The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

Mirian had thought through her plans endlessly, but they had all been for different circumstances. Worse ones, in fact. If there was one thing she could be absolutely certain of, it was that her father was on her side.

It was a key advantage.

They had a minute, maybe less. "If you were a Prophet, and had to deal with other Prophets, how much would you trust them?"

"Not at all," her father said.

That was straightforward enough. "I would like to align us to purpose. I fear the others have goals beyond just saving Enteria. We will say nothing of our relationship. As far as Ibrahim knows, all we've agreed is that you'll tutor me."

"Done," he said, and stood.

"Atroxcidi!" called a voice. It echoed off the walls.

Gaius Nezzar dismissed the illusion on the wall.

"He's got your name wrong," Mirian whispered.

"Good. I haven't used my real name since Leyun died."

A jolt of grief shot through Mirian. She nodded, and breathed in sharply. She needed to clear her emotions. She veiled her eyes with a quick illusion. They walked out.

"Atroxcidi," came Ibrahim's deep baritone as the necromancer entered the catacombs. "I come to you as… oh. So you are meddling again, Mirian."

She raised an eyebrow. "You know me?"

Ibrahim snorted. "You've had yourself declared Prophet by the Pontiff of the Luminates several times."

"You're sure I'm not one of the other Prophets?"

"Sulvorath? Unlikely."

"No, one of the other Prophets," Mirian said, and was satisfied to see that Ibrahim was caught off balance by the statement. The surprise faded quickly, though.

"What do you hope to accomplish here?" he asked, sounding tired.

"I would have talked to you sooner, but I wanted to ensure our honored necromancer here wasn't being manipulated first. There's three Prophets so far in our council, and we've begun to coordinate our actions to solve the puzzle of Enteria's doom."

Ibrahim glanced at her father, then back at her.

"Did you really not tell him in the previous cycles? He figures it out anyways. The Ominian needs us to stop the apocalypse. Not conquer Baracuel. You have a place on the council of Prophets—or Chosen, if you prefer—if you can agree to work with us."

The other Prophet shook his head. "You think you know the will of God. You know no such thing. God has given each of us a task. You can scurry off and do yours, I care not. I will do mine. But do not interfere."

"What exactly makes you think the Ominian has tasked you with the destruction of Baracuel?"

Ibrahim was silent. Mirian could see his soul still writhing, like steam was coming off it. There was a barely contained fury beneath the surface of the man.

"In Baracuel, there's several communities of Persamans. They don't deserve to die for the sins of the generals and Parliament. But that's what your invasion causes. Rostal—"

Ibrahim took a sudden step forward and hissed, "Do not speak his name to me. Or the names of any of the other traitors who abandoned their people for coin and comfort." He spat on the ground.

Mirian looked at Ibrahim, jaw clenched. Here was someone truly implacable. She needed to proceed cautiously. Today, she was either going to make an ally of him, or a terrible enemy. "In Akana Praediar, there's a conspiracy of businessmen, spymasters, and generals. They get their population to hate Baracuel, and then they invade. The first cycle, I watched my friends and professors cut down in cold blood. Innocents, butchered. Then I watched it again. And again. Merciless slaughter, all based on a lie. I have every reason to hate all Akanans. They were fools, easily riled up into bloodlust, eager to call for the death of people they knew nothing about. But I'd rather kill the liars that led them. Even without the apocalypse, there would have been a slaughter across Enteria. But we have the opportunity to set ourselves on another path. You've seen the tree, half in flame. The path through the tangles is not so obvious. But there is a path."

Gaius twitched slightly at the mention of the tree.

"Your path may be tangled," Ibrahim said, head high. "Mine is clear." He had such a confidence about him. More than Gabriel's bravado. Despite his hatred of his old mentor, she saw Rostal's steps echoed in the other Prophet's. He simply radiated leadership.

"Then tell me your path, Ibrahim Kalishah."

"Each Chosen has their duty. The Sixth Prophet, as you call him, failed." Ibrahim turned his gaze to the necromancer. "Baracuel was never meant to have united. That must be fixed."

Gaius shrugged his shoulders. "I'll wait for you two to resolve your differences before I comment. Besides, you already know how I feel about you and Dawn's Peace. This isn't the first time we've talked, is it? Then this certainly isn't the final loop."

Ibrahim gave an amused "Hmph." Then he continued. "If Baracuel is allowed to stay as it is, when this is all over, it will continue to spread again like a creeping plague."

"And if it's destroyed, Akana Praediar will take its place. As it intends to. Do you know what kind of armies they can field? How fast they can build artillery? How many airships they have? There's a smarter way to do all this. Solve the apocalypse first. Then we can discuss what the world looks like after that."

"This is God's trial. The crucible that forges us into Their unbreakable weapon. If Akana Praediar stands in my way, I'll break it too." His aura tightened and flared as he said it. What must it be like to fight this man? she wondered.

"There are three Prophets in Akana," she said. "Sulvorath is no longer one of them."

That made Ibrahim hesitate, though only for the briefest moment.

"You're practicing for the final cycle. I understand that. But there won't be an Enteria in the final cycle if you don't help us. I have business in Alkazaria that I can't accomplish when it's already been conquered and razed. I have people I need to talk to in Palendurio and allies in Cairnmouth. If I'm your ally, I can make your objectives easier. I can convince Fort Aegrimere not to march against you, for example. General Corrmier is a traitor, and given more time in the capital, I can find the levers that will topple him early in the cycle. There's a way to change Baracuel without slaughtering the farmers and artisans who live in it. They are not your enemy—"

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"They are," Ibrahim snapped. "If the injustices of the past cannot be repaired and a new destiny forged, then I care not if Enteria bleeds out, for it is already bleeding. The fossilized myrvite ripped from my land, cut from it by the bloody fingers of my people, is used to power these 'innocent' cities. Baracuel's citizens then feast on it like ravenous dogs. What fuels your spellwards and the spell engines your artisans use? Whether or not they wield weapons means nothing. They drink our blood."

"And the children?"

Ibrahim said nothing to that. She could guess how he'd justified it to himself, though. After all, Baracuel had killed as many children in their wars.

"Ending all fossilized myrvite extraction is already on my agenda. Would you rather end the feast of blood, or bleed your people more with endless war? What will Persama look like after every soul has been fed into the machines of war? And even if I step aside, will the other Prophets?"

"You can't understand," Ibrahim said.

Mirian peered at him. Revealing she was not born of Baracuel might convince him she did understand, but that might lead to questions. If he or the other Prophets knew her relation to Atrah Xidi, they might seek to remove him from the equation. Or unite against her out of fear. And there's something more. Mirian remembered the anger she felt at the Akanans who had butchered her and her beloved town. But that hate had faded. The hate inside Ibrahim—it was fresh.

"Then help me understand," she asked quietly.

Ibrahim glanced at the necromancer, then locked eyes with Mirian. "I watch her die, Mirian. I watch her die in my arms. My star. My love. My beautiful wife. All this power—but it's too late. Had the cycle started another minute sooner—another half-minute—I could save her." He closed his eyes, and she could see the tears leaking out of them. He opened them again. "But God did not want her saved. I asked myself 'why' for many cycles. In the dreams, I screamed at the holy messenger of God. I tore open pages. I interrogated philosophers. 'Through Them, we shall know true sorrow; the loss of unimaginable lifetimes. God cannot be fathomed, but clutch your grief tight, for through it, you can know the smallest part of Them.' God does not speak in words, but in signs. My cruel plight is a message, just as the Second Prophet was given a similar message. We must be clear-eyed looking for the signs of the divine."

Mirian looked at the other Prophet with pity. The quote from the Second Prophet was phrased differently than Luminate scripture, but it was his other words she focused on. He can't move on from his grief. From his anger.

She was treading on dangerous ground now. Here, at his most vulnerable, Ibrahim was poised to become a force of destruction throughout the loops if she said the wrong thing. And given his mastery of the soul forms, one that might be significantly more challenging than Troytin to remove. And if I did remove him, that would cast a great deal of suspicion my way. One time traveler opposing me getting removed is plausibly coincidence. Two might be the burden that cracks the eximontar's shell. She wanted to ask her father for help, but she didn't dare look to him.

Mirian kept her voice gentle. "What would she want?"

A mix of emotions flashed across Ibrahim's face. With Gabriel and Liuan, she could see the way the time loop had worn on them. But for Ibrahim, the trial of the loops had scoured him in a way it hadn't for the others. He too is losing his humanity. Emotions, for all the trouble they bring, are what make us people. If he lets go of her, is that better or worse for us?

Ibrahim wasn't answering. Couldn't answer, maybe.

"I understand the need for war," she said. After all, if Akana Praediar did invade after all of this, despite her best efforts to stop it, she would not sit idly by and simply let it. "But what is the mission of Dawn's Peace?"

"You already know," the other Prophet said bitterly. "A new day. A world at peace. But there's no path to peace."

"Have you looked for it yet? I admit, were I in your position, I don't know that I'd have the strength to."

A thunderstorm passed across Ibrahim. His soul was in such turmoil. Rostal had been right. He burned.

And where would I be, if it was my mother who died in my arms at the start of the cycle? If I was a moment away from saving her? Why would one even try to quench such a flame? Now she could remember it. In all the terrible detail. That fire had been in her soul too. It had driven her mad as a child, had sent her rampaging around the school, raging against phantoms even as Westerun set up his curse barriers, one by one. "My mother died," she whispered. "In my arms. It was long ago." And yet, only now I remember it. It's still raw.

She felt the tears trickling down her own face. "Fate was not so cruel as to make me watch it again and again. But I never got the chance to say goodbye to her. To tell her I loved her one last time." Mirian's cool broke, and she could no longer control her tears, or her voice. She didn't know if she was telling Ibrahim, or her father. "Not so long ago that it wasn't in the Ominian's power to send me back. Gods I wish I could see her. I was just a child."

The sobs wracked through her, and her body trembled. She looked up at Ibrahim.

"Ask her," Mirian said. "You still have time, don't you? Ask her about the future she wants."

"The Baracueli assassins tear out her throat," he said.

This time, she did turn to the necromancer. Her long lost father. He had never gotten to watch her grow up. It was an unforgivable theft. "Then ask her soul," she said.

Gaius Nezzar looked at Mirian—at Naluri. He had kept his gaze steady, but she could see the strain of hiding his feelings. She hoped Ibrahim was too enveloped in his own grief to notice. The necromancer looked at Ibrahim. "If I haven't yet, I can teach you," he said.

The flames were quenched. Ibrahim still stood, but his soul had settled. "Teach me," he whispered.

***

The next few days were agony for Mirian. She so badly wanted to talk with her father, to catch up on all that they'd missed together, but they had a deception to maintain. That first night, while Ibrahim slept, he had come in and given her a quiet hug. Silently, they had mourned Leyun and their lost time.

Ibrahim was indeed a master of the soul. Mirian observed the training sessions as she practiced her own magic. He used at least one dervish form she wasn't familiar with. She planned to ask him about it, but after things had settled.

His mastery of the different soul forms meant he picked up the technique he needed remarkably fast. Like Rostal had done to examine Mirian's technique, like Viridian did to talk with his myrvite plants, there was a way to touch the soul of another without a focus. He could commune with his wife's soul, if just for a moment before it faded. Without a focus, he couldn't heal or bind it, but he could talk.

Mirian prayed it would be enough.

When Atrah Xidi had taught him the communion technique to his satisfaction, he stood before Mirian and said, "I'll talk with her. I want to do it now. Send me back."

She hesitated. "You mean kill you?"

"No. It's not death because we don't die. Send me back to her."

"The other Prophets will want to meet. How will I contact you?"

He shrugged. "Send a falcon to Rambalda. Doesn't matter where. The city will be mine, whatever happens. If I don't purge the Baracueli agents and sympathizers, they'll send assassins at me until I do. That much death is inevitable."

"Very well," Mirian said. "Let me go get my spellbook." She walked to her room, summoned the soulbound book, then returned. She'd opened to disintegrating ray. She cast it at his heart.

Ibrahim grunted. The spell had seared away his shirt and left a burn mark on his chest, but that was all. He raised an eyebrow. "You can do better than that, surely?"

Mirian raised an eyebrow back. "Not used to dealing with spell resistance like that. See you next loop," she said, and carved away a thick chunk of the ceiling, figuring a rock the size of the matriarch drake would do. She slammed it down on him with the speed of a Baracueli train. The catacombs shook.

She watched. His soul, so bright, vanished almost instantly from her sight. He was right. It wasn't really death.

Mirian could have used soul-coating to penetrate the resistance, or attempted to knock his temporal anchor, but despite the breakthrough she'd made here with the Prophet of Rambalda—one that would hopefully stick—she still had those secrets she wanted to keep.

"Good technique," her father said from behind her. Then, "Gods, that was agony. There's so much to say."

"There is," Mirian said.

"That was true, what you told him? About…" he choked the word, "Leyun?"

Mirian nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"It took all my strength not to comfort you as you spoke of her. Come here, Naluri" her father whispered, and embraced her again. They stayed that way for a long time. When at last they broke their embrace, Gaius said, "Whatever resources are at my disposal are yours. Whatever knowledge you want, I'll give you." He looked at her, a sad smile on his gaunt face. "There's so much to say," he repeated. "But I finally get to say it. You have no idea what it was like to wait."

"We'll make up for the lost time," she said.

"Good. Now where to begin?"