Ending from "The Tragedy of the Marionette"
Author's Note: I'm rather proud of this one. I need to get the whole work (around 300 pages) published.
---
Alistair's hands shook slightly as he descended the curving, sulphur-coated stairwell. The cold air had become like ice as he made his way into the sub-basement level of the fortress. Whatever the Ava Complex was, it was kept well away from the denizens of Romain's Keep.
As the darkness of the pit crept around him, Alistair's thoughts returned to his quest- its end so close at hand. He thought of the destruction that had torn his home and his family from him, of the countless innocents who had been slain by Romain's ruthless Executioners in their mad purge of the country-side, of the hundreds of zealots Alistair himself had been forced to kill in the resulting riots that had burned the last vestages of peace from his land. Fate had been cruel to send Alistair on his mission, but he could not live with the consequences of his failure.
Naomi had said, "History may forget you, but it will not forget what you have done." Alistair had thought that sounded trite when she first said it, but now her words at last began to ring true. If his crusade against Romain's henchmen was lost in the following centuries, it would be no great loss. What was important was that Butchers like Crimson, Kai, and Yael were dead- that their body counts could not grow any higher. That history would be written at all would be Alistair's great gift; a gift already assured by the scarlet-black blood that stained the mad King Romain's chest. All that was left was to discover the mystery of the Ava Complex.
The Complex. Alistar's hands began to tremble again, just thinking of the fabled object's name. Romain had been the last man to know what it really was, and some say that had been the knowledge that had driven him insane. There were theories, of course. Some thought it was a weapon- a device capable of ending all wars, or perhaps simply ending all life. The Vallin Church saw it as a gift from God himself. Alistair's old wounds flared with pain as he remembered the assassins the Church had sent after him, and his jaw tightened as he again saw the way Miro's face froze in an expression of astonishment when the hidden knife cut through his throat. That face that had always been so stern, so judgemental, and yet so compassionate, forever frozen in uncharacteristic surprise. Alistair's breath came ragged and hot, as he tried to clear his mind of those painful memories.
"Revenge his death, if you must," Naomi had said, "But don't let the seas of blood drown out his memory." God damn you Naomi, Alistair had said, tears running down his cheeks as Miro's blood poured over his hands. God damn you for being right. If only... but now, revenge would not bring Miro back, no matter how many of the Vallin Church died. And despite the schemes of its rulers, good men like Jagger and Royce operated within the Church, turning the evils of their superiors into blessings and mercies for the innocent. No, the fall of Vallin would be no legacy to honor Miro's life. But the destruction of the Ava Complex would.
No two legends agree on what the Ava Complex is, but Alistair had come to side with Jagger's interpretation of what it had become. The Ava Complex was the sum and total of humanity's fears. Every darkly whispered curse, every horror-stricken cry, every subtle act of cruelty- that is what the Ava Complex had become. It was the rationalization of a thousand tyrants and the nameless threat of a hundred doomsayers. The Ava Complex was a demon more real than any illuminated in Vallin's holy scriptures and an evil more pervasive than even Romain's Executioners. And Alistair was going to destroy it once and for all.
The stairs terminated in a gate sealed with steel bars and heavy, iron chains. It stood, resolute and solid, almost more secure than the walls it was affixed to. Holy seals of a hundred religions were affixed in wax and parchment, some so ancient that even the memory of their existence had passed from the world. As he stood before that portal, Alistair couldn't help but wonder if it had been constructed to keep intruders out, or to keep its contents within.
Alistair placed his palm against the cold metal of the gate, feeling its marred and uneven surface against his grief and toil-hardened skin. There was the faintest sensation of vibration coming from beyond, almost like a pulse in the air that shook even the monumental barrier. Returning his hand to its thick leather glove, Alistair withdrew the silver-wrought key he had pulled from Romain's chest. The madman had burned the device into his flesh so deeply, it had nearly been fused to the bones of his rib cage. The key reflected a dim shadow of Alistair's torch against the gaping blackness of the vault.
Alistair carefully put the key into each lock and turned, the rolling of tumblers greeting each turn like the rumbling approch of some great and distant doom. As the last tumbler fell into place and the locks simultaniously disengorged their iron chains, the multitude of holy seals adorning the chamber door crumbled, as if succumbing to the antiquity that their entombment had staved off. A thrill of anticipation electrified Alistair, even as he tightened his left-handed grip on the blood-stained sword he wore at his hip. The battle with Romain had nearly killed him- he would not allow some ancient guardian of a sealed vault cut his mission short.
A slight push, and the vault's portal fell inward soundlessly, leaving the tomb of the Ava Complex yawning before him. As Alistair took that first step into the subterrine chamber, he couldn't help but whisper the last thing Naomi had said to him. Lying bandaged in her bed, with Royce standing beside her like a beautific guardian angel, she had cast her arm up and, with fingers outspread, had called out to him, "End our nightmare. Make a dream worth living for." Alistair's murmur echoed around the chamber, as if the very walls called on him to do Naomi's bidding.
