"Simple, my son. Hate."
"I'm afraid I do not understand."
It felt like a conversation Spike shouldn't have been listening in on. It didn't help that he felt nauseous (and, considering he was a non-corporeal consciousness witnessing an event that took place more than 500 years ago, this was quite the feat of anxiety). Spike had always though time travel--not exactly a concept the cheerful himbo had given much weight to before--would be like plopping down on a Hollywood movie set, like a cowboy western or prehistoric fantasy. Something like going to the amusement park or Renaissance fair.
The reality was viscerally realer than any of that. It grabbed Spike, in all the old things he had never taken into consideration about the past--the different shape of doors and their height, the smell of candle wax and incense, the size and shape of people and their clothing. It was too real. Salim had kindly mentioned to Spike that he might experience some psychological effects from viewing past events, but Spike hadn't considered the raw intensity. It was like being inside someone's else dream, only more vivid than one's own reveries.
The first thing Spike realized was how damn dark everything was, even in the daylight. The wooden panelling and dark furniture in the room only added to the sombre state of of the palace. It was also nearly empty. Almost all the guards and occupants had either taken to defending the gates, or had fled into the recesses. The boy and man waiting at the arched window were the first stationary occupants Salim and Spike had come upon. Judging from their clothing and noble presence, Spike took them for a king and prince.
The man and boy looked out onto a walled city and its steeples, some already ablaze and smoking black.
Spike had never seen Salim so severe and focused. The candlelight caught in his emerald green eyes, and the shadows playing across his face gave him the appearance of an angel (or demon) from one of the many religious paintings hanging on the wall. Spike felt alien, here, among the past, as well as with this man.
I want to go home, Spike thought, but dared not speak it aloud. Salim was his only chance at returning to the GSA. Besides, answering the hero's call was the living destiny of any good babyface and (possible) future champ. Spike couldn't back down from a summons like that, especially from his former manager.
The boy had asked his father why the hordes of angry men, eager to spill the blood of every woman, child, and man inside the gates of the city, hated them. Spike had never considered a question like that, before, as it related to warfare. Having served in the military, Spike always assumed his country's enemies were in the wrong. Much had changed since his time in the Navy, of course, and Spike's horizons had been broadened, viewpoints and situations of other cultures considered. His reality had become more complex, and for the better. There was nothing simple about war.
But here was a small boy asking the question not Spike nor any of his fellow officers had considered: what is the essence of hatred, and why does it drive people?
The wizened King's brow furrowed. "They envy our glory," he said, sadly. "And...they resent our power."
The prince frowned. He looked sickened by the thought. Spike thought the young man reminded him of someone else. Having walked past scurrying peasants and knights on the way to the room, Spike marvelled at how much shorter everyone was in the past--which is to say, he was finally the average height of all the men around him. But not this child, who--physically no more than ten years of age--was already near his father's height.
That long face. Intense, wide eyes. Black hair...
"But haven't we given them food?" the boy suggested, as if somehow this was the spell that might change the hearts of the angry pillagers at the gates. "Sheltered them?"
"Indeed, my son. All we asked was for their obedience. But it seems that is not enough. Now, look at them. Lashing out like mongrels, biting the hand of the master who's fed them since this castle stood tall. This is the way of the world, son. Always maintain your position, at all costs, and cull those that would rise against you. This is what it means to rule."
Suddenly, the wind--the flicker of flames--the dust motes in the from froze.
"Ew!"
Spike's eyes darted towards Salim. "Did...did you make time stop!"
"Blegh!" The giant man made a face. "Gross. Talk about toxic masculinity."
Spike twisted his mouth. "Mmm. I'm not what you'd call the wisest guy in the room, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess 13th century Russia wasn't the most in touch with their emotions. Kinda' reminds me of your story. With Egypt and the Pharaohs and whatnot."
"Oh yeah, that's the thing--it's an old story." Salim glared at the king. "One that seems to repeat throughout history. Like a bad disease."
Spike looked over at the king and child. "The strongest deciding what's best for the weak and then crushing them when they fight back? Sounds like Vahni Rage. I don't like bullies."
