Athaxania
Book Two: The Way of Things


Dust was settling around the cave, and the darkness within had the air of occupation. Nothing moved; nobody emerged from the dark for the longest time. Finally, an elderly man burst from the cave, caked with dirt. In his hands were small trinkets: a watch and a snub-nose pistol. He was clothed like a gentleman from the 18th century; his demeanor stood out from the surrounding mountain like a sore thumb. A wiry beard flourished his jowls, and it quivered as he shambled down the mountain. "'You'll move straight through the crowd,' she says, 'you'll never get stopped,'" muttered the senior bitterly, before swirling around and, with a swing of his hand, vanishing on the spot.

*   *   *

Rome was changing so swiftly, modern historians would submit to epileptic seizures in the process of chronology. In the time after Caesar's death, the (supposedly natural) progress of time seemed to ignore all order. But, as some have said, it is always darkest before dawn.

"Did you get anything?" Dawn asked, eager behind her desk. Her "office" had the Roman feel, but the things adorning the walls were unspeakably misplaced: Van Gogh, Monet, a hand-written copy of the Bible; these objects were being constantly observed. Ramses, attempting to brush the dirt off, placed his trinkets on the desk.

"We are on the right path," he breathed, visibly relieved.

Dawn was unconvinced. "Perhaps these remain unchanged," she theorized, "because we have refrained from acting."

"What?"

"Unless we take another step, we will not know how far we can walk."

Ramses, nodding, repeated the twirling motion, vanishing into thin air and leaving Dawn alone to think.

*   *   *

"Hello, madam," Ramses cooed, bowing slightly to the lilac-dressed woman atop the ivory staircase. She genially returned the gesture, and they parted in opposite ways, and the man instantly fell into a flustered state. His shirttails fluttered behind him, moonlight piercing through the windows of the hallway he strode down. The door ahead was eerily ajar; something wicked waited past it in the lightless room. Ramses was unconcerned - he shoved the door completely open to find that a window was open across the room; the curtains billowed out in the early spring breeze. Swarming to the window, he was just in time to see a man turn the corner of the building below. Heart pounding, he listened with dread. After nearly two minutes, a loud gunshot was emitted, followed by a sickening crack. Ramses cursed at the gunshot, then flitted to the ground as if falling gently. Right before the man fleeing the theatre laid eyes on him, Ramses had vanished in an angry explosion.

"We have failed," he gasped, at his knees in front of Dawn's desk. "Abraham is dead!"

"Not yet, Ramses, you fool! Nothing is certain," she consoled. Dawn picked up the watch and pistol; she gazed questioningly at both. "Why did you not kill him?" she asked.

"I was...afraid, miss."

The girl's head slowly raised. "Calm yourself, old friend. We will attempt again some other time."

"WE?" Ramses bellowed accusingly. "There is no WE! Something goes wrong, I have to travel through time to fix it over and over! Have you not learned by now that some things must be untouched?" Dawn fell silent and for the longest time they stayed there, motionless, neither daring to say what both were thinking.

Finally, Dawn managed, "Take me along."

*   *   *

I have not written for some time now; yet at this moment I cannot interpret whether that means the tingling in my hand as I write is a good sign. Do you remember the lapse? I surely do; not a day goes by that I do not wish my father had joined me here, in this modern world. When I stand outside, I can practically cut the tension with a knife; the calm before the storm surrounds each and every day since I arrived here.

My name is Athaxania. My dead parents named me so. There is no birth certificate, no evidence that they once lived. I reside here in this foster home and know with every ounce of my soul that I will never be whole again. Dawn must feel the same, even after all these years - three, to be exact. Although they might have occurred for me, I don't think Dawn has aged a second. She sent me a tablet a year ago, and it was by pure happenstance that I found it in my backyard, half-buried in the snow. All it proclaimed was I LAPSE FREELY. Since that day, things never stayed the same.

As I write, you may notice traces of ink amongst the lead. This is inexplicable; my pencil has turned into a black quill! I stare at it now as it morphs itself back and forth and I feel Dawn struggling. Struggling to put things right.

I am sorry.

*   *   *

"Abraham! Good friend, how charmed I am to see you tonight!" Dawn said, bowing to the tree of a man with laughter in his face.

"I'm sorry, but I do not recall meeting you before."

Lincoln's quizzical expression made Dawn add quickly, "I am sorry, you must not remember: I run the theatre. I'm sorry to inform you that the Presidential Booth is unavailable tonight. Would you agree to seating center-stage instead?"

