The past revealed; a giant eye
Ancients from a distant sky.
Visions assaulted Mekka’s consciousness, an unending barrage of colour, sound and emotion. Dark things swirled on one side of him, brightness on the other, all of them intermingling and clutching at his soul – twisting it, stretching it, attempting to shape it in ways it was not meant to be shaped, until he thought he might break. And through all of it, random events kept up their relentless siege of his senses.
It was as though he had been dropped into the very centre of reality; a whirlpool of infinite greatness and eternal evil, mixed with the futile mundanity of mortal kind. He wanted to scream, to put his hands up to cover his ears, his eyes, but his physical body was paralysed and his mind had nowhere to flee to…
And then it all faded away. Quite suddenly, the chaos resolved itself, drawing back, making way for clarity. Whispers remained, just on the edge of hearing, ever-present in the background. But for now, Mekka’s sanity was allowed a respite.
He found himself beholding just one scene. It spread out around him in perfect detail from his vantage point somewhere just below a heavy ceiling of roiling clouds. The sky was murky as mouldy soup, yellowish-brown and foul. The land beneath was hot and red and dry, with rivers of lava and fields of ash. What little vegetation there was was scorched and struggling. It reminded him somewhat of the Middle Isle, but far more vast: the plains stretched out to the gloomy horizon.
Mekka didn’t recognise this place as anywhere on Arvanor, until he noticed the distinctive spiked peaks of the Barlakks below him.
A shock fizzled through him, but instinctively he knew that this was not the future he was witnessing. For one thing, there were too many Dragons. They were everywhere, soaring restlessly through the noisome air, skirmishing with each other, young and eager and hungry. They dipped down to the land in their red and gold majesty, scales gleaming dully in the baleful light.
Looking closer, Mekka saw that there were other living things down there, too. Humans, watchful and frightened; the more daring gathered in groups of primitive huts, the rest in caves. There were no towns or cities that Mekka could see; no agriculture, no civilisation.
This was the far distant past, when Dragons ruled.
The scene changed again; or rather, Mekka found himself being drawn upwards, through the stinking clouds, far upwards where the vapours that blanketed Arvanor thinned, and the sun came into view. The sky was still a sickly yellowish colour, though brighter than it was below.
Here, Mekka was astonished to find a city. It was vast and black, the architecture curving like the petals of dark flowers clustered together. Lights everywhere cast a blue luminescence, but they did not flicker, like flames.
As he drew closer to the city, Mekka saw machines and technology made of metal that he could not fathom the purpose of: some of it moving of its own accord. And the people…
The people were Angels! All of them with wings black and iridescent as ravens, their skin pale as the moon. There were lights on their clothing as well, and they wore masterfully ornate headdresses and jewellery, and carried peculiar devices that hovered just above their outstretched palms. But there was something sinister and cold about them; a lack of empathy, or indeed any emotion at all. They went about their business not looking or speaking to anyone else, not even when they brushed someone in the street. They were like beautiful statues that seemed not to fly but float about, uncaring and lost in meaningless purpose…
He was moving away now, the dark city receding into the strange, yellow dusk. He was pulled backwards into the clouds, faster and faster, until he came within sight of another city.
This one was not black, but pure white and silvertine-bright, as though crafted from the distant sun herself. The buildings were like art: exquisite sculptures of mysterious forms and unknown material. There were many lights here, too, golden and sleek, lights that followed the edges of structures like gilding. Sleek machines moved quietly around the outskirts of the city.
The people here were Angels, too, but just as eerily apathetic and serene as their ebony-winged counterparts. Their wings were all white, their eyes painfully blue, with gleaming halos rotating above their heads, and flowing robes. They boasted six wings rather than two, and were giant in stature compared to their dark kin.
They were the Seraphim.
The Ancients, Mekka thought, awed. The Seraphim are the Ancients!
The scene warped, curving in on itself in a nauseating manner. Mekka braced himself as chaos began to reassert itself, but this time the onslaught of images was brief. When it settled, he was faced with only mildly less confusion.