"Because you know what it's like to be bullied," Salim shrugged. He noticed a stack of tomes on the table. Whoever these people were, they were well read. "I mean sure, you're a blonde, blue eyed, 'All-American' twink. But you're also a queer man who grew up poor and abandoned."
"You don't have to remind me..."
"Spike, I'm saying you're not a dick because you managed to harbor some ounce of humanity, empathy, and compassion." Salim pointed to the king. "This? This is, as you so wisely put it, how you create Vahni Rages. Or the Imperators of Alban. Or anybody else who thinks they can kick a dog for long enough and the pretend to be shocked when it bites back. Whatever force brought us here, it wants us to know that this place is bad news." Salim sniffed, crossing his arms. "Still trying to figure out why though. Why this place?"
"I don't friggin know, S! This is my first time...in...time." Spike scratched his head and pointed to the prince. "That kid, though. He gives me the creeps."
"Yeah, well, look at dear old dad. You think the people out there wanted to burn his castle down because they were bored? I'm hiding a lot of horror from you, Spike. I bet if you went down to that city down there, you'd see the full extent of this tyrant's rule. Men like that are all the same. I mean, trust me, I come from Ptolemaic Egypt, they're all ass****."
As Spike meditated on that thought, a wind kicked up. He turned to face the window, but a sudden bloom of light turned his face away from the bright glare. "Agh, what the hell is goin' on?"
"Time is shifting. Easy way to move about in the past. Don't even have to do any walking!"
Spike went to say something, but found himself standing amid a strange pile of clothes laying across a stone floor. Confused, he looked closer.
No, not clothes, bodies, wet with the flow of blood.
Spike leaned back and wretched. Thankfully, Salm 'caught' him. "It's ok," Salim said. "Remember, this isn't real."
"Pretty friggin' real to me," Spike blanched. "I don't...I don't want to see this."
"Small friend, weren't you in the Navy? You had to have seen some nasty things, even when not in active wartime."
Spike looked away from the corpse pile, trying not to freak out. "Yeah, but it doesn't make it easy," he said, trying to step over the bodies of knights and fallen servants. Instead, he made matters worse. His line of sight connected with an arguably more horrific display.
In the corner of the audience chamber, the tall child bent over his father's body, splayed grotesquely across his throne, stained with still-dripping blood. The boy protected his father--still, barely alive--from the faceless man with the long, bloody sword.
"We did nothing to you!" the boy shrieked, his voice cracking. "Why do this to us!? Why do you hate us?"
From the throne, the dying king held up a trembling hand. "Koschei...my son."
At hearing his father's name, the boy turned--as he did, his assailant ran him through with the sword.
Spike doubled over. "No. No. NO. Salim, I don't want to see this. Take me home."
"Spike...maybe you do. The kid is...okay?"
Spike took a risk and opened his eyes. The child stood, just as shocked as his invisible audience, as he looked at the sword in his chest. He pulled it out, wincing, as his attacker muttered a prayer (or curse) and ran whence he came. The wound in the young prince's chest sealed itself over. Spike could see the pristine flesh through the hole in the boy's embroidered tunic torn open by the sword.
The king on the throne reached up towards the boy, weakly. "So...the augers were right. You are touched by Life, and by Death. My son, take what's left of my strength. I pass my gifts on to you."
Bewildered, the boy--Koschei--tried to tear himself away from his father's grasp. A crystalline, white energy flowed from the king into the child, for a second or two--and then the man fell still.
Spike covered his mouth. "I don't want to see what happens next," he said. He didn't want to see the boy's grief, that is.
Salim was gentle. "Then, we won't." He waved his hand. The scene froze. The giant allowed his young traveller a few moments to collect himself. "I told you the past wasn't pleasant."
"No s***," Spike said, holding back a sob. He shook his head. "That name, though. It's weird. There was this old story Sister Patience used to read me that had that name."
"What? What did you say? Spike, I know you're in shock, but try to remember."