The layout of the chamber was lost on Alistair, his vision focused solely on the pillar at the center of the vault and the crimson-stained chest that it bore. The chest's wood was a red so deep that it almost seemed to ooze, and the bindings were a polished gold so clear that it seemed almost silver. The coldness of the stairs vanished like a midsummer storm, and all around Alistair, an intense warmth quivered in the air, bringing sweat to his forhead.
He took a halting step toward the chest, then paused. The gravity of his situation came rushing up over him at once. Here was revenge for the thousands of innocents that had died for a madman's delusions. Here was retribution for the maiming wounds Naomi had condemned herself to, in order to save Alistair's life from Yael's cowardly sword. Here was a legacy to honor Miro with. Here, within Alistair's grasp- at last- was the Ava Complex.
He touched the chest with the tips of his gloved fingers, tenitively, at first. He rubbed the smooth surface of the wood with his palm before pulling his gloves off, and grasping the box at both ends. He held it for a long moment before running his fingers to the dual locks that held its lid down, and kept its secrets hidden. Alistair's breath grew short, his heart racing. He rested his thumbs on the golden hitches and took a series of short gasps. His skin felt like it was on fire, and sweat trickled down his face in streams. He flicked the hitches, and the lid fell backwards on oiled hinges. The light of Alistair's torch poured into the chest.
There was a parchment inside that looked old enough to have come from the very creation of the world itself. Around it, a band of pure, alabaster silk that gleamed with a pale luminescence. Securing the silken band to the parchment, a waxen seal bore a marking that seemed to Alistair at once utterly alien and intensely familiar. With unsteady hands, Alistair picked up the parchment, broke the seal, and let the cream-colored silk fall to the floor. Unrolling the scroll, he gazed on the Ava Complex.
Alistair stared at the scroll for a moment, before letting his eyes fall to the ground. His body shivered. He looked up once more, studying the paper for seconds, then minutes. He trembled slightly. Raising his gaze up to the ceiling, he let his arms fall to his sides, the parchment slowly slipping from his grasp to settle on the floor.
The parchment bore only eight letters, forming but two words. It read, "Your Face."
---
Alistair's hands shook slightly as he descended the curving, sulphur-coated stairwell. The cold air had become like ice as he made his way into the sub-basement level of the fortress. Whatever the Ava Complex was, it was kept well away from the denizens of Romain's Keep.
As the darkness of the pit crept around him, Alistair's thoughts returned to his quest- its end so close at hand. He thought of the destruction that had torn his home and his family from him, of the countless innocents who had been slain by Romain's ruthless Executioners in their mad purge of the country-side, of the hundreds of zealots Alistair himself had been forced to kill in the resulting riots that had burned the last vestages of peace from his land. Fate had been cruel to send Alistair on his mission, but he could not live with the consequences of his failure.
Naomi had said, "History may forget you, but it will not forget what you have done." Alistair had thought that sounded trite when she first said it, but now her words at last began to ring true. If his crusade against Romain's henchmen was lost in the following centuries, it would be no great loss. What was important was that Butchers like Crimson, Kai, and Yael were dead- that their body counts could not grow any higher. That history would be written at all would be Alistair's great gift; a gift already assured by the scarlet-black blood that stained the mad King Romain's chest. All that was left was to discover the mystery of the Ava Complex.
The Complex. Alistar's hands began to tremble again, just thinking of the fabled object's name. Romain had been the last man to know what it really was, and some say that had been the knowledge that had driven him insane. There were theories, of course. Some thought it was a weapon- a device capable of ending all wars, or perhaps simply ending all life. The Vallin Church saw it as a gift from God himself. Alistair's old wounds flared with pain as he remembered the assassins the Church had sent after him, and his jaw tightened as he again saw the way Miro's face froze in an expression of astonishment when the hidden knife cut through his throat. That face that had always been so stern, so judgemental, and yet so compassionate, forever frozen in uncharacteristic surprise. Alistair's breath came ragged and hot, as he tried to clear his mind of those painful memories.
"Revenge his death, if you must," Naomi had said, "But don't let the seas of blood drown out his memory." God damn you Naomi, Alistair had said, tears running down his cheeks as Miro's blood poured over his hands. God damn you for being right. If only... but now, revenge would not bring Miro back, no matter how many of the Vallin Church died. And despite the schemes of its rulers, good men like Jagger and Royce operated within the Church, turning the evils of their superiors into blessings and mercies for the innocent. No, the fall of Vallin would be no legacy to honor Miro's life. But the destruction of the Ava Complex would.
No two legends agree on what the Ava Complex is, but Alistair had come to side with Jagger's interpretation of what it had become. The Ava Complex was the sum and total of humanity's fears. Every darkly whispered curse, every horror-stricken cry, every subtle act of cruelty- that is what the Ava Complex had become. It was the rationalization of a thousand tyrants and the nameless threat of a hundred doomsayers. The Ava Complex was a demon more real than any illuminated in Vallin's holy scriptures and an evil more pervasive than even Romain's Executioners. And Alistair was going to destroy it once and for all.