Confusion (and hints of suspicion?) cut across his visage. "Nobody told me of this prior - are you certain?" he urged, then sighed. "Very well then. Show me where." Dawn pointed down at the two closest empty seats she could find. Lincoln thanked her and walked away; Dawn exhaled thankfully and fled the theatre.

"Did you sway him?" Ramses called from the bushes.

"Yes. Now quickly, before John-"

It all happened in one one motion like a train on a track. John Wilkes Booth turned the corner of the building, a silver snub-nose pointed at Ramses, finger closing on the trigger as Dawn's mouth lept open in late warning. Ramses spun like lightning, before the bullet slashed through the same bushes he had been standing within seconds prior. Dawn gasped; Booth rounded on her. Noting her gender, he stopped and lowered the pistol. "You - were you accomplice with that fella?"

Dawn nodded slowly.

"Well now," Booth growled, sticking his gun in his belt and approaching her. "You got some nerve, girl," he said, and reached a hand out to run over her hair. Dawn could not hide her disgust; she grabbed his head with both hands and twisted before he could scream.

*   *   *

"Serves you right," I huffed, Booth dropping like a burlap sack full of meat. For nearly a minute I stood there, listening to the play with wary ears. Finally, I caught the applause and hoisted his body up over my shoulder, a rag doll with a limp neck. Crouching low, I sprang up and slipped into the dark room on the second floor. The door to the room stood eerily ajar; I shuddered before continuing. Wilkes hung from the window on a rope when I finished. My work was done here, I thought; but how do I get back? I was already dead in the future, so how could I kill myself again? Ramses' voice bled through the woven years. "Dying isn't that bad with half a soul."

Those words rung in my itching ears as I collapsed into the all-too-familiar blindness, deafness, churning that I despised so bitterly. The sensations while traveling forward in time were undeniably more pleasant. The doubts were steamrolled out of my mind as I felt something go wrong. The theatre building had reappeared in front of my eyes, but only half so; the other half was my Roman home, plastered almost comically next to the theatre. "Ramses?" I worried, clenching my fists and picturing my home. Home - what was it?

Home was with Narcophetes, with the unwavering Ramses, alongside the city Artaxata that was at the pinnacle of its existance. Home was sitting at that special desk, calling for her through the centuries. "I'm coming, Narcophetes," I whispered, and crushed my mind once more into the ageless stomach, the churning and churning. I was being shaken awake by Ramses, who stood beside my form. I was sitting at my desk.

I grinned.

*   *   *

There is always a pair...yin and yang, cause and effect, eventuality's inevitability. I would say "fate", but such a word is implying control, something we cannot understand for there is no reason. For example, it is fate that we ponder death; we do not understand it; we fear it. To quote anonymously, "We always fear what we don't understand."

I am deceased, a dead man. Alas, I live on. But never fear - I have emerged from fate victorious. "Fate": a word which here means "Hell". When you enter Hell, which you inevitably will visit at some point in your life, you can choose. A choice that is not governed by any law, earthly or universal, the choice is governed by free will. The choice? You can submit to torture, or fight. Not to live; oh no, that decision has already been made for you. You would fight for rebirth. To regain balance.

So what did I choose? The answer is obvious. The battle of demons was epic, to say the least. Here is part of the story:

I stared down Minos, whose furling tail was visibly epileptic. I was not surprised; among sinners, Satan himself was fit to contain me. Minos huffed a breath of rancid fire, then snatched his own tail in a fist. "You think this foolish?! It has condemned traitors to God!" he bellowed proudly, the line of people behind me shuddering from his tone. I smiled. "Before we part, I will see how far your soul can sink." Minos, the great black bull of judgement, trembled as if by a lingering Winter wind. The condemner stood in front of the exit gate (which doubled as an entrance; the entering line was endless, but few were trying to leave). Minos was deep in thought for the longest time. Finally, he moved aside and held out a mammoth hand.

"Pass," he fumed. I slowly, almost haughtily, made my way around Minos's bulk. "If you can," he spat, then grabbed me outright and wrenched me ten feet into the air. My maroon wings opened and I burst free from his hold. He sent the minions after me, as he was flightless. I smirked back at him as I put greater distance between myself and the lagging demons. "Hannibal!!!" Minos roared as light lit my wings and eyes and I broke through the ceiling. The light was angelic.