Now, Spike felt put on the spot. "Well, yeah, it's from a fairy tale. Back in the orphanage, Sister Patience would read us fairy tales from all over the world. She made a point to tell us where each one was from, every time. I remember a lot of the Russian ones because the drawings were really pretty. Vasilisa the Wise. Sir Ivan. Baba Yaga. And then Koschei, the Deathless. He was a big, scary kind of boogieman guy that couldn't die. I think he was even based off an old king who really lived, long ago."
Spike and Salim slowly turned their heads towards the gaunt, tall, boy, illuminated by the glow of frozen torch fire.
"Ok, but it's not like that's the same guy, right?" Spike laughed, nervously.
Salim, however, was stone-cold. "I wouldn't be so sure, Spike. And...not to invalidate your emotions, but maybe let's not feel so much pity for Edgar Allen Poe over here."
"Harsh," Spike said, though he had little room to argue with the giant man who controlled time. "Come on, S. Have a heart."
"I'm merely stating, young one--tyrants beget tyrants. I have...an unusual feeling about this boy. Oh, by the way, if you hadn't already notice...we're now standing somewhere else."
Spike had only blinked, but already the room had changed (thank Goddess). Where the stood now was a much grander, wider space, but no less eerie. A high vaulted ceiling, like a church, loomed over head. The floor was tiled in marble black and white. A statue of a woman, most likely the Goddess, stood at the focal point of the room. The statue was more of a colossus; a massive carving both impressive and imposing.
At the foot of the statue sat a large pool of water, or dark liquid, in a stone basin. A man, dressed all in black, with a trailing robe, leaned over its edge and stared intently at the dark mirror.
Spike sighed. This was beginning to feel like a dark ride at an amusement park. "Where the hell are we now, big guy? Somewhere with a little less trauma, I hope."
"Don't count on it." Salim shook his head, eyes adjusting to an even dimmer space. "Hmm." Carefully, he approached a pane-less window carved into the side of the circular room. "Still Russia, but..." He looked out, into a gray world dappled with snowfall. Spike joined his side.
"Wow," Spike exclaimed, taking in the grandeur of the steepled towers and cobblestone streets. "Looks like something out of a fairy tale." He narrowed his eyes. "Wait, I've seen this place before!"
"Yes, you have."
"But, y'know...ruined."
Salim stepped back from the window. His expression was a mix of shock and intrigue. "Gods," he muttered under his breath. "Yes, you have indeed, habibi. This is the city of Kitezh. The very place where the World Championships are meant to be held."
The floor trembled beneath their feet. What started as a mere vibration, erupted into a tremor, like walking over subway grating as a train passed beneath--or so Spike thought. From outside came the peel of bells, not just from one resonate belfry, but several belltowers in unison. It was a cacophony. Painful.
Salim looked towards the man in back, and at the strange pool, which had begun glowing with an iridescent vibrance. "And, I daresay, this might be the day Kitezh took a dip for a very long time." He waved his hand, and the room quieted. "Let me turn the volume down on those bells. Not exactly a pleasant sound."
Spike was grateful for it.
A wooden door, abruptly thrown open, drew all eyes towards a curtain of light cutting across the grand floor. The winter sun flooded through the opening, and a dark skinned woman in monastic robes, with long black hair, rushed intro the room. She was slight, with narrow features, and covered in sweat. Spike was concerned for her health, then remembered this woman had likely died 400 years or more before his birth.
"Mongolian," Salim whispered to Spike. "She's from the Khannite. But her robes..."
"Magi?" Spike asked, quietly, before he remembered nobody else could hear them.
"Most definitely. And old magick, too." He narrowed his eyes at the great statue and pool. "Whatever's going on here, I don't like it."
The young woman nearly collapsed at the man's side. Though the man didn't move his head (still singularly focused on the dark water, as he was) his hand moved to place itself on the woman's head. It wasn't a suggestive gesture, but tender, assuring.
"The ritual is nearly complete," the man said. "The power of the Goddess, at hand..." His head turned towards one of the rooms many windows. "And yet, once again, the wolves are at the door. They always come, in the end."