The stairs terminated in a gate sealed with steel bars and heavy, iron chains. It stood, resolute and solid, almost more secure than the walls it was affixed to. Holy seals of a hundred religions were affixed in wax and parchment, some so ancient that even the memory of their existence had passed from the world. As he stood before that portal, Alistair couldn't help but wonder if it had been constructed to keep intruders out, or to keep its contents within.
Alistair placed his palm against the cold metal of the gate, feeling its marred and uneven surface against his grief and toil-hardened skin. There was the faintest sensation of vibration coming from beyond, almost like a pulse in the air that shook even the monumental barrier. Returning his hand to its thick leather glove, Alistair withdrew the silver-wrought key he had pulled from Romain's chest. The madman had burned the device into his flesh so deeply, it had nearly been fused to the bones of his rib cage. The key reflected a dim shadow of Alistair's torch against the gaping blackness of the vault.
Alistair carefully put the key into each lock and turned, the rolling of tumblers greeting each turn like the rumbling approch of some great and distant doom. As the last tumbler fell into place and the locks simultaniously disengorged their iron chains, the multitude of holy seals adorning the chamber door crumbled, as if succumbing to the antiquity that their entombment had staved off. A thrill of anticipation electrified Alistair, even as he tightened his left-handed grip on the blood-stained sword he wore at his hip. The battle with Romain had nearly killed him- he would not allow some ancient guardian of a sealed vault cut his mission short.
A slight push, and the vault's portal fell inward soundlessly, leaving the tomb of the Ava Complex yawning before him. As Alistair took that first step into the subterrine chamber, he couldn't help but whisper the last thing Naomi had said to him. Lying bandaged in her bed, with Royce standing beside her like a beautific guardian angel, she had cast her arm up and, with fingers outspread, had called out to him, "End our nightmare. Make a dream worth living for." Alistair's murmur echoed around the chamber, as if the very walls called on him to do Naomi's bidding.
The layout of the chamber was lost on Alistair, his vision focused solely on the pillar at the center of the vault and the crimson-stained chest that it bore. The chest's wood was a red so deep that it almost seemed to ooze, and the bindings were a polished gold so clear that it seemed almost silver. The coldness of the stairs vanished like a midsummer storm, and all around Alistair, an intense warmth quivered in the air, bringing sweat to his forhead.
He took a halting step toward the chest, then paused. The gravity of his situation came rushing up over him at once. Here was revenge for the thousands of innocents that had died for a madman's delusions. Here was retribution for the maiming wounds Naomi had condemned herself to, in order to save Alistair's life from Yael's cowardly sword. Here was a legacy to honor Miro with. Here, within Alistair's grasp- at last- was the Ava Complex.
He touched the chest with the tips of his gloved fingers, tenitively, at first. He rubbed the smooth surface of the wood with his palm before pulling his gloves off, and grasping the box at both ends. He held it for a long moment before running his fingers to the dual locks that held its lid down, and kept its secrets hidden. Alistair's breath grew short, his heart racing. He rested his thumbs on the golden hitches and took a series of short gasps. His skin felt like it was on fire, and sweat trickled down his face in streams. He flicked the hitches, and the lid fell backwards on oiled hinges. The light of Alistair's torch poured into the chest.
There was a parchment inside that looked old enough to have come from the very creation of the world itself. Around it, a band of pure, alabaster silk that gleamed with a pale luminescence. Securing the silken band to the parchment, a waxen seal bore a marking that seemed to Alistair at once utterly alien and intensely familiar. With unsteady hands, Alistair picked up the parchment, broke the seal, and let the cream-colored silk fall to the floor. Unrolling the scroll, he gazed on the Ava Complex.
Alistair stared at the scroll for a moment, before letting his eyes fall to the ground. His body shivered. He looked up once more, studying the paper for seconds, then minutes. He trembled slightly. Raising his gaze up to the ceiling, he let his arms fall to his sides, the parchment slowly slipping from his grasp to settle on the floor.
The parchment bore only eight letters, forming but two words. It read, "Your Face."
posted by Jonc0re at
4:43 PM
2 Comments:
By way of explaination, in a discussion I had with Pat, I remarked how amusing it would be to write a full-sized novel about some mysterious object that was the whole motivation of the narrative, which turned out to be nothing more than a "Your Face" joke. We found the idea hilarious, hence my entry here is designed to give the impression that it is part of a larger narrative and practically drips with maudlin seriousness before the punchline.
Pat had an idea for a sequal. The world is troubled by an enigmatic, malevolent entity. A band of unlikely heroes must overcome adversity to confront the evil power, only to learn that the antagonist is none other than "Yo Momma."
Hilarious.
By
Jonc0re, at 1:00 PM
...
I "laughed out loud."
By
Nick, at 9:13 PM
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