*   *   *

It isn't my fault. Wasn't...couldn't have been my fault. I was lapsing to save not just myself, but those strong world leaders who had been cut down in their prime. But oh, if I had only considered the consequences, things wouldn't be this way in the first place.

"Ramses, what happened back there?" I sat up at my desk, eyes pleading.

"I saved you, that's what. You could have been stuck..." He choked on his last words; he delved into self-loathing.

"Was that what was happening?! I got stuck?!" Ramses nodded cautiously. "Stuck...in what?"

The old man cursed and trembled on the spot, reviewing his oath to me and mine to him; we swore by Athaxania's soul that we would put things right, no matter what is lost. Ramses finally broke. "Stuck in zero time."

I gestured for him to explain. He sighed, but elaborated. "Zero time is the balance of time, set in universal law by the unmentionable. Zero time and time are a pair in the Ultimate Equation, which is-" He paused, the look on his face was one of betrayal, but not of me. "For every living, breathing, thinking thing, no matter how insignificant, and all acts of time, space, and nature, there is a positive and...negative pair. For everything that happens for benefit, some acts must cause pain and suffering. Only time and zero time can be the judge of things; they govern life, death...and rebirth." Ramses smiled at his last word, but I thought nothing of it.

"So...Athaxania is my pairing in this equation?"

He nodded. "Few are paired with past souls; it is only those souls that are undying that may travel time."

"And the ones that are not paired, what happens to them?"

Ramses' eyes locked fearfully on the tiles which housed beneath them the tormented and unpaired. He saw them through everything; their howls pried up through the tiles and seeped inside his mind. "They live on, but never breathe the free air again." We did not move for the longest time.

"How can I put things right when things keep going wrong?!"

Ramses held out his hands in exasperation. "There must always be a pair." It came to me. For all these things I was correcting, things in time were balancing themselves. And Athaxania was smack-dab in the middle of things.

*   *   *

Something must be done...it must lapse back. England is gaining power overnight now; we don't even remember how it happened (and when I say "we", I mean humanity). One day America was America; today it is known as the United European Nations. How do I remember? I can't; time itself is snatching away the memories. All I know is that I must go back to the time I remember.

The darkness. The familiar churning. But...there was a glint in the dark. It grew into someone. Her eyes were black; the mouth of her grey mask was sewn shut. "Athaxania," I mouthed as she approached in the still nothingness. She stopped inches from me.

"It is my fault." Her voice (my voice!) came from nowhere; it appeared in my mind and nothing else.

"What?" I thought back to her.

"All of this. The pain we suffered should have ended." For once in eternity, a black tear crept down her mask.

"What do I do?" I asked.

"Do what you came here to do. Put it right...what you and I did only. Dawn has corrupted her purpose." I could suddenly feel time screech to a halt; I was back in Artaxata.

"Hello?" I called out. The streets housed a disquieting silence. No one was walking around; the whole city looked deserted. For hours I walked about, but I found no soul whatsoever. There was only one place left to look: the underground shelter I had built to hide from my father. As I unearthed the lever, I felt the ground beneath me tremble. Something was tunneling through! I heaved with all my might and the clay wall lifted slowly. Too slow. The rumbling halted. The rising wall revealed my sanctuary.

A man lay, exhausted, on the ground beside a smoking hole. He had graceful, dark brown hair cast over his face. Two maroon bird wings sprouted from his back and sheltered him. "Hello?" I whispered.

Everything stopped. The man looked up, piercing my mind with hellish eyes. "Athaxania, my only. How long it has been."

*   *   *

Dawn sat at her desk, fast asleep. A dozen clocks were ticking on the wall behind her, and by chance one struck noon when Narcophetes entered the room. He saw her slumbering and knelt beside her. Narcophetes took her limp hand in his his, and a few moments merely held it. He stood back up and, after running a gentle hand over her hair, opened his wings and flung wide the windows. When Dawn finally awoke, all she saw were the curtains fluttering in the breeze.

Narcophetes sailed deftly over Artaxata, eyes scanning every street. He heard, with a superhuman ear, a voice. "Athaxania, my only. How long is has been." Narcophetes dove at the first word. Air whipped past as he careened stealthily to the ground, slowing himself just enough so that he hit the ground sprinting. His long black hair trailed behind him. The all-too-memorable cave billowed ahead; entering it, the thick air gripped him. Narcophetes stalked through the musty tunnel. Athaxania's sanctuary was exposed. An alarm sounded in his brain, but it was too late - a searing pain raced across his back. Then, claws at his neck, hanking him back and forth like a bulldog before forcing him to the ground. The two froze here, Narcophetes on his back with hands braced against Hannibal Lecter's shoulders; Hannibal's deeply maroon wings were spread wide in halted excitement.
Narcophetes' eyes were curious, but his wings were eager to open. Tension mixed disturbingly with the intrigue that surrounded the two beings. Narcophetes glanced about and spotted Athaxania lying on the ground, unconcious. Hannibal followed his gaze and his face filled with demonic rage. His grip tightened, knuckles whitening. "You have your Dawn. Athaxania is MINE!"