Salim's eyes snapped open. "Batu Khan. Of course. This is the day Kitezh was invaded."
"And then sunk beneath the lake," Spike remembered, from the story. He gasped. "LIKE ATLANTA!?"
"...You mean Atlantis, probably, but yes."
The woman rose from the floor. Whoever she was, the man in black considered her either an equal, or a highly trusted subordinate. "My lord, I beg you. I pray. This magick will not work without the blessings of the Chalices. We must delay."
"Delay!? Tell that to Batu Khan," the dark man sneered. "These Mongels. Always, the same story. Always, the same. This ends, today."
Spike whipped his head towards Salim. "Wait, is that like, the same guy? The creepy kid we just saw?"
Salim smiled. "Can't call yourself a himbo anymore, Spike. You're quick on the uptake. I knew I could count on you, small friend."
"I...didn't do anything, but thanks, I guess."
"Lord Koschei," the woman said, her voice cracking. She was exhausted. "They haven't come to invade."
The sinister man waved a hand across the surface of the pool. Spike noticed, with each peel of a bell, that an image shifted at the bottom of the pool. He tried to get a closer look, and upon inspection, identified the glowing pictograms in the water as the symbols of the glyphs.
"Don't be foolish, child. What else do these hoards do but pillage and burn? We knew the Khan would come for Kitezh, eventually"
The man turned his head, in profile. Sunken, eerie eyes. Long, black hair. Unkempt beard.
Spike's heart (metaphorically speaking) dropped. "Wait. Salim...that's..."
But he was cut off short by the magi in the gray robe. "I can tell you this is the truth, my Lord, because the Khan sent a messenger ahead telling everyone to lay down arms and evacuate. The Mongels seldom offer such mercy. They came because they know what you are doing here, attempting to take the Goddess's own glyph as your own. My Lord, they intend to stop it--for the sake of the world. For sanity." She sounded on the verge of tears.
The monk in black retracted his hand. He looked at the woman, first, in horror, then in rage. Spike thought he might raise a fist against her. "AND WHO TOLD THEM?" Thankfully, instead of harming her, the man turned away out of disgust. "Then I must hasten the enchantment. If you value your life, you'll flee. NOW."
The woman fell back, shielding her eyes from the pool of light as its glow intensified. "Lord Koschei...please...come with me."
Whether or not he answered her, Spike could not hear. All other sound was drowned out by a sickening crack. An obvious fissure split the statue of the goddess down the middle. Its head snapped off, landing in the pool and sending its luminous water splashing over the floor.
Spike jumped back out of shock. "Damn it!"
"Remember," Salim said, "these are ghosts and nothing more. These visions are troubling, but they cannot hurt you."
The dark man grit his teeth, and made a sign in the air at the last moment, the water travelling around him as if he was a rock in a river. His accomplice was not so lucky. The water splashed over her, soaking her robes wet--and though there was no change at first, she looked down in horror at her hands.
The sound of bells intensifying drowned out the woman's screams as her hand was suddenly transformed into a blossom of wildflowers. The rest of her body followed, her skin becoming like bark, conjoining with her robes. Her body twisted itself into the shape of a moss covered tree, dripping with beautiful blooms. Spike, aghast, looked away.
"The bells," he heard the dark monk scream. "The bells! Not yet! It's not ready...oh no. Goddess forgive me, what have--"
And then, through the open windows, came a rush of oncoming water. Spike held his hand in front of his eyes as the tide overtook the room.
When next he looked, he was standing in a room filled with scent of tobacco. Velvet carpet. Mahogany table. Candelabrum. And an electric chandelier. Wherever they'd travelled, it was much closer to Spike and Salim's current time than not.
Spike's mind still reeled from what he'd just witnessed, but he was relieved to be away from the dreadful chamber. That woman. That city. This was like a sequence of nightmares, wherein at the moment of horror, Spike was jolted into the next.
"OKAY," the young fighter started on Salim, who looked entirely too composed for Spike's comfort. "WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED, SALIM?"