The air was crowded with metallic shrapnel, flying everywhere like deadly rain. Mekka flinched mentally as pieces cut past from every direction. Multi-coloured explosions shook the clouds and the land beneath, tearing apart everything with their shockwaves. There were Dragons in the mix as well, but they were horribly shredded…
Mercifully, the scene warped again, and now Mekka was staring at the black city on fire, the elegant flower-like buildings shattered, the dead lights spitting sparks into the air. From the centre of the destruction, within a boiling column of smoke a huge object could be glimpsed – as though the rubble of the city had re-formed itself into a jagged mass topped with a dark, sleek pyramid. It rose slowly, turning as it did so to reveal lights rippling across its smooth sides like electric water and a large, brilliant blue semblance of an eye…
With increasing speed it ascended into the sky, ever higher until it was lost from sight. As it did so, silver machines swarmed over the carcass of the city, dismantling it with horrifying efficiency…
The swirl of madness resumed, and this time went on so long that it was almost more than Mekka could bear. But the scenes, when they slowed again, were short flashes of insight:
For a long period, the victorious Seraphim lived in blissful peace. They ventured down from their city and roamed the land. They slaughtered most of the Dragons. Arvanor recovered, becoming green and fertile, and all animals and intelligent races flourished.
Humans came to populate most of the land. The Seraphim shared their knowledge with these curious wingless people; knowledge of architecture and governance and magic, but not their sciences or machines, which they had abandoned. In time, some of the Seraphim became more Human. They were less distant, more capable of emotion, but retained their aloofness and superiority. They were the first rulers.
Towers were built, five of them; great soaring spires of white stone, so high they seemed to reach into the heavens. One perched on cliffs beside an endless ocean, one glowering in the middle of a smoky red island, one rising amid cold, rugged storm-wracked mountains, one shimmering in a desert of rainbow-coloured sands, and one standing watch beside an idyllic blue-green bay.
Angels worshipped these Towers, sacrificed themselves to them in the name of their Goddess. The few remaining Seraphim encouraged them to do so: every Angel life ordained to end at a Tower.
Due to this, the Angel population eventually dwindled, to just one city above a lonely forested peninsula, and just one Tower: Caer Sync. The remaining Towers fell by rebellious actions or abandoned to time and ultimately forgotten.
And the purpose of these Towers?
The purpose of the Towers…
Mekka’s viewpoint pulled out; far, far out, beyond the clouds, further than any Angel could fly, until the sky grew dark and stars welcomed him. The entirety of Arvanor lay bright and wondrous below him, lands and kingdoms, mountains and deserts and seas all small and distant.
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Under a great, blue dome…
Mekka came back to himself with a jolt. It took him a few wild, disoriented seconds to realise that he was back in the Sanctuary. He was breathing heavily and soaked in sweat. Discovering that he could move again, he saw that his hands were shaking.
Across from him, Reeves was half-curled as though in pain, hugging himself. His face was as white as his feathers.
He saw the same as I did, then, Mekka thought.
The Ancients… the Black-Winged Angels… Mekka couldn’t finish the thought. He was too mentally exhausted to contemplate the enormity of it all. His brain felt fried from the inside out…
There was an ominous rumbling sound, a trembling of the air that made his hairs stand on end. Looking around him, he realised with dismay that the golden glow that surrounded them was much dimmer. Blackness waited beyond the perimeter of floating rocks, like deepest night pressing against a candlelit window.
And the glass was becoming very thin.
Mekka felt sick.
Against his better judgement, he glanced up at the Seraphim. They had turned to stone, though their eyes were still open and glowing, staring once more at each other, as though in shared, silent contemplation at their own imminent deaths.
The rumbling came again, along with a flurry of awful whispers that passed over him in a gut-wrenching wave. Cracks appeared in the Seraphim, slowly running down from their eyes like tears. Their gazes flickered.
Mekka looked down hopelessly. He wasn’t sure why. It was as though that damned Pit was determined to claim him, no matter what happened. He gritted his teeth. “Dammit!”
He sighed in resignation, closing his eyes. He was tired of it all. Sick of the reprieves, the false hope. He didn’t care any more what became of him…
The burst of white light blinded him, even through his eyelids. It was accompanied by the most horrendous wailing sound, like metal being tortured…
Somewhere in Mekka’s fractured, weary mind he recognised the sound. Despite the glare, he squinted his eyes open… and then everything fell apart.
