The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

Mirian followed Lecne through various twisting alleyways. If he was trying to disorient her, he needn’t have bothered; after the second turn down an angled alley, she’d lost all sense of direction. The tall brick buildings in this part of the city and the narrow, winding streets made it impossible to keep her bearings. She’d thought the eastern part of the city was claustrophobic, but clearly she’d had no idea.

Lecne could see Mirian’s energy waning as her pace slowed. “Almost there,” he promised.

They stopped outside a thick door that was more patina than bronze set inside a robust looking brick building. Lecne set down the bags so he could press his hand to his chest again, then placed his other hand on the door. It opened soundlessly.

Mirian was thankful to see that the inside of the building was much nicer than the outside. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but the inside resembled a temple more than a dwelling. The floors were made of white marble, and the walls had murals depicting various stories of the Prophets and Gods. She recognized Carkavakom, depicted as a caged flame, his disembodied hand wielding a white sword. He was smiting someone. The mural across from it, she’d never seen. It looked like a pale corpse surrounded by clusters of blood veins that resembled a forest, or perhaps a coral reef.

“I should mention you’re sworn to secrecy about this place,” he said, setting his things on a nearby marble table. “That’s Zomalator, by the way,” he said, nodding toward the mural Mirian’s gaze had fixed on. “He’s a bit underground, you probably haven’t heard of him.”

“I’m going to… pass out now,” Mirian said.

She was pretty sure she heard Lecne swear as he dashed toward her, which seemed like a very un-priestly thing to do, but then the world turned black.

The next memories were a blur as her consciousness faded in and out. She remembered being carried, and a basement room that smelled of incense and something metallic. At one point, her eyes opened and she saw more priests dressed in simple gray vestments, standing around her, each with a hand clasped to their chest.

Once, when Mirian had a fever as a child, she remembered lying on her bed and feeling like the universe had contracted, and that everything had become the wrong size. In her current state, she found a similar feeling of delirium, one that made her own body feel distant and small. She began to perceive her own soul by accident, and watched in fascination as threads of light began to crack open the black tendrils encircling it.

How much time passed after that, she wasn’t sure, but suddenly, she could feel her own aura again and woke feeling rejuvenated.

She felt wonderful—except for her back. She seemed to be lying on the least comfortable mattress in existence. When she opened her eyes, she realized she was in a stone sarcophagus. The inside of the white marble was veined with bright red stone, making her think of the blood vein-like trees in the mural. She rose, and saw Lecne hunched over on one of the benches, breathing hard. On a nearby altar were the corpses of three pigeons, each withered and blackened. The incense sticks on the altar were still burning. It might have looked ominous, but the room was brightly lit with glyph lamps; nothing like what she would have imagined from a heretical cult of a God she’d never heard of.

“Oh, good,” Lecne said. “That went better than expected.” He glanced over at the pigeons. “Didn’t know what she used as the siphon so we improvised.”

“A moon flicker,” Mirian said. With no more brain fog, the answer came to her instantly, and her words came out without pauses or slurring. It was wonderful.

“Ah. Wouldn’t have been able to find one of those in Cairnmouth anyways. Welcome back.”

Mirian looked around the room. There were several statues of the Gods in the corner, though the wall was dominated by a painting of a colossal body lying dead on a great valley floor, similar to Zomalator, but the shape of the body was all wrong. Congregations of people surrounded the ivory corpse in prayer, while another group stood on the torso and appeared to be excavating it with what looked like mining equipment. The painting was packed with symbolism, most of which Mirian didn’t recognize. “Where are the other priests?” she asked, and climbed out of the sarcophagus to join Lecne on the bench.

“Back to mourning,” Lecne said. At her confusion, he added, “We had, ah, a colleague pass away. Very suddenly. Sadly, not all of us can follow the rites to the letter. Someone has to keep this place running, as it were.”

“My condolences,” Mirian said.

He nodded in acknowledgment. “So who did you piss off? I’m not just making conversation. I need to know if they’re going to be battering down the door looking for you.”

“He’ll certainly be looking for me. One of the agents may have seen me leave Torrviol, but she wouldn’t have known to look out for me yet, and none of them will know my destination. Unless they identify and break, uh, the person who referred me to you.”

“Ghellia, it must have been. They’re still up there teaching?”

“They are.”

“Good on them. Could never do it myself. Can’t stand schools, and I certainly can’t stand children.”

“It’s the Academy. Everyone’s a young adult.”

Lecne laughed. “Look, I remember how stupid I was back then. Dealing with that many underdeveloped brains every day? Watching them strut about with delusional egocentrism? Dealing with their parents pulling strings about grades and tests? Dealing with Academy politics? No, I much prefer my quiet life of criminal heresy.” He looked at Mirian. “I do need more details. Who’d you piss off? The Deeps?”

Mirian cocked her head. “That’s your first guess? So… it’s not unusual for the Department of Public Security to use necromancy?”

“It’s a well-kept secret. Well-kept, because they’ll absolutely kill someone who tries to make that information public. We’re left alone mostly because we keep quiet, but you’re not the first person I’ve seen cursed by them. Won’t be the last, either.”

“The Luminates also know.”

“Some of them. Sort of. They all know to turn in anyone with a soul-mark like you had, that’s for sure. Some of them probably just assume it was another priest that put it there. Most of them probably never get around to learning the history of the Order. The… unwritten agreements between the Order and the more shadowed parts of the government is a very uncomfortable topic these days. Say the wrong thing and you’re likely to get expelled from your position, so people learn quickly to keep their mouths shut about it. Obviously, I’m talking from experience. But why are they chasing you? You’re still a student, unless I’m mistaken.”