"Disgusting," Salim said, his nose upturned. He looked down at the plate on the table in front of him. "Olivier Salad? Ew. Who serves this stuff? It's nasty."
Spike was crestfallen. How could this man act so nonchalant after what they'd just seen? Was this what it was always like for Salim--the real Salim, the man called Sarapis? Did one just become immune to human pain and catastrophe after living so long? That aside, Spike needed confirmation. He needed to make sure he hadn't mistook the dark monk in Kitezh for...
"A toast," said the somewhat foppish, well-dressed gentleman at the head of the table, rising a glass of Madeira wine. "To the health of our Tsar's loyal advisor."
Spike was still so focused on the chaos he'd witnessed, that he barely registered all the gentleman sitting around the table. There was the well-groomed man, yes, and some rather intense-looking associates. But it was who sat at the opposite end of the table that caught his eye.
Sitting with his hands folded, the monk's manner of dress was not different than therobes in the chapel of Kitezh. Indeed, the beard and hair was much the same. His wide eyes scanned the room.
"Advisor to the Tsar," Salim sneered, folding his arms. He took the scene as if it were nothing but a movie (which, in a sense, it was). "Get a loud of this clown. Do you know who this is?"
Prince Yusupov nodded to his esteemed guest. "To Father Rasputin! Long may he live."
Spike's (again, metaphorical) jaw dropped. "Wait, you're telling me that Semyon, the President of Firebird, is--"
Salim responded by clapping his hands rhythmically. "Russia's greatest Love Machine? OH LIKE IT WASN'T OBVIOUS, SPIKE."
Now, Spike really did feel like passing out. "I...want to go home."
At the head of the table, Semyon, Koschei, Rasputin, whatever his name was, took a drink. He made a face.
"This wine...tastes....peculiar." He then shrugged and placed the empty glass at the table. "I will have another."
The men in the room looked at each other, concerned.
"They're trying to poison him," Salim said out of the corner of his mouth. "Actually, they already poisoned him. If I recall, he's gotten two or three tea-cakes worth of cyanide in him already."
"DEADASS?!" Spike blurted out.
Salim pointed to their long-time nemesis. "His ass is gonna need a lot more poison tonight before it's dead, actually. We just watched the man survive a magical apocalypse, Spike. Do try to keep up, habibi." Salim waved his hand and the scene shifted again. "Hope you aren't squeamish."
"YOU LITERALLY KNOW I AM!"
In a darker room, a basement, Semyon pressed his back against the wall--looking not too concerned about his present set of circumstances--as a slightly dishevelled, drunken Felix Yusupov pointed a revolver at him. "I send you to the Goddess now, mad monk," he snarled. "Or better, The Adversary!"
Salim turned to Spike. "In other dimensions they call it 'the devil'. Comes off more intimidating."
BANG!
"LADY LEITHE AND MOTHER AETHRIN!" Spike screamed, as the puff of smoke discharged from the gun. Against the wall, Semyon doubled over, glancing down at the river of blood leaking from his stomach. He fell.
"I hate when that happens," Salim sniffed. "Seriously, getting shot sucks. But Semyon's kind of a wuss, to be honest. Try getting pumped full of fire from several AK47s like I did the other week."
"No thanks. AND YOU WHAT?"
Felix lowered the gun and sighed. "Thank the Mother," he said, wiping his brow with a kerchief. He re-holstered the gun and approached the corpse. "Rot in hell, you perverted monk."
Suddenly, Semyon popped up with a roar and grabbed at the Prince's ankles. "GAAAAAH!!!!"
The Prince squealed (as did Spike). But before Semyon could do anything, the Prince's men--waiting in the shadows, jumped at the monk. Spike caught a flash of metal, a knife, before Salim covered his eyes with his large hands and shifted the scene yet again, to a stone bridge overlooking any ice river.
"I can't watch." Spike said, thankful he was not in his physical body. He looked out over the river, at the lights of Moscow. Was it always winter in this damn country? "Oh...thanks."