The Aegis failed completely, burning away, shrivelling like paper in a dark fire. Blackness rushed forth, flooding over the Seraphim, who exploded into pieces as they were consumed. Mekka and Reeves braced themselves for the end, but something massive and white bore down on them at the same time, with great speed.
Mekka had no chance to do anything, let alone scream, as huge, glittering talons reached for him…
“Dragon, have you got them?!”
“I have.”
“Then get us the hell out of here!”
Ferrian wasn’t sure why he was shouting. Now that the whine of his magic had faded away, there was complete silence. An inky void flooded below: a deathly, soundless tide.
It flowed around himself and the Dragon, as well; thankfully just shadow and not a tidal wave of liquid trigon, as he feared. But the darkness was so intense he could see nothing, not even the pale form of the Dragon beneath him. He gripped her scales tightly; her wingbeats and his own frantically hammering heart were the only things he could hear in the sudden, horrible stillness.
Then something glared out of the darkness right in front of them, so suddenly that it made Ferrian jump.
It was a giant, lurid, bright blue eye.
The Dragon swerved so suddenly that Ferrian threw himself onto her neck to avoid being thrown off. She sped away in a soaring arc, her glittering form now illuminated in a cerulean hue by the light of the eye.
Ferrian couldn’t take his own gaze off it. The unblinking eye was terrifying and mesmerising at the same time. He felt that it could see right into his soul. He felt his veins burning with its overwhelming, alien stare…
Then the eye was receding into the distance, growing rapidly smaller until it finally disappeared from view.
A few minutes later, Ferrian felt the reassuring touch of snowflakes on his skin and chill wind in his hair. A chink of moon found its way through the clouds, and the forest became visible below. The oppressive, sickening feeling eased as they flew swiftly through the wintry night, leaving the black pyramid behind.
It was a long while before Ferrian could resist the urge to keep looking back.
Some time later, Ferrian awoke to find himself lying on warm grass. This led him to believe that he was still dreaming: how could he be lying on warm grass? He was meant to be flying endlessly through freezing darkness… but as he awakened more fully, he realised that it was true.
Blinking blearily, he pushed himself up.
He was lying in the middle of a wide, sun-drenched field, a warm wind ruffling the grass, scented with wildflowers promising the approach of summer. Beautiful blue sky stretched overhead, streaked with high, white clouds. A mountain range lifted oddly-shaped, smooth-weathered peaks to meet it.
Beside him, the White Dragon lay on the grass, wings folded against her spiny back, shining flanks heaving gently as she slept. One of her hind legs, tucked beneath her, was still tainted an ugly grey.
There was no sign of his Winter, nor any hint of shadow… save the black form slumped on the ground a few yards away.
With a sharp intake of breath, Ferrian scrambled to his feet and ran the short distance to his friend. The Angel was in bad shape. He was covered in blood and very pale. Anxiously, Ferrian shook him. “Mekka?”
He didn’t respond. Ferrian shook him again.
To his relief, Mekka slowly opened his eyes.
Ferrian let his breath out in a rush. “Thank the Gods!”
Mekka blinked and squinted at the sunlit sky. “Death… isn’t so bad,” he whispered hoarsely.
Ferrian patted him reassuringly. “You’re not dead, Mekka.”
The Angel sighed in disappointment, closing his eyes again. “Dammit. That was my best chance...”
Ferrian sighed in exasperation. Taking Mekka’s arm, he carefully helped him to sit up. “That’s a great way of thanking me for rescuing you!”
Mekka’s expression changed then. Apologetically, he reached out a hand and grasped Ferrian’s shoulder. He was grateful.
Then he peered around himself. “We are very close to Selvar,” he murmured. “I recognise these fields. And the road over there.”
Ferrian followed his gaze, and could just make out a dark line of caravans and carts on the horizon, stretching northwards until they vanished behind a rocky line of hills. Wisps of chimney smoke rose from that direction as well. He guessed that Sel Varence lay in the canyon just beyond the next ridge.