Narcophetes' wings burst open and they took off into the air, but still with hands gripping each other's necks. They were spinning inside the enormous cave, trading blows that could shatter concrete. But with each back-breaking punch taken, Narcophetes wore down. Lecter only grew more furious at his perseverance.

"FALL!" He raged, and sent Narc crashing to the ground. Narc, covered in dust, tried to get up, but his arms gave out and the poor angel collapsed to the earth. Frantic hands grasped his weary shoulders; Athaxania's youthful eyes bore into his as he realized he had been pulled onto his back, and now he was lying in Athaxania's arms.

"Stay away, Demon! He is not your prey!" she cried. Narc was defiantly trying to get back to his feet.

"But you are a criminal, traitor to Minos!"

Lecter rolled his eyes from above, a careless smirk flashed. "You think Minos is all-powerful? After his first escaped prisoner shines before you now?" An evil laugh, almost a cackle, filled the room. Hannibal landed, folding his wings. He was still smiling. "It would appear you are naive in your understanding....of right and wrong," he began, in a fatherly tone. "You are right in believing that I am your quarry, if you have the ability to apprehend me. I have no doubt you will, in time, for you have Dawn with you. And now I turn to you, my dear." His pointed teeth sparkled in the light filtering down from above. "Athaxania, you are my strength, my love."

He held out a clawed hand.

"You monster! You feel no compassion," she spat.

"We are in disagreement, but I stand by what I said. You merely rely on your pride and prejudice to keep yourself from seeing the truth."

Hannibal approached Athaxania, but Narcophetes moved in front of her. Lecter stood nose-to-nose with him for the longest time. "You do not love Athaxania. Dawn is yours; see fate unfold. Not even angels can cease it."

The angel had a choice to make. Relinquish the one he protected, or lose the one he loved. Ages seemed to pass. Narc breathed deeply, perhaps quelling his inner pride, and stepped aside. Athaxania looked shocked; she still wore a look of betrayal and confusion as Hannibal took hold of her and flew out of the room through the grate above.


*    *    *


Ramses and Dawn watched in horror as Narcophetes flung the desk across her room in a bizarrely contained fury. He remained perfectly silent throughout this fit, his brilliant blue eyes burning with intensity. When nearly everything lay in ruin in the room, Narcophetes sunk to the ground like a punished child, weeping softly.

"Angel, what burdens you?" Dawn whispered, lowering to embrace him.

"I have failed. . . he will surely strike me down for my insolence," he said, moreso to himself than anyone.

"What do you mean by this?" asked Dawn.

"Protecting Athaxania was my duty, as was condemning Hannibal once more. Now that I have failed, St.Micheal's sworn duty is to smite me as well."

"NO." Athaxania's voice called. But as the group looked about, they saw that blackened spirit walk through the wall and stand there, trident in one hand. Everything in the room disintegrated until Ramses, Dawn, and Narc were engulfed in blackish- purple flames. They were trapped while the spirit spoke.

"Time is mending itself; the angels are resting and licking their wounds; history as Dawn has carelessly rewritten it has reverted to its original, default flow."Dawn seemed to fall somber at those words. "I allowed Athaxania into the past out of mercy and hope. Now that I see this hope misplaced, I will dethrone Hannibal myself." Narcophetes broke free of the blackfire and raced towards Athaxania's retreating spirit.

"And no rogue, angel or demon, shall stand in my way!" the spirit roared, flinging her trident at Narc. The trident caught him around the neck but did not pierce him, but sent him soaring backwards with the kinetic force. Everything materialized around him, and the trident lodged him in the wall. Narcophetes struggled against the trident's hold, but its design allowed no room for escape. Dawn tugged at it with everything she had, however, nothing budged. Old Ramses felt the handle, and after a long moment he sighed. From far away, a series of tremors quaked the earth. The trident, with a mind of its own, wretched free from the wall and shot through the window.....towards the cataclysmic battle in the sky......