Salim rolled his eyes. "You've broken men in half, and yet this makes you squeamish?" He stepped forward, pointing at the assembly of dark-clad men as they hoisted a tall object, shrouded in rages, over the side of the bridge. It landed in the icy water with a tremendous PLUNK.
"I ain't broken anybody," Spike huffed. "Beat up? Yes. But everyone who fights me walks away not getting stabbed, or shot, or poisoned!"
"Gee, expand your spellbreaking horizons then, habibi."
Did he think this was funny?
"I spared you the gruesome details," Salim explained for Spike's benefit. "After being poisoned, shot, and then stabbed, the Prince and his goons had Rasputin castrated and threw his body into the river below."
Castrated!? "YOU MEAN, THEY CUT OFF HIS JUNK? How does this sorry KEEP getting worse?"
Salim ignored his young ward's outburst. "Regardless, I think you and I can both guess the rest. He obviously survived--no doubt due to his glyphs--and went on to become Semyon Grigorivich, a businessman and philanthropist. Sound familiar? Ugh, bitch even stole my angle."
Spike felt like screaming. He turned away from the bridge railing, into the cold, Moscow air. "This is friggin' nuts. You mean, the heads of both the GSA and Firebird are both old guys? Like really old?"
Salim frowned. "I think the word you're looking for is 'immortal', and it's more complicated than that. Nobody lives forever, Spike. Not even our kind. But magick has blessed us with both longevity, healing, and a means to prolong our life." He bit his lip. "Now, I will grant you it's...a little weird that two immortals, working from the shadows to achieve their goals, happened to get involved with what is, essentially, magickal pro wrestling, but for the sake of narrative convenience, let's just roll with it. You didn't come here for Shakespeare; you came here to watch hunks in their underwear beat each other and make out--"
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING TO, SALIM; I WANT TO GO HOME!"
Spike's (very stern) command cut a deep silence across the Russian bridge. Salim's expression was inscrutable, but Spike was too agitated to be intimidated. He breathed heavily. "I'm so sick of all of this! I'm tired. I'm stressed. I haven't gotten laid in like, two weeks! Which is a lot, for me, you know! And after all this crap, I'm never gonna' want to see the Russian ballet again."
Salim gave Spike a bemused look.
Spike continued. "The life I wanted to lead, the happiness that I had, or whatever, was taken from me because I tried to romance the boss' kid. I just want to go back home, work in my stupid pizza restaurant, get drunk, sleep around, and forget about saving the world and the life, love, and friends I'll never see again."
Spike felt the tears threaten to break through, but the last thing he'd give to Salim, his old manager, was his pride. He turned away instead.
"That doesn't sound very heroic."
"No, but it's true, Salim. I'm too tired to play hero any more."
Finally, Salim put his hand on where Spike's shoulder might have sat. "I understand. I think I have any idea of where we need to go n--"
"No!" Spike pushed himself away, channelling magick that would not materialize. "I'm going home." He turned and ran the opposite direction. Surely, Salim, or King Anubis, or whoever he was, had a limit to his abilities. Though truthfully, Spike didn't much care where he ended up. Maybe he'd be stranded in another time or place. At least it wouldn't be the present he dreaded so much.
Maybe I'll get lucky and wind up in ancient Greece. I'll sleep with a bunch of sexy gladiators and then become Emperor by the time Saturday rolls around.
"You're running from your own fate, Spike. Come herRRRrRRrRRRR...."
The world blurred and Spike's vision tunnelled. He wobbled, uncertain of footing or space, before he found his stomach drop and he fell into nothing.
When he forced himself to stop screaming, Spike opened his eyes and found himself in a very familiar setting. Sterile room. Sound of an EKG. He was back in the hospital room in India, where the doctors had treated him and Vahni Rage post match.
Maybe it had all been a long, strange, vivid dream. Spike seized on the optimistic tinge of relief. Then, eyes falling across the two beds in-room, his hope crumbled. He was staring at himself, laying in bed. Next to the other 'him', Rage.
He was still in the past, though one far more recent.
"NOW--PLAY THE MUSIC!"
"WHAAAT?"
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