He was still staring that way, feeling trepidation at the thought of entering the crowded city – but he had to get Mekka to a healer – when a stranger stumbled into view.
He was dressed in a long, elegant white coat, an Angel with dazzling snowy wings. He was backing away carefully from the Dragon, as though afraid to wake her.
The Commander of the Sky Legion! Ferrian guessed. He had forgotten all about him!
Mekka sighed again in dismay. “Ugh. You might have left him to the darkness...”
Ferrian looked at his friend, perturbed. “That’s unkind of you!”
Mekka grunted as he pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself on Ferrian’s shoulder. “I was trapped in that Aegis with him for several hours,” he said, wincing at the pain in his side. “Losing my eye was less painful…”
Ferrian frowned. “Mekka. That’s not very funny.”
Mekka snorted a laugh. Evidently, he thought it was.
Leaving his Angel friend to his grim humour, Ferrian approached the Commander.
Noticing him, Reeves paused, drawing himself up a little. “Who are you?”
“My name is Ferrian,” he replied politely. “And you are Commander of the Sky Legion? I met your Lieutenant in the forest.” He held out a hand in greeting.
Reeves ignored it, gesturing instead at the Dragon. “This beast sides with you?”
Ferrian folded his arms. “She’s not a beast, she’s a Dragon. And if you don’t mind your manners, she will freeze your wings off and then eat you.” He glanced at the Dragon. “She likes her food crunchy.”
The Dragon opened a silver eye, lazily regarded Reeves, then closed it again.
It was a joke, but the Angel had gone pale. Nevertheless, he eyed Ferrian up and down for a long moment, before realisation struck and he took another guarded step backwards. “You… are a sorcerer!”
Ferrian put his hands on his hips. “Yes. Any other astute observations?”
“Quite.” Reeves’ sharp turquoise eyes narrowed. “But I shall keep them to myself for now.”
Good grief, Ferrian thought. Maybe Mekka had a point, after all…
Reeves waved a hand at the grass around them. “I am missing one of my possessions,” he declared haughtily. “A book. If you find it, hand it over to me at once!”
“You mean this book?”
Mekka was leaning against the Dragon’s long snout, a small, leather-bound book in one hand, flipping idly through the pages.
Something very like panic flashed over the Commander’s face, quickly masked by anger. He advanced on Mekka.
He didn’t appear to be carrying any weapons, but Ferrian quietly readied his magic, just in case, watching the white-winged Angel carefully.
Reeves came to a halt in front of Mekka. His glare could have rivalled Arzath’s on a good day. “Give that. To me.”
Mekka ignored him, turning the pages slowly, taking his time. Finally, he closed the book thoughtfully and held it out with a smile.
Reeves swiped it out of his hand. “What did you read?”
Mekka shrugged. “Nothing. It is written in Ithillic. Not a language I am familiar with.”
Reeves’ gaze continued to bore into him, as though to determine whether or not he was lying. At last, he turned away.
“Oh!” Mekka added. “But you might be interested to know that there is a page missing.”
Reeves paused and turned back. “What?”
“In the middle of the book.”
Reeves stared at him. Then he opened the book and started riffling quickly through the pages. Sure enough, in the very centre was clear evidence that a piece had been torn out, quite roughly.
Reeves closed the book, very slowly, holding it with both hands flat on the covers and looking as though he wanted to murder someone with it. “That thrice-damned Governor!” he snarled. Whirling, he strode away a few paces then took off into the air, heading for the city.
Ferrian joined Mekka beside the Dragon. “So, what was written in the book?”
Mekka smirked, but shook his head ruefully. “I genuinely do not know. I was not lying when I told him I cannot read Ithillic. It was a language used by the sorcerers for their research and spells. You might be familiar with it.”
Ferrian looked troubled. “Oh dear…”
Mekka nodded.
“What would the Commander of the Sky Legion want with research from the SOMS? He can’t use magic.”
“Indeed,” the Angel replied. “But that isn’t what troubles me.”
Ferrian looked at him.
Mekka nodded in the direction the Angel had flown. “Whatever Reeves is after, someone else is looking for the same thing.” He frowned darkly. “And they may well have gotten to it first.”