“Sort of,” Mirian said. “There’s a hive of Akanan spies in Torrviol, and I stepped right on their nest.” That was true, even if it didn’t quite explain things.

“Akanan spies. But a Deeps agent cursed you?”

“She’s a double-agent, I think. She appears to have killed her colleagues, and one of the Praetorians.”

“Fascinating. I’ve heard none of this, and I do keep my ear low to the ground. I wish Ghellia had sent me a letter. They know I love spy drama.”

“They probably don’t know the details. Hey, you taught them soul magic, right? Can you teach me?”

“No,” Lecne said quickly. “Absolutely not. Nope. No chance.”

Mirian frowned. “May I ask why?”

“Because you’re a total stranger. And more importantly, not a devout of Zomalator. We teach people in service of the redeemer, not because they stopped by for help.”

“Ah,” said Mirian glumly. How much convincing would he take? Would she have to come by in future cycles? She didn’t look forward to having to puzzle through another set of conversations like she had with the Archmage.

“You’re welcome to stay here to lay low, as long as you help out around our little hidden temple. Cook, clean, that sort of thing. Actually, some of the anti-divination wards probably need some checking. Reinforcing them was the job of—” Lecne’s face fell. His colleague had died very recently then, and it was still wearing down on him.

“When did they die?” Mirian asked softly.

“Yesterday,” Lecne said, voice cracking.

“Then I can still save her,” Mirian said.

There was a silence like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Then Lecne said, slowly, “You dare. You dare. In the midst of my grief, you come into this holy place—”

“Yes,” Mirian said, looking him in the eye. She could see his outrage, and hoped he could see her sincerity. “In six days, there will be a revolt in Persama that gets out of control. Soon enough, it will threaten Alkazaria. News of it will reach Torrviol in eight days; I imagine you will learn of it at least a day sooner here. In eighteen days, the Akana Praediar embassy will be massacred, and riots will begin in Palendurio. In nineteen days, the Akanan Prime minister will be assassinated. A day later, you’ll be able to see a magical geyser erupt south of the city, and the spellwards will fail. By the 25th of Solem, Cairnmouth will learn of the Akanan invasion heading for Torrviol. Soon after, you’ll be able to see grand auroras across the sky heralding the end. And by the 4th of Duala, that end will come.”

She could see the tears in Lecne’s eyes. She spoke in a whisper, and let the truth pour out of her. “You speak of grief. I know it. I’ve watched my friends die far too many times. And as time marches on, I am always left alone in those memories, and that grief. But this is not the end. The true end is so distant I can’t even imagine it, I know that now. So I will make this vow to you: your friend is not gone for good, only for this version of you. In some distant future, she will live—both of you will live. But I need your help.”

Lecne’s eyes were still watering. “How. How can you—make this promise?”

So Mirian told him. Of the loops, of the Battle of Torrviol, and of the other time travelers. She told him of the dreams of the Ominian, and the conspiracies that stretched across the Rift Sea. And she told him of the end that would come—that horrible sight of the Divir moon crashing down, of the sky turning to flame—that memory of apocalypse that was seared into her memory.

Lecne was quiet for a long time when she finished, but Mirian was used to that.

She let him contemplate what she’d said, then asked: “Did you see the hole in my soul?”

Lecne nodded. “I need to think,” he said.

Mirian nodded. Most people did. Lecne didn’t wander off, though. His gaze fell upon the grand painting that dominated the room. It was one of those paintings where the brushstrokes were so minuscule they were invisible and the details so meticulous it could have passed as a constructed illusion.

“You spoke of the stars shattering in your dream. You saw them?” he finally asked, voice sounding distant.

“Yes. No. It was—I didn’t see them. The Ominian did.”

“How many times have we talked?”

“This is the first time.”

Lecne was silent again. “The Luminate Order keeps many secrets. As one rises in the ranks, they learn more of those secrets.” Then he recited, “And the people looked to the night sky, and the stars burst apart in great circles of misty flame. The people knew such a sight could only be the War of the Elder Gods come to Enteria. They prayed to the Guardian; that could be their only salvation.”

“That’s one of the secrets of the Order?”

“It is. Secret of the second layer, which is as high as I got before I left them. You speak of the Cataclysm.”

Mirian blinked. “But that was nearly 4000 years ago. Why would I dream…?”

“The Gods do not communicate with us through language. They are not of mankind, and when they see us making strange little noises to each other, they must perceive it like a man looming over an ant hive. Perhaps they only understand a little of what the tiny insects are doing, but what they understand beyond that is as incomprehensible to us as building a spell engine must be to a bug. But just as a man might communicate with ants through laying about sugary treats or caustic chemicals, the Gods sometimes deign to talk to us. You are a new prophet, that much is clear. Why there would be multiple prophets—multiple time travelers, I cannot say. Why one would choose to fight you is even less clear. But if you have been chosen, then it is my duty to help you.”

Lecne stood. “And it only reinforces my view of the Order as a hollowed-out institution that they did not flock to you before and raise the holy banners. The Gods do not talk to us of insignificant things.”

Mirian stood with him, and held out her hand. They clasped hands, but to Mirian’s surprise, he knelt down and kissed her knuckles.

“Old tradition,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed. “But High Priestess Arenthia would have insisted.”

“She’s the one I’m saving?” Mirian asked.

“You can really do it?”

“I can,” she answered. “Let’s get started. No sense in wasting time.”