Prelude: The Fall of Man
The humans came first. Their movements were
stilted, jarring back and forth under the protection of their technology and
armour. And yet there was a kind of grace in their lack of fluidity as they
went about the worship of their infernal devices. If there was any beauty to
them it was in their harshness, in the aura of barbarism as they lunged at each
other. The men and women fell into groups, splitting apart and reforming
without any notice as they warred and made peace over their trivial idols and
barely-distinguishable systems of thought. The world around them was sick and twisted, so that even the air was heavy with their pollution. The humans went to war, violently
clashing against each other. Fists gave way to rocks, swords were replaced by
guns.
And then she was there. She rose out of the
melee of weapons and blood without a warning, merely appearing in the middle of
the human strife like a gentle breeze on an arid day. She was grace and beauty
personified, her movements liquid and entrancing, everything that the humans
which surrounded her were not. She spun and glided between them, dressed all in
white, with her auburn hair flowing loose behind her.
One of the human men stepped forwards, a knife
in each hand. He brought one of them down in a vicious, mechanical arch towards
her chest. She stepped away from the attack with ease, and lightly pressed her
hand to his chest. The knife fell to the ground with a clatter, followed a
moment later by the human’s lifeless form.
The humans stopped their fighting and turned
on her as one. United at the end. All of their weapons, their strategies and
technology, were nothing to her, though. She swam between them, and men and
women fell at the slightest touch. But more and more humans were coming now,
joining in the desperate fray even as their fellows lay heaped on the floor.
In the middle of the maelstrom of blood and
violence, she began to spin. The humans drew back, afraid of being touched by
even the edges of her white clothes. From out of the white whirl stepped one,
two, three, four figures. The first was winged, and his face was hidden behind
a skull-like mask. The next was a giant of a man, taller even than the figure
in white, his body a mass of tightly-wound muscle, but who moved with a grace
at odds with his size. Behind him came a dark figure, wrapped in armour made of
ice. And finally, a creature that was less like a man than a living tumour, an
ever-changing mass of flesh that at one moment had two legs, then four, then
none at all.
And now she stood against the humans, with her
sons at her side. Death, War, Famine, and Plage moved around her in an
intricate dance, each as devoted in their love for their maker as they were in
their hatred for humanity. Now she was everything that she was ever meant to
be, at the height of her beauty and glory. Now, she was Mother.
Her four sons dashed around her as she resumed
her dance, adding their own rhythms and patterns to her movements as they
became increasingly confident. The humans fell around them, and soon no more
arrive. Mother stood, triumphant, over the corpses of humanity, her four sons
around her.
A hand reached out of the carnage, a single
human still alive with barely the strength to lift its arm. The fist gripped
Mother’s leg above the angle. She gave a sharp tug once, twice, three times,
and the hand fell away. But it left a deep red stain on her skirts which, even
as she strode away from the bodies, began to spread. The red blossomed across
the pure white of her dress, spreading and darkening until its purity was
masked by a red so deep that it was almost black. Mother gave a convulsive
shudder, and slumped forwards.
Her sons gathered round her, moving with
uncertainty and disease for the first time in their existence. Winged Death
reached forwards to place a comforting hand on the shoulder of his Mother. She
snapped back from the touch, whirling round in an animalistic blur of speed.
Mother crouched, glowering at her sons. She
sprang forwards, hands outsretched like claws. And now the dance began again,
only now Mother was fighting her own sons, even as they were were trampling the
remains of humanity into the dust. At first they evaded her grasp, unwilling to
fight back against the one who had given them life. But it soon became clear
that Mother would stop at nothing short of total destruction.
War struck first, a blow to her shoulder that
turned Mother in a graceful summersault towards the ground. She sprang again,
however, only to be blocked by one of Death’s wings. The dance was intense now,
as mother fought with her children.
Finally, Death stepped forward, landing a blow
to Mother’s chest. She staggered, and fell, disappearing beneath the carpet of
deceased humanity that surrounded them.
It was over.
Around the hall, the dimmed lighting was
returned to its former brilliance. The images of the dead humanity, of the Four
Horsemen, flickered and faded, leaving only a man and woman, dressed in
figure-hugging suits of sheer plack. They bowed low.
Naren looked over his should at the throne,
and the winged figure who sat upon it. Azrael said nothing, but bowed his head
slightly. Beside him, his wife began to clap gentle, a motion that was picked
up in a wave that travelled around the hall, until the entire room was filled
with applause. The performers bowed again before retreating.
Azrael stood, the feathers of his wings
sweeping the floor.
‘120 years ago, humanity was destroyed by
Mother Apocalypse and her sons. Among them was my ancestor, the first Lord of
Death. Tomorrow morning,’ he said, his voice carrying round the hall with no
apparent effort ‘My son, and my heir, will Ascend, and take his rightful place
among the People.’
Naren felt the eyes of the crowd turn on him.
He raised his chin slightly, and endeavoured to appear taller than he was. Now
his mother came forward down the steps, the light of the hall gleaming on her
shaved skull. She bent down slightly, and kissed him on the forehead, before
leading him back towards the throne to stand before his father. Azrael was a
head taller than his son, and he towered over the boy, his eyes cold and
emotionless. He raised a hand, and placed it on his son’s head; a universal
sign of blessing.
The crowd began to applaud again. Naren turned
to look out among the assembled noblemen and dignitaries. There was always a
crowd on the night before Ascension, but he was too young to remember seeing
one this large. It had been over a decade since the last royal child had
received their blessing. Among the crowd he saw his sister, Rei. She clapped,
but only half-heartedly, and there was no joy in her eyes. Naren felt a chill run
down his body as her gaze met his own.
His father led the way down the short flight
of stairs and out of the large doors at the far end of the hall, his wife and a
number of servants following close behind. The crowds returned to their seats,
to eat and drink, although with a more subdued air. The celebration proper was
at an end now that the Lord had left, and it would not be long before the last
of the revellers retired to bed, leaving the cheerful room cold and empty.
No longer the centre of attention, Naren
slipped out of a side door, leaving the heat and light of the hall behind as he
fled into the gloom of the castle.
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