence himself in shame. Instead he threw his arms wide and called out to the heavens. He spoke in a language old and unkind, a language that I had only ever heard from the mouths of Atlantean royalty. In the ancient language of the Fore-priests, the satrap summoned the Gods.

But no, not the Gods. No pantheon arrived in a shower of light, nor host of angels heralding their coming. He called to a single God, a single name, a name I thought long forgotten.

Typhonus.

A swirling vortex of shadow and song wound about the Satrap, pulling him from the deck of his boat and holding him high in the air. The world bent and I knew the demon-god Typhonus was crawling back from the depths it had been imprisoned in for centuries.

“Strike!” I called to the waiting Host of the Bloodied Thorn. “Strike now, before it is too late!”

Obedient to the last, the Host flung themselves into the satrap’s army, outnumbered though they were. It mattered little, for the Host had stood against monsters and demons in their time, and were they outnumbered a hundred-to-one, their victory was not in doubt.

I myself lunged for the satrap, but it was not he whose hand clenched mine as I brought my hammer towards his head. Eyes that had seen whole worlds crack apart looked deep into mine. Breath that had not tasted air in seven eons brushed my cheek. A smile that had seen stars die split the satrap’s face.

“Jailor,” Typhonus spoke with the satrap’s voice. “How fitting you should be here, at my liberation.”

“Begone, foul serpent,” I spat with all my strength. “You were banished from these lands forever more.”

“Yet now I am called,” the God shrugged as it set me aside. “After so many generations without followers or worshipers, since my cults were banned and my priests put to the sword, should I be so impolite as to ignore an invitation?”

“You are an abomination,” I yelled as I swung my hammer. “Your presence here is an affront to all the Heavens and Hells of the Gods!”

“Perhaps,” Typhonus muttered as it stepped aside from my strongest blows. “But I am called for a purpose, and it is a purpose I must obey, no matter the offense.”

The monster-god held out its knurled hand to the churning ocean, and from below came such a groaning, as from a thousand trumpets echoing through deep canyons. The fighting paused as all stared into the depths, watching as a faint glow grew brighter.

They pushed through the water like they were digging through mud. Their black armor shone with sea-muck and glittering weeds. The bones of ancient fish and rotten crabs hung from sharp angles and strips of tattered cloth. With eyes burning bright, they broke the surface and stood on the rolling water as straight and tall as if they were on stone ramparts.

“Well?” the demon’s voice was calm. “My purpose is complete. I have summoned the Legion as you would have, fool-jailer. Now comes your choice.”

I held my hammer loosely in my hands. The Legion of Whispers surrounded us, waiting. The Host of the Bloodied Thorn raised their weapons in preparation to strike, though I could see their hesitation. It is one thing to swear to face a monster, another to strike your first blow.

I stared the demon-god in the eye, searching for some hint as to what tricks it had planned for me. I stared as deep as I dared, but there was nothing in its coal-black eyes but patience.

The Legion stood silent, ready for the taking. I could command them to strike, and not even the Host of the Bloodied Thorn would be able to stop me. I could crush them all and take my soldiers across the world, rebuilding the Empire of Atlantis with glorious abandon.

Or, I could destroy them all, here and now. With the Host at my side, the unmoving Legion would crumble, and another piece of Atlantis would be lost forever to the waves. The fate of the world would rise and fall without the guiding hand of an Empri. All would fall to chaos.

In the end, I do not know what made me raise my hammer above my head and speak the ancient word of command. I do not know why, when I ordered the indomitable Legion of Whispers, they obeyed without resistance or fanfare. Instead, they simply knelt, heads bowed, and waited patiently while the Host floated through the waters, severing each one from their heads. When the deed was done, their obsidian bodies drifted away on the winds like dandelion seeds, flying higher and higher until they vanished into the dark skies, never to be seen again.

Typhonus nodded, not out of appreciation for my choice, merely noting it. His light left the eyes of the satrap, and so I crushed his skull with my hammer, releasing his soul. I left the Host and the remaining followers there in the churning ocean to make their way to whatever homes they still had, to find whatever peace they could manage.

Myself, I returned to my throne.

Why had I done what I had done? I knew it then; Atlantis was dead. Only the ghosts and shadows of the once bright and terrible Empire now lived, and they would fade as all ghosts did.

For years I had struggled to keep the history of my people alive, in all its nobility and monstrousness. I gave the mortals my presence, taking and giving in equal measure. I was their God, their Liege, their loving parent and their firm master. I gave their squalid and muddy lives purpose.

But in the end, was I not searching for my own? Atlantis had given me purpose as well. Now, even if I performed the rites, the dances, the poems, and the hymns…who would I have performed them for?

It was this distance from my divine homeland that made the madness of the Ophidian Witches seem palatable. With the soft susurrus of the heretic’s whispers filling my mind, I found my mind wandering to the impossible lie, now frighteningly possible. I spoke to the emptiness, confident that the hags would hear:

“Your squirming sisters truly believe the Atlanteans were born from the bastard-child of a God? That our ancient ancestors were half-siblings? Then tell me true, Which God unites our blood? Is it a God that brings bright hope and joy? Or one of terrible pain and suffering?”

The laugh of the Ophidian Witches was horrifically calm. It was the laugh of one who had known the jape long before the final act. “It is not the Gods whose blood we share,” the words slithered through my ears, “but a mortal mother who sired our ancestors. We are tied through bonds of mortality, not divinity, and it is the mortal’s curse that will see our final union.”

The Mortal’s Curse. Death.

I once thought nothing but the ire of the Earth itself could bring Atlantis to its knees, and so the Earth’s ire must have grown until it crushed the very foundations of our immortal Empire. The divine magics, the infernal pacts, the papers filled with promises, histories, and prophesies, all of it dust in the face of one truth:

All things end.

Perhaps one day I shall crush my palace to sand. Perhaps I shall join the Gogi in her jungle, or the Ophidian Sisters in their revels. Perhaps on that day I shall shatter the rock salt pillar and free the mad soul of the Heretic, and we shall find our way to our own ending. I doubt even the Gods know.

All I know is I am tired. I have found no peace in holding onto the past, and the future will not reward me for my loyalty. Instead, I shall find a new future for me. One where I am not who I was, and perhaps may even choose who I will be. I will be bright and terrible in equal measure, and the Gods themselves will judge me.

Until I too meet the end that comes to all. Perhaps on that day, I can truly hold my head high and say that I lived truly and honorably. If not for Atlantis, than